A Satire Anthology. Wells Carolyn

poison’s strong, the antidote’s too weak.

      ’Tis pointed truth must manage this dispute,

      And downright English, Englishmen confute.

      Whet thy just anger at the nation’s pride,

      And with keen phrase repel the vicious tide;

      To Englishmen their own beginnings show,

      And ask them why they slight their neighbours so.

      Go back to elder times and ages past,

      And nations into long oblivion cast;

      To old Britannia’s youthful days retire,

      And there for true-born Englishmen inquire.

      Britannia freely will disown the name,

      And hardly knows herself from whence they came;

      Wonders that they of all men should pretend

      To birth and blood, and for a name contend.

      Go back to causes where our follies dwell,

      And fetch the dark original from hell.

      Speak, satire, for there’s none like thee can tell.

Daniel Defoe.

      AN EPITAPH

      INTERRED beneath this marble stone

      Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.

      While rolling threescore years and one

      Did round this globe their courses run.

      If human things went ill or well,

      If changing empires rose or fell,

      The morning past, the evening came,

      And found this couple just the same.

      They walked and ate, good folks. What then?

      Why, then they walked and ate again;

      They soundly slept the night away;

      They did just nothing all the day,

      Nor sister either had, nor brother;

      They seemed just tallied for each other.

      Their moral and economy

      Most perfectly they made agree;

      Each virtue kept its proper bound,

      Nor trespassed on the other’s ground.

      Nor fame nor censure they regarded;

      They neither punished nor rewarded.

      He cared not what the footman did;

      Her maids she neither praised nor chid;

      So every servant took his course,

      And, bad at first, they all grew worse;

      Slothful disorder filled his stable,

      And sluttish plenty decked her table.

      Their beer was strong, their wine was port;

      Their meal was large, their grace was short.

      They gave the poor the remnant meat,

      Just when it grew not fit to eat.

      They paid the church and parish rate,

      And took, but read not, the receipt;

      For which they claimed their Sunday’s due

      Of slumbering in an upper pew.

      No man’s defects sought they to know,

      So never made themselves a foe.

      No man’s good deeds did they commend,

      So never raised themselves a friend.

      Nor cherished they relations poor,

      That might decrease their present store;

      Nor barn nor house did they repair,

      That might oblige their future heir.

      They neither added nor confounded;

      They neither wanted nor abounded.

      Nor tear nor smile did they employ

      At news of grief or public joy.

      When bells were rung and bonfires made,

      If asked, they ne’er denied their aid;

      Their jug was to the ringers carried,

      Whoever either died or married.

      Their billet at the fire was found,

      Whoever was deposed or crowned.

      Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;

      They would not learn, nor could advise;

      Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,

      They led – a kind of – as it were;

      Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried.

      And so they lived, and so they died.

Matthew Prior.

      THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE

      I  sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,

      That other doctors gave me over:

      He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,

      And I was likely to recover.

      But when the wit began to wheeze,

      And wine had warm’d the politician,

      Cured yesterday of my disease,

      I died last night of my physician.

Matthew Prior.

      TWELVE ARTICLES

I

      LEST it may more quarrels breed,

      I will never hear you read.

II

      By disputing, I will never,

      To convince you, once endeavour.

III

      When a paradox you stick to,

      I will never contradict you.

IV

      When I talk, and you are heedless,

      I will show no anger needless.

V

      When your speeches are absurd,

      I will ne’er object a word.

VI

      When you, furious, argue wrong,

      I will grieve, and hold my tongue.

VII

      Not a jest or humorous story

      Will I ever tell before ye.

      To be chidden for explaining,

      When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII

      Never more will I suppose,

      You can taste my verse or prose.

IX

      You no more at me shall fret,

      While I teach and you forget.

X

      You shall never hear me thunder,

      When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI

      Show your poverty of spirit,

      And in dress place all your merit;

      Give yourself ten thousand airs:

      That with me shall break no squares.

XII

      Never will I give advice,

      Till you please to ask me thrice:

      Which