English Poets of the Eighteenth Century. Various

studious care,

       As I would dens where hungry lions are;

       And rather put up injuries, than be

       A plague to him who'd be a plague to me.

       I value quiet at a price too great

       To give for my revenge so dear a rate:

       For what do we by all our bustle gain,

       But counterfeit delight for real pain?

      VII. HIS HAPPY DEATH

      If Heaven a date of many years would give,

       Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live.

       And as I near approach[ed] the verge of life,

       Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife)

       Should take upon him all my worldly care

       While I did for a better state prepare.

       Then I'd not be with any trouble vexed,

       Nor have the evening of my days perplexed;

       But by a silent and a peaceful death,

       Without a sigh, resign my aged breath.

       And, when committed to the dust, I'd have

       Few tears, but friendly, dropped into my grave;

       Then would my exit so propitious be,

       All men would wish to live and die like me.

DANIEL DEFOE

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      FROM THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN

      The Romans first with Julius Caesar came,

       Including all the nations of that name,

       Gauls, Greeks, and Lombards, and, by computation,

       Auxiliaries or slaves of every nation.

       With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sueno came;

       In search of plunder, not in search of fame.

       Scots, Picts, and Irish from th' Hibernian shore,

       And conquering William brought the Normans o'er.

       All these their barbarous offspring left behind,

       The dregs of armies, they of all mankind;

       Blended with Britons, who before, were here.

       Of whom the Welsh ha' blessed the character.

       From this amphibious ill-born mob began

       That vain, ill-natured thing, an Englishman.

      * * * * *

      And lest by length of time it be pretended

       The climate may this modern breed ha' mended,

       Wise Providence, to keep us where we are,

       Mixes us daily with exceeding care.

       We have been Europe's sink, the Jakes where she

       Voids all her offal outcast progeny.

       From our fifth Henry's time, the strolling bands

       Of banished fugitives from neighbouring lands

       Have here a certain sanctuary found:

       Th' eternal refuge of the vagabond,

       Where, in but half a common age of time,

       Borrowing new blood and mariners from the clime,

       Proudly they learn all mankind to contemn;

       And all their race are true-born Englishmen.

       Dutch, Walloons, Flemings, Irishmen, and Scots,

       Vaudois, and Valtelins, and Huguenots,

       In good Queen Bess's charitable reign,

       Supplied us with three hundred thousand men.

       Religion—God, we thank thee!—sent them hither,

       Priests, Protestants, the Devil and all together:

      Of all professions and of every trade,

       All that were persecuted or afraid;

       Whether for debt or other crimes they fled,

       David at Hachilah was still their head.

       The offspring of this miscellaneous crowd,

       Had not their new plantations long enjoyed,

       But they grew Englishmen, and raised their votes

       At foreign shoals for interloping Scots.

       The royal branch from Pictland did succeed,

       With troops of Scots and Scabs from North-by-Tweed.

       The seven first years of his pacific reign

       Made him and half his nation Englishmen.

       Scots from the northern frozen banks of Tay,

       With packs and plods came whigging all away;

       Thick as the locusts which in Egypt swarmed,

       With pride and hungry hopes completely armed;

       With native truth, diseases, and no money,

       Plundered our Canaan of the milk and honey.

       Here they grew quickly lords and gentlemen—

       And all their race are true-born Englishmen.

      * * * * *

      The wonder which remains is at our pride,

       To value that which all wise men deride.

       For Englishmen to boast of generation

       Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation.

       A true-born Englishman's a contradiction,

       In speech an irony, in fact a fiction;

       A banter made to be a test of fools,

       Which those that use it justly ridicules;

       A metaphor invented to express

       A man akin to all the universe.

FROM A HYMN TO THE PILLORY

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      Hail hieroglyphic state-machine,

       Contrived to punish fancy in!

       Men that are men in thee can feel no pain,

       And all thy insignificants disdain.

       Contempt, that false new word for shame,

       Is, without crime, an empty name,

       A shadow to amuse mankind,

       But never frights the wise or well-fixed mind:

       Virtue despises human scorn,

       And scandals innocence adorn.

      * * * * *

      Sometimes, the air of scandal to maintain,

       Villains look from thy lofty loops in vain;

       But who can judge of crimes by punishment

       Where parties rule and L[ord]s subservient?

       Justice with, change of interest learns to bow,

       And what was merit once is murder now:

       Actions receive their tincture from the times,

       And as they change, are virtues made or crimes.

       Thou art the state-trap of the law,

       But neither