A Satire Anthology. Wells Carolyn

      And what so foolish as the chance of fame?

      How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!

      For what are men who grasp at praise sublime,

      But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,

      That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more,

      Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?

      Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,

      To gain themselves, not give the writer fame.

      The very best ambitiously advise,

      Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.

      Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,

      Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;

      Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry

      Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.

      WOULD you that Delville I describe?

      Believe me, sir, I will not gibe;

      For who could be satirical

      Upon a thing so very small?

      You scarce upon the borders enter,

      Before you’re at the very centre.

      A single crow can make it night,

      When o’er your farm she takes her flight:

      Yet, in this narrow compass, we

      Observe a vast variety;

      Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,

      Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs,

      And hills, and dales, and woods, and fields,

      And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields;

      All to your haggard brought so cheap in,

      Without the mowing or the reaping:

      A razor, tho’ to say’t I’m loth,

      Would shave you and your meadows both.

      Tho’ small’s the farm, yet here’s a house

      Full large to entertain a mouse;

      But where a rat is dreaded more

      Than savage Caledonian boar;

      For, if it’s enter’d by a rat,

      There is no room to bring a cat.

      A little rivulet seems to steal

      Down thro’ a thing you call a vale,

      Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,

      Like rain along a blade of leek:

      And this you call your sweet meander,

      Which might be suck’d up by a gander,

      Could he but force his nether bill

      To scoop the channel of the rill.

      For sure you’d make a mighty clutter,

      Were it as big as city gutter.

      Next come I to your kitchen garden,

      Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;

      And round this garden is a walk,

      No longer than a tailor’s chalk;

      Thus I compare what space is in it,

      A snail creeps round it in a minute.

      One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze

      Up thro’ a tuft you call your trees:

      And, once a year, a single rose

      Peeps from the bud, but never blows;

      In vain then you expect its bloom!

      It cannot blow for want of room.

      In short, in all your boasted seat,

      There’s nothing but yourself that’s GREAT.

      “HOW vain are mortal man’s endeavours?

      (Said, at Dame Elleot’s, Master Travers)

      Good Orleans dead! in truth ’tis hard:

      Oh, may all statesmen die prepar’d!

      I do foresee (and for foreseeing

      He equals any man in being)

      The army ne’er can be disbanded.

      I with the king was safely landed.

      Ah, friends, great changes threat the land!

      All France and England at a stand!

      There’s Meroweis – mark! strange work!

      And there’s the Czar, and there’s the Turk —

      The Pope – ” An Indian merchant by,

      Cut short the speech with this reply:

      “All at a stand? You see great changes?

      Ah, sir, you never saw the Ganges.

      There dwells the nation of Quidnunckis

      (So Monomotapa calls monkeys);

      On either bank, from bough to bough,

      They meet and chat (as we may now);

      Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug,

      They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug;

      And, just as chance or whim provoke them,

      They either bite their friends, or stroke them.

      There have I seen some active prig,

      To show his parts, bestride a twig.

      Lord, how the chatt’ring tribe admire!

      Not that he’s wiser, but he’s higher.

      All long to try the vent’rous thing

      (For power is but to have one’s swing);

      From side to side he springs, he spurns,

      And bangs his foes and friends by turns.

      Thus as in giddy freaks he bounces,

      Crack goes the twig, and in he flounces!

      Down the swift stream the wretch is borne,

      Never, ah, never to return!

      Zounds! what a fall had our dear brother!

      Morbleu! cries one, and damme, t’other.

      The nation gives a general screech;

      None cocks his tail, none claws his breech;

      Each trembles for the public weal,

      And for awhile forgets to steal.

      Awhile all eyes intent and steady

      Pursue him whirling down the eddy:

      But, out of mind when out of view,

      Some other mounts the twig anew;

      And

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