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So when rude whirlwinds rouse the roaring maing
Beneath fair Thetis sits, in coral caves,
Serenely gay; nor sinking sailors' cries
Disturb her sportive nymphs, who round her form
The light fantastic dance, or for her hair
Weave rosy crowns, or with according lutes
Grace the soft warbles of her lonied voice.

FASHION,

A SATIRE.

Horestius putamus, quod frequentius; recti apud nos locum tenet error,

ubi publicus factus.

Yes, yes, my friend, disguise it as you will,
To right or wrong 'tis Fashion guides us still ;
A few perhaps rise singularly good,
Defy and stem the fool-o'erwhelming flood;
The rest to wander from their brethren fear,
As social herrings in large shoals appear.

'Twas not a taste, but powerful mode, that bade
Yon purblind, poking peer, run picture-mad;
With the same wonder-gaping face he stares
On flat Dutch dawbing, as on Guido's airs ;
What might his oak-crown'dmanors mortgag'd gain?
Alas! five faded landscapes of Loraine'.

Not so Gargilius-sleek, voluptuous lord, A hundred dainties smoke upon his board; Earth, air, and ocean's ransack’d for the feast, In masquerade of foreign olios dress'd ; Who praises, in this sauce-enamour'd age, Calm, healthful temperance, like an Indian sage :

1 Claude Loraine.

But could he walk in public, were it said,
• Gargilius din'd on beef, and ate brown bread ?'
Happy the grotto'd hermit with his pulse,
Who wants no truffles, rich ragouts-nor Hulse ?.
How strict on Sundays gay Lætitia's face!
How curld her hair, how clean her Brussels lace!
She lifts her eyes, her sparkling eyes to Heav'n,
Most nun-like mourns, and hopes to be forgiv'n.
Think not she prays, or is grown penitent,-
She went to church-because the parish went.

Close Chremes, deaf to the pale widow's grief,
Parts with an unsun'd guinea for relief;
No meltings o'er his ruthless bosom steal,
More than fierce Arabs, or proud tyrants feel;
Yet since his neighbours give, the churl unlocks,
Damning the poor, his triple-bolted box.

Why loves not Hippia rank obscenity? Why would she not with twenty porters lie? Why not in crowded Malls quite naked walk? Not aw'd by virtue-but' The world would talk.'Yet how demurely looks the wishing maid, For ever, but in bed, of man afraid ! Thus Hammon's 3 spring by day feels icy-cool, At night is hot as hell's sulphureous pool.

Each panting warble of Vesconti's throat,
To Dick, is heav'nlier than a seraphi's note;
The trills, he swears, soft stealing to his breast,
Are lullabies, to soothe his cares to rest;
Are sweeter far thian Laura's luscious kiss,
Charm the whole man, and lap his soul in bliss :
Who can such counterfeited raptures bear
Of a deaf fool who scarce can thunders hear?

? Sir Edward Hulse, the physician.
§ Lucretius, lib. vi. 843.

Crowdero might with him for Festin pass,
And touching Handel yield to trifling Hasse.
But curd-facd Curio comes ! all prate, and smile,
Supreme of beaux, great bulwark of our isle!
Mark well his feather'd hat, his gilt cockade;
Rich rings, white hand, and coat of stiff brocade ;
Such weak-wingʻd May-flies Britain's troops dis-

grace,
That Flandria, wondering, mourns our alterd race.
With bim the fair, enraptur'd with a rattle,
Of Vauxhall, Garrick, or Pamela prattle.
This self-pleas'd king of emptiness permit
At the dear toilet harmlessly to sit;
As mirthless infants, idling out the day,
With wooden swords, or toothless puppies play :
'Tis meaner (cries the manling) to command
A conquering host, or save a sinking land,
Than furl fair Flavia's fan, or lead a dance,
Or broach new-minted fashions fresh from France.
O France, whose edicts govern dress and meat,
Thy victor, Britain, bends beneath thy feet!
Strange! that pert grasshopper should lions lead,
And teach to hop, and chirp across the mead :
Of fleets and laurell'd chiefs let others boast,
Thy honours are to bow, dance, boil, and roast.
Let Italy give mimic canvas fire,
Carve rock to life, or tune the lulling lyre;
For gold let rich Potosi be renown'd,
Be balmıy-breathing gums in India found;
'Tis thine for sleeves to teach the shantiest cuts,
Give empty coxcombs more important struts;
Prescribe new rules for knots, hoops, manteaus,

wigs, Shoes, soups, complexions, coaches, farces, jigs.

Muscalia dreams of last night's ball till ten,
Drinks chocolate, strokes Fop, and sleeps again ;
Perhaps at twelve dares ope her drowsy eyes,
Asks Lucy if 'tis late enough to rise;
By three each curl and feature justly set,
She dines, talks scandal, visits, plays piquet:
Meanwhile her babes with some foul nurse remain;
For modern dames a mother's cares disdain ;
Each fortnight once she bears to see the brats,

For oh! they stun one's ears, like squalling cats!
Tigers and pards protect, and nurse their young,
The parent-snake will roll her forked tongae,
The vulture hovers vengeful o'er her nest,
If the rude hand her helpless brood infest;
Shall lovely woman, softest frame of heav'n,
To whom were tears and feeling pity giv'n,
Most fashionably cruel, less regard
Her offspring, than the vulture, snake, and pard?

What art, O Fashion, power supreme below! You make us virtue, nature, sense, forego; You sanctify knave, atheist, whore, and fool, And shield from justice, shame, and ridicule. Our grandames' modes, long absent from our eyes, At your all-powerful bidding duteous rise; As Arethusa sunk beneath the plain For many a league, emerging flows again ; Now Mary's mobs 4, and founces you approve, Now shape-disguising sacks, and slippers love: Scarce have you chose (like Fortune fond to joke) Some reigning dress, but you the choice revoke: So when the deep-tongued organ's notes swell high, And loud hosannahs reach the distant sky;

Mary Queen of Scots' mobs, much worn by the ladies.

Hark, how at once the dying strains decay,
And soften unexpectedly away.
The peer, prince, peasant, soldier, squire, divine,
Goddess of Change, bend low before your shrine,
Swearing to follow, whereso'er you lead,
Though you eat toads, or walk upon your head.
'Tis hence, belles game, intrigue, sip citron-drams,
And hide their lovely locks with heads of ramsS;
Hence girls, once modest, without blush appear,
With legs display'd, and swan-soft bosoms bare;
Hence stale, autumnal dames, still deck'd with laces,
Look like vile canker'd coins in velvet cases.
Ask you, why whores are more belov'd than wiyes?
Why, weeping virtue exil'd, flattery thrives?
Why, mad for pensions, Britons young and old
Adore base ministers, those calves of gold?
Why witling templars on religion joke,
Fat, rosy justices, drink, doze, and snjoke,
Dull critics on best bards pour harmless spite,
As babes that mumble coral, cannot bite?
Why knaves malicious, brother-knaves embrace,
With hearts of gall, but courtly smiling face?
Why scornful Folly from her gaudy coach,
At starving houseless Virtue points reproach?
Why Avarice is the great all-worship'd god?
Methinks some demon answers_6T'is the mode!'

At this Corruption smiles with ghastly grin,
Presaging triumphs to her mother, Sin;
Who as with baneful wings aloft she flies,
- This falling land be mine!'--exulting cries;
Grim Tyranny attends her on her way,
And frowns, and whets his sword, that thirsts to slay.

$ Tete de monton, literally translated.

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