  BEGIN. Who first the catalogue shall grace? To quality belongs the highest place. My lord comes forward; forward let him come! Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room: He stands for fame on his forefathers’ feet, By heraldry proved valiant or discreet. With what a decent pride he throws his eyes Above the man by three descents less wise! If virtues at his noble hands you crave, You bid him raise his fathers from the grave. Men should press forward in fame’s glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race. Let high birth triumph! What can be more great? Nothing—but merit in a low estate. To virtue’s humblest son let none prefer Vice, though descended from the Conqueror. Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base, Slight or important, only by their place? Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave, that wears a title, lies. ...... On buying books Lorenzo long was bent, But found, at length, that it reduced his rent; His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on, A choice collection—what is to be done? He sells his last, for he the whole will buy; So high the generous ardor of the man For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran. When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk, Lorenzo signed the bargain—with his mark. Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair. ...... The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven’s blessing thinks himself undone. ...... These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men, Though satire couch them with her keenest pen) Forever will hang out a solemn face, To put off nonsense with a better grace: As perlers with some hero’s head make bold— Illustrious mark!—where pins are to be sold. What’s the bent brow, or neck in thought reclined? The body’s wisdom to conceal the mind. A man of sense can artifice disdain, As men of wealth may venture to go plain; And be this truth eternal ne’er forgot, Solemnity’s a cover for a sot. I find the fool, when I behold the screen; For ’tis the wise man’s interest to be seen. ...... 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, 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. Edward Young. |
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