TO David Garrick, Esq;
--- Ridiculum acri
Fortius ac melius magnas plerumque secat res.

Horace
Preface:
The Author begs Leave to premise, that in this Essay he has retained some few of the old Words of Spenser, and adopted the Simplicity of the Diction in the ludicrous Cast, at the End of most of the Stanzas, to give it somewhat the exterior Air of that great Original, however far short he may have fell of the Spirit.

In order to make it more intelligible, at the Foot of each Page, is given an Explanation of the obsolete Words, as they occur.-As to the modern Terms of the Ladies Dress, &c. (which perhaps may be thought by some, to require as much Explanation as the obsolete Ones) he presumes as they are pretty well known among the Ladies and Beau Monde, he may be excused a Discussion.-Upon the whole, he hopes that the novel Manner of thus treating these Subjects, will in some Measure atone for its many Imperfections.
The Poem:
Dan Solomon, the chief of mortal Wights,
Affirms, that all Vexation is and Pain;
That Empire, Glory, Wealth, Love's soft Delights,
Are but as Shadows flitting o'er the Plain:
Vanity of Vanities; all is vain.
And, certes, he is right; without his Meed,
How vain am I, t'attempt, in this poor Strain,
To tell you all, that Death does Life succeed,
Perdie, you jeering say, this is great News indeed.

Well, I must on-and you may laugh the while,
Nay take your Fill, for there is Reason great;
You may not long to laugh, to droll, to smile,
To troll the Tongue, to vapour, gybe, and prate;
For soon you too must bow t'impartial Fate:
Ha! who is he that traverses yon Plains,
In burnish'd Armour clad, and gorgeous State?
Scarcely his Hand his foaming Palfrey reins,
Who proudly paws the Ground, and dauntless, Fear disdains.

A Man of Arms, I think his Coat of Mail,
And all commanding Look denote the same;
How wide he gapes! expands his Chest t'inhale!
Large Draughts of airy Beings known by Name
Of Glory, Honour, and romantic Fame:
What means that direful Din, that glitt'ring Glaive,
Alas! he bleeds, he falls-no more the same-
His lower'd Crest can now but ask a Grave;
Alack! the Bubble's broke-'tis all poor Fame can have.

But here a goodlier Sight my Fancy greets,
Of joyous noisy Wights-a losel Race!-
Of apron'd Gentry crouding thro' the Streets;
Ne Hat, ne Wig have they; with lengthen'd Face
They gape, they stare, and thro' the Dirt they trace.
The Oar-lash'd Thames indignant seems to bear
Gilt Barges, Boats, with Music's droll Grimace;
Gay Streamers waving thro' the foggy Air,
While pigmy Cannon bawl, here cometh My Lord-Mayor.

He comes! he comes! I hear the Rabble Peals:
Huzza; Sir-in a Coach all Gold;
See! how the Mob cling round, and clog its Wheels,
Nosing the Magistrate, petulantly bold;
At this, my Friends, can ye from Laughter hold?
Bluff, pursy Aldermen, in furred Gown,
With Cits and Dames full more than can be told,
In the Procession roll with half the Town,
Eke Judges, Serjeants, Knights, all Wights of high Renown.

Well, on they pass, and reach the cumbrous House;
They feast, they dance, and all is splendid Glee;
They cram down Fevers, and, in full Carouse,
They swill up Gouts and Rheums, and Hydropsy:
In sooth, why not?-the Toast is Liberty-
And while they quaff, and carol London's Fame,
The recent Lord vaunts none so great as he;
But Death he lounged there in quest of Game,
And dar'd, with saucy Front, dispute his Lordship's Claim.

He next attack'd an auncient Knight well known,
Y'clep'd Sir Thrifty Gripe, of mochel Wealth;
With Cent per Cent he prey'd on half the Town;
A Spittle Governour, who heap'd up Pelf,
A Caitiff vile, who e'en would rob himself.
'What, ho! Sir Thrift! a Word, Sir, in your Ear.'
The Knight him spy'd-but, like a cunning Elf,
Soon shuffl'd off.-'Ho!' louder then, and near-
'Your Pardon, good Sir Death! I'm wondrous hard to hear.

'I'm sorry for't, Sir Knight!-a Word or twain;
'God shield me Sir! I have not Time to talk;
'Besides, my Breath's so short-hem-O the Pain!'
'Come then, Sir Knight, we'll take a little Walk;'
At this he crouch'd as Bird before a Hawk.
'Walk, Sir! I walk! I scarce can crawl my Way'
'You, Muckworm prate! dare you my Fancy baulk!'
The Knight full loth to go, here 'gan the Fray,
Death seiz'd him by the Nape, and huddl'd him away.

At his Return Sir Epicure he ken'd,
Of mighty Paunch, Moon-Face, and brawny Jole;
For Elbow Room he chose the Table's End-
His Napkin tuck'd-around his Eyes did roll;
He spar'd not in his Rage-ne Fish-ne Fowl-
He puff'd, he blow'd, he swill'd-lethargic grew-
No Parle, quo' Death, with this same Corm'rant foul,
So set on him his Apoplexy Crew,
Who knock'd him down at once withouten more ado.

A beauteous Dame, with tott'ring Step, and slow,
(Alack! the little Heels won't let her haste)
Her Neck and Shoulders bare, and white as Snow,
Came giggling on, (the Taste polite) her Waist,
If so might be, with spangled Tassels grac'd;
Her Sattin Negligée was flounc'd and crimpt,
With many a Yard of Blond her Gauze was lac'd,
Her Apron, Stomacher, and all was pink'd,
And the twin Ruffles round were sheen with Silver Gimp.

To plait, to twist, to sleek the auburn Hair,
Much Time and Pains, methinks, she had bestow'd;
Ne pond'rous Hat this Lady deign'd to wear,
Altho' full pleas'd with purchas'd Locks she yode,
A Feltlock Twist behind, much heavier Load:
She leer'd with Scorn, and turn'd her Eyes askew,
On Petitlaires, Pompons; then inward glow'd
With Pride indignant at the fripp'ry Crew;
While all around, in Groupes, the Beaux obsequious drew.

She whisper'd, glanc'd, protested, titter'd, vow'd;
She gam'd, she ogl'd, lisp'd-'the Creature! Thing!
'Very!' emphatic Word! then, laugh'd aloud-
And buoyant borne on Vanity's broad Wing,
Presumed herself fit Match for any King;
Quo' Death, 'if so why then, moe fit for me-
'For I am such, no less-of Terrors King!
'So Wights me call.'-With that he seiz'd his Prey,
And with fell livid Spots he scarr'd her beauteous Clay.

Among the Crowd that rounded this fair Dame,
A Wight there was, if Wight he be call'd,
Of Aspect pale, small Shank, and lithe his Fame;
At Beauty's Frown his Heart was ne'er appall'd;
His own dear self this mimick Wight enthrall'd.
A short cut Coat adorn'd this pretty Thing,
A friz'd Peruke conceal'd what else was bald;
His Hand so white display'd the Cluster Ring,
Which ever and anon t' 'is Nose did Strasbourg bring.

This perfum'd Beau a tiny Beaver wore,
With Silver Cord engirt; on either Side,
Hung dangling Tassels down of Tinsel Ore;
A Sword he trail'd which with the Spaniard vy'd,
In Length, I mean, for he had ne'er it try'd:
He hum'd, he loll'd, minc'd Oaths, solfa'd and danc'd;
To shew his whiten'd Teeth he laughed wide;
He tattl'd, prattl'd, the Discourse enhanc'd,
Squeez'd Miss's lovely Hand, and vow'd he was entranc'd.

Death envious lour'd: Quo' he, 'This prating Fool
'Will ne'er give o'er, his Tattle never cease;
'I e'en will stop his Mouth, a fribbling Tool!
'Who does such Noyance give to others Peace.'
A Kerchief white then from his Neck did lease,
Which gave the Beau a Cold, when, sans reponse,
He shrug'd, his Throat grew sore, could hardly wheeze,
'I'll end' quo' Death, 'this self-sufficient Dunce;'
So ram'd a Quinsey down, which throttl'd him at once.

With stiffen'd Gaite and supercilious Look,
A rev'rend Clerk here deign'd awhile to stray;
At wanton Dames his Head he often shook,
And fain would turn his Eyes another Way:
But Priests, they are but Men, perhaps you'll say:
I'll grant you more; that many Clerks abound
With solid Worth; but this same Clerk would pray,
And be not what he seem'd; but all around
Would spread Invectives broad wherever they were found.

With ready Hand would greet the wealthy Cit,
And bow obsequious to the money'd Dame;
But strange would eye the Poor-at Man of Wit,
Perdie, would look asquint; and lordly aim
At Board Preheminence where'er he came;
An Haunch of Venison he would never miss,
For ghostly Wights meet Food he held the same;
But more than Tythe of Fat, he'd take, I wis;
Here double Dues at least he deem'd as Parson, his.

At Pray'r indeed this Clerk was grave, profound,
And when in Rostrum he was aptly rear'd,
Looking Benevolence on all around,
With upturn'd Eyes a pious Wight appear'd,
And Doctrines preach'd he ne believ'd, ne fear'd;
But crouch'd beneath this seeming Sanctity,
And pious Guise, Death found him out, and leer'd;
'O ho!' quo' he '-a Cheat!-a Cheat!-I spy
'Pride lurking here and Sloth'-so off with him did hie.

Above the rest Sir Politick the wise,
In plain Attire y'clad, reclin'd at Ease,
There putting on the Courtier's sleek Disguise,
He large harangu'd of Trade, of War, of Peace;
Was all to all-his Study how to please;
Each hung attentive on whate'er he spoke,
And bow'd observant when his Tongue did cease;
Each Deference paid where'er he deign'd a Look,
And loud Acclaims ensu'd whene'er he dropt a Joke.

Yet this same Wight, with circumspective Eye,
Would note the Cits, their ev'ry Action scan,
And as he trac'd, he plainly could descry,
In most, that Interest was their darling Plan,
So dealt his Promise, as he found his Man:
Oft at his Levee he would greet his Grace,
'My Lord! you'r sensible-I'll do all I can'-
Would meet the Prelate with a smiling Face,
But when his Back was turn'd, would laugh at the Grimace.

The Height of Power gain'd, with Affluence blest,
He plan'd new Gardens, and new Villas rais'd;
Said to his Soul, securely thou may'st rest;
At this presumptuous Wight Death sometime gaz'd;
Quo' he, 'I'll strike' but when his Dart uprais'd,
The Knight espy'd-'O spare a little, pray-
But Death malign his vital Pow'rs amaz'd-
Mutt'ring, 'Fond Fool! sure, thou hast nought to say;
'For e'en a Pelham fell my Victim t'other Day.'

Exulting thus he cast his Eyes around,
And spy'd a Wight, smart, debonnaire and gay;
(Ah! when again shall such a Wight be found?)
Nature had form'd him of her richest Clay;
(Alack! now mark'd to be his destin'd Prey
His Look expressive, piercing were his Eyne,
His Voice as sweet as Philomela's Lay;
Athens nor Rome could ever boast, I ween,
One who the Buskin wore, or Sock with Fame so sheen.

This more than Roscius of the present Age,
Nature his Guide, great Shakespeare his Delight,
Struck out new Beauties, rais'd the drooping Stage,
His ev'ry Attitude surpriz'd the Sight,
Nay, e'en the Eyes could speak of this same Wight;
In Richard's varied Scenes he all outvied;
Hamlet he felt, reach'd Lear's frantic Height;
In Bayes and Archer was the comic Pride,
And with a Romeo's Woe alternate liv'd and dy'd.

Death long had bore this Wight a Grudge-t'excell
In mimic dying he in Dudgeon took;
Quo' he, 'this Proteus counterfeits so well,
'That Men will scoff at me'-he glanc'd a Look,
Which ev'ry Vital of our Hero shook;
Him he superior own'd, alledg'd his Age;
But Death, relentless, would no Parley brook,
'Dar'st ape me, Varlet!' he reply'd in Rage,
'I'll realize thy Mocks;' so swept him off the Stage.

A Son of Æsculapius, 'mong the Fry,
In Pulse well skill'd, in Learning most profound,
With sable Suit, full trim'd, and bushy Tye,
Quaint, stiff, and gravely dealt his Bows around;
When all at once was heard an hideous Sound,
Thro' the whole Place the Bustle was so rife,
That the high vaulted Roofs re-eccho'd round;
In veh'ment Heat, perdie, was good Sir Death,
He tugg'd-the Doctor rail'd, 'till both were out of Breath.

'Usurper of my Trade!' Death stern reply'd,
And look'd so grim, the Doctor 'gan to fear;
In Tone submiss, 'Requite me thus?' he cry'd,
'Who've serv'd you long-' but he with scornful Sneer,
'Do you remonstrate, Sir? I'll quell your Pride;'
Then grasp'd again-'Keep off your scarecrow Paws,
'Thou foul Ingrate! thus use a Friend oft try'd!'
Death waxed wroth, and spite of Friendship's Laws,
Or Roar of foul Ingrate, he rivetted his Jaws.

A roaring Blade among the Throng was seen,
In Jockey Cap and Scratch Peruke adorn,
His Name Robustus, of a goodly Mien;
A smart Half-Hunter tipt with Foot of Fawn,
He often smack'd, as scouring o'er the Lawn;
A Buck, Choice Spirit; who would oft at Dawn,
In Half-pint Bumpers, hail the rising Morn;
An honest Fellow, who would make no Scorn,
To dubb his dearest Friend a Brother of the Horn.

A Blood, who bully'd 'mong the Nymphs Purlieus,
Who often beat the Covent-Garden Rounds;
At P--'s, H--'s, G--'s, and D--'s Stews,
He swore, talk'd Bawdy, prais'd his Horses, Hounds;
That this is Wit and Taste, attest it Clowns!
Not so the Bloods of boon King Charles's Days;
They rak'd polite, Good-Manners were their Bounds;
Wit, Humour, Elegance the Flame did raise,
And Decency kept in the oft expiring Blaze.

But these in Gallantry-Noviciates all!
Raw and uncouth, like the vain drest-up Rout;
Those would seem Gentlemen! who strut the Mall,
In Waistcoats lac'd on Sundays troll about,
Leaving their Minds undrest, all Show without-
Who sneak before their Betters, vail their Pride,
And aukward bow like any Country Lout,
In white Gloves pranckt, strutting his Fingers wide;
You'd swear he had the Itch, if nothing else beside.

Death spy'd Robustus 'mid this full Resort,
And couldn't but smile to hear him boast aloud,
How much he'd drank, how oft in Venus' Court,
His nervous Strength and Vigor he'd avow'd;
Surveying then his Limbs, thus sneer'd the Croud,
'When, when? with these will any of you vie?'
Quo' Death-'Ingrateful Wretch! vile Reptile proud
'Not thank the Donor! I'll thy Prowess try-
'Fever! dispatch'd him quick-O ho! there Boaster lie.'

Prudella! luckless Maid, was there that Day,
Who piqu'd herself upon her Virgin Pride,
And spurn'd the Men-she seem'd so sprightly, gay,
You'd swear Ill-Nature could not there reside;
Vain Affectation all! and mere Outside!
To Modesty she made severe Pretence;
Under that Mask her Wantonness would hide;
Too thin Disguise! for oft the grosser Sense
Would reassume the Reins, drive o'er the weaker Fence.

Matins and Vespers she would never miss,
A Devotee all o'er! a Christian good,
Who lov'd her Church, but tenfold more, I wis,
She lov'd foul Scandal and Invective leud-
Her Tongue more deadly than the Viper Brood:
Insipid Chat and Stories, wrong or right,
Of this, or t'other being stol'n, or woo'd,
Fill'd up her Time-but O! the high Delight,
She felt from black Malevolence and Spight.

Looking demure, Death took her for a Saint,
But on a nearer View, he knew her well;
'O ho!' cry'd he 'fair Sepulchre of Paint!
'Come lig with me To-Night-my pretty Belle,
'Nay do not start, my Dear! I'll use you well'-
She turned from him with disdainful Leer,
'None of your Airs to me, my sweet Prudelle!
'On Mortals they may pass-pray stay you here,
'And if thou'st aught to offer, I will deign to hear.'

'Why good, Sir Death! Why sure you'd not be rude,
'And offer Violence to an helpless Maid?
'What is there in me that you take for leud?
'Have I not kept my Church? Devoutly pray'd?'
Death stopt her short-''tis nought-mere vain Parade;
'Thy venom'd Tongue fell Instrument of Spite!
'Hath caus'd such Bale, such Desolation made
'That were I but to leave thee here this Night,
'Thou'd'st set the Globe on Fire, then chuckle at the Sight.

A certain Wight you well might there espy,
With busy Face fast bustling thro' the Croud,
It chanc'd, he jostl'd Death in passing by,
Who sudden turn'd, and menac'd him aloud,
But when he ken'd him, caught his Hand and bow'd,
'O! my old Friend!' he cry'd, 'my Foster Brother!
'To meet thee here, how pleas'd am I and proud!
'Thou precious Imp! thou art so like our Mother
'How cou'd I then mistake, or take thee for another.'

'Mishapen Fiend! avant! away thy Paw,
'Thou Kindred claim! thou Friendship boast with me!
'One learn'd as I and studious of the Law,
'Disowns all Ties without the previous Fee;
'I nought can hope from meagre Forms like thee.'
This anger'd Death; quo' he, 'I'll make thee know
'That this cold Hand can spoil thy haughty Glee,'
With that he struck a paralytic Blow,
'Hence better learn good Sir! to know a Friend from Foe:'

'O! hold, Sir Death! your Pardon, Sir I crave,
'May it please your Lairdship to admit my Plea-'
'Cease, cease, thy Prate, vain Rhetorician Slave,
'Thy Eloquence at Bar may do, perdie,
'But will not here; thy Quirks are lost on me-'
'Indeed, my Laird! I did but jest, but Joke;'
'Dar'st thou still lie? incorrigible be?
'Hear parry if thou can'st this lairdly Stroke;
'O! my dear Sir, don't winch-I meant it but in Joke.

Then looking round him with sarcastic Grin,
He spy'd an auncient Knight bedizen'd fine,
Hot in pursuit of the inchanting Sin;
For each young Nymph this feeble Wight did pine.
Ah! how unmeet for hoary ninety-nine;
Close cuddling by a blooming Virgin's Side,
Oft round her Waist his shrivell'd Arms he'd twine,
Her snowy Chest full liquorishly he ey'd,
And could, or dream'd he could, do wond'rous Things beside.

'Beshrew thy Heart! thou fumbling Fool!' quo Death,
'Those unstrung Nerves might warn thee to forbear;
'How durst thou with that foul infectious Breath,
'Deal Love's soft Passion in a Virgin's Ear?'
But he intent, these Threat'nings did not hear;
When lo! with sudden Twist he jerk'd him round,
And down he dropt, as would a mellow Pear,
Strait with his Paw, he pash'd him to the Ground,
As one would pash a Grub, which doth with Filth abound.

Death paus'd-'I'll e'en one Cast, before I go,
'Among the smaller Fry, they're full of Glee;
'See! how they carol, frisk it, to and fro,
'In wanton Dalliance, and ne'er think of me.'
A Net he had of wond'rous Potency;
Old Time had spun the Thread so very fine,
It was invisible to mortal Eye;
The fatal Sisters wove so strong the Twine,
That none could ever break, or once o'erleap the Line.

With Force elastic strait the Net he threw
From off his Arm-he laugh'd amain-when lo!
A Draught miraculous, of divers Hue;
A wond'rous Groupe of Fribbles tout nouveau,
Of Jemmys alamode, half Fool, half Beau;
Of Fiddlers, Dancers, Players, World of Trash!
Of Flirts, Gilts, Singers a F--i to L--w,
Of Hummers, Punsters, who each other lash,
All headed by that doughty Wight, bold Captain Flash.

Of Poetasters, Spouters, Robinhoodians sage;
Of Jockeys, Clerks, Prigs, Smarts, and Connoisseurs;
Of Scribblers, Orators, who gull the Age;
Of shewy Milliners, Barbiers, Tayleurs,
French Valets, Gamblers, Perruquiers, Frisseurs;
Of Courtezans, Pimps, Bawds, industrious Crew!
Hibernians tall, de là Fortune Chasseurs-
Quo' Death-'enough'-the Cords he instant drew,
Vandykes and Cardinals squeak'd, Adieu! mes Cheres, adieu.

'Onward he march'd'-but as he left the Hall,
A crippl'd Lazar at the Gate was lain;
'O! turn your Worship's Eye, he loud did bawl,
'Ah! take me with you, Sir! my Life's a Pain-
'O! good your Worship! ease me of the Chain'-
On him Death look'd asquint-'Vile Lump of Clay!
'Dost think I've nought to do?-aye-bawl again,
'I'll call for you anon-some other Day'-
He turn'd upon his Heel, and so went on his Way.

A Bard sat pensive at the Sight dismay'd,
These sad Events revolving in his Mind,
He sighed at the Havoc Death had made;
'Is this, alas! the Lot of human Kind?'
A Voice reply'd, 'Be humble-be resign'd-
'Cease Mortal to complain, nor anxious grieve;
'The Will of righteous Heav'n from first design'd,
'That nought but Virtue should alone survive,
'That e'en shall conquer Death, that shall for ever live.'