A Satire Anthology. Wells Carolyn

a family to need,

      My will hath made the world amends;

      My hope on charity depends.

      When I am numbered with the dead,

      And all my pious gifts are read,

      By heaven and earth ’twill then be known,

      My charities were amply shown.”

      An angel came. “Ah, friend,” he cried,

      “No more in flattering hope confide.

      Can thy good deeds in former times

      Outweigh the balance of thy crimes?

      What widow or what orphan prays

      To crown thy life with length of days?

      A pious action’s in thy power;

      Embrace with joy the happy hour.

      Now, while you draw the vital air,

      Prove your intention is sincere:

      This instant give a hundred pounds;

      Your neighbours want, and you abound.”

      “But why such haste?” the Sick Man whines:

      “Who knows as yet what Heaven designs?

      Perhaps I may recover still;

      That sum, and more, are in my will.”

      “Fool,” says the Vision, “now ’tis plain,

      Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain;

      From every side, with all your might,

      You scraped, and scraped beyond your right;

      And after death would fain atone,

      By giving what is not your own.”

      “Where there is life there’s hope,” he cried;

      “Then why such haste?” – so groaned, and died.

John Gay.

      SANDYS’ GHOST

OR A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE NEW OVID’S METAMORPHOSES, AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY

      YE Lords and Commons, men of wit

      And pleasure about town,

      Read this, ere you translate one bit

      Of books of high renown.

      Beware of Latin authors all!

      Nor think your verses sterling,

      Though with a golden pen you scrawl,

      And scribble in a Berlin;

      For not the desk with silver nails,

      Nor bureau of expense,

      Nor standish well japanned avails

      To writing of good sense.

      Hear how a ghost in dead of night,

      With saucer eyes of fire,

      In woful wise did sore affright

      A wit and courtly squire.

      Rare Imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth,

      Like puppy tame that uses

      To fetch and carry, in his mouth,

      The works of all the Muses.

      Ah, why did he write poetry,

      That hereto was so civil,

      And sell his soul for vanity,

      To rhyming and the devil?

      A desk he had of curious work,

      With glittering studs about;

      Within the same did Sandys lurk,

      Though Ovid lay without.

      Now, as he scratched to fetch up thought,

      Forth popped the sprite so thin,

      And from the key-hole bolted out,

      All upright as a pin,

      With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,

      And ruff composed most duly.

      The squire he dropped his pen full soon,

      While as the light burnt bluely.

      “Ho! Master Sam,” quoth Sandys’ sprite,

      “Write on, nor let me scare ye;

      Forsooth, if rhymes fall in not right,

      To Budgell seek, or Carey.

      “I hear the beat of Jacob’s drums;

      Poor Ovid finds no quarter.

      See first the merry P – comes

      In haste, without his garter.

      “Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights,

      Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers;

      Garth at St. James’s, and at White’s,

      Beat up for volunteers.

      “What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,

      Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,

      Tom Burnett or Tom D’Urfey may,

      John Dunton, Steele, or anyone.

      “If Justice Philips’ costive head

      Some frigid rhymes disburses,

      They shall like Persian tales be read,

      And glad both babes and nurses.

      “Let Warwick’s muse with Ashurst join,

      And Ozell’s with Lord Hervey’s;

      Tickell and Addison combine,

      And Pope translate with Jervas.

      “Lansdowne himself, that lively lord,

      Who bows to every lady,

      Shall join with Frowde in one accord,

      And be like Tate and Brady.

      “Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;

      I pray where can the hurt lie?

      Since you have brains as well as men,

      As witness Lady Wortley.

      “Now, Tonson, ’list thy forces all,

      Review them, and tell noses;

      For to poor Ovid shall befall

      A strange metamorphosis;

      “A metamorphosis more strange

      Than all his books can vapour.”

      “To what” (quoth squire) “shall Ovid change?”

      Quoth Sandys, “To waste paper.”

Alexander Pope.

      FROM “THE EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT”

      “SHUT, shut the door, good John!” fatigued I said;

      Tie up the knocker; say I’m sick, I’m dead.

      The dog-star rages! nay, ’tis past a doubt,

      All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out;

      Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,

      They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

      What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?

      They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.

      By land, by water, they renew the charge;

      They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.

      No place is sacred, not the church