Party-colour’d Vest
Cloddy appear’d, his Dialogue addrest,
And swore he’d study’d Swift with so much Pains,
He thought, at last, he’d gain’d his very Strains:
The Piece perus’d, this Answer she return’d,
“Obscenity, when dull, is always scorn’d;
“And who puffs this, will, to his Sorrow, find
“’Tis but a F—t will stink to all Mankind.”
Blast claim’d the Prize, and said, he did deride
The Poet, by appearing on his Side;
The Goddess sent her Maid to kick him down,
But e’er she rais’d her Foot, the Wretch was gone.
Next, in a borrow’d Shape, by Clytus worn,
In fierce theatric Battles hackt and torn,
A Wight stalkt in, and, under Virtue’s Name,
On Horace, Salust, Seneca and Pope cry’d Shame;
False English! baul’d he loud—the Goddess heard,
And to the School-boys his Address preferr’d.
He disappear’d, nor know we if he’s found,
But horse him, horse him, dy’d in distant Sound.
And now of ev’ry Sort came rushing in,
Scriblers and Puffers, with a horrid Din;
All who in various Occupations strive
To keep their sev’ral Mist’ries alive,
From Statesmen, who, for Coronets resign’d,
To the Dutch Kettle, and the Window-Blind;
But far above the rest, each Rival Stage
The Favour of the Goddess wou’d engage;
The angry Quack his Nostrums all forsakes,
And, in Revenge, his Gallipots he breaks,
’Cause R—ch bestows an Orpheus on the Town,
When he had, long before, run mad with one:
Then Paper Wars, and long-ear’d Quarrels rise,
And each the Goddess sues for fresh Supplies.
In spite of City Wrath and Aldermen,
A Concert takes the Dregs of Drury-Lane:
In pompous Stanzas they their Genius raise,
And sound, in ev’ry Paper, their own Praise,
From Rome and Death old surly Cato tear,
To see the modern Liliputian lear,
Greece is outdone, and learned Athens yields
To the politer Stage of G———n’s-F—ds.
Ambivius Turpia, the Stage ’Squire appear’d,
The Nurse, who ev’ry modern Terence rear’d;
A meagre Shade, quite uninform’d and wild,
Yet still he flatter’d, smooth’d, and still he smil’d:
Ne’er, but when frighten’d, cou’d he be sincere,
And ne’er ap’d Honesty, but ’twas thro’ Fear;
Revil’d, exploded on a rival Stage,
To dull the Sting the Libellers engage;
If double Pay is given them on his own,
He smil’d Consent, and turns them on the Town.
Then thus—Great Pow’r! thy darling Child behold,
I’ve courted thee with Orders and with Gold,
This Scheme let the contending Pollys tell,
This ev’ry Inns o’ Court Man knows full well.
But mark, dear Goddess, this my Master-piece,
Thus I revive the Arts of Rome and Greece;
For Shakespear’s Monument I gave a Play,
And stopp’d the starving Actors hard-got Pay,
Yet bore I all the Praise and Puff away.
Beasts graze the Plain, the Fishes skim the Sea,
Cars are for Peers, Streets for Mechanics free;
Thy Empire, Goddess, still hath been my Care,
My Life’s a Puff, my Deeds, like Words, are Air.
He spake, to grasp the Prize his Fingers stretch,
As feeble Reeds spent Swimmers strive to catch;
But finds himself pusht instantly away,
And by young Ptolomy is kept at Bay.
Give him the Prize, O Goddess, if thou durst,
A Wretch beneath his lowest Puppets curst.
The Claim he makes is owing to my Parts;
I taught him Management, and all its Arts,
From my great Sire alone deriv’d, to me
He gave it yet a living Legacy:
In what theatric Region are unknown
Our Puffs in ev’ry Bill, in ev’ry Paper shown?
And where his short ones fail’d, I, better skill’d,
The groaning Page with long Epistles fill’d:
If Falsehood claims it, end the vain Dispute;
’Tis mine, avaunt, ye Puffers, and be mute;
All Grubstreet tells——At this Conundrum rose,
And thus—Fond Youth, no more thy Gifts expose;
Tho’ the Foundation of this Art is Lies,
Yet Truth is sometimes proper for Disguise:
He who is always false, is ne’er believ’d,
Who’s always honest, is sometimes deceiv’d;
The Prize we’ll yield, prove it upon Record,
That he or you e’er spoke but one true Word.
Dismist—The Fantoms hover round the Place,
And shew their Crimes in Mirrors to their Face?
Each on the other gazing, ghastly stood,
And wou’d have blush’d, or hid them, if they cou’d.
Then thus the Goddess—“Cease all further Strife,
“Colley, thy Hand! I’m thine alone for Life;
“Thine be the Prize, an Emblem of thy Wit,
“Which tho’ not so, yet some will take for it:
“But ’tis not long, ev’n me thou must forsake;
“My last, my best, Advice then friendly take,
“Dear Scriblers, all Adventurers in Wit,
“Who scorn the Field of fell Debate to quit,
“Howe’er he lash ye, still the War pursue,
“Your Ignorance brings all his Wit to View;
“The Insects hov’ring in the breezy Air
“Shew th’ approaching vernal Season near;
“The Maggot that in Sun-beams basking lies,
“Tho’ the Heat scorch him, by that Heat he flies.”
She spake, and then, unseen, unheard retir’d,
Born in a Breath, she with a Sigh expir’d.

FINIS.