Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings,
To fear and fare upon their fruits of sinnings.
So that the mirrour of the Christian world
Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furled.
Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surprize
Not dastard spirits only, but the wise.
Thus have the fairest hopes deceived the eye
Of the big-swoln expectant standing by:
Thus the proud ship, after a little turn,
Sinks into Neptune's arms to find its urne;
Thus hath the heir to many thousands born
Been in an instant from the mother torn:
Fven thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale,
And thy supporters through great losses fail.
This is the Prologue to thy future woe,
The Epilogue no mortal yet can know.

SOME

wit of old-such wits of old there wereWhose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care,

By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Called clear blank paper every infant mind,
Where still, as opening Sense her dictates wrote,
Fair Virtue put a seal, or Vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.

I can you pardon my presumption ?-I,
No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.

Various the papers various wants produce-
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use;
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,

Each sort of paper represents some man.

Pray, note the fop-half powder and half lace-
Nice as a bandbox were his dweiling-place;
He's the gilt paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the scrutoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy paper, of inferior worth;

Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed,
Free to all pens, and prompt at every

need.

The wretch whom Avarice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper; such as peddlers choose
To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought

Deems this side always right, and that stark naught;
He foams with censure-with applause he raves—
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves:
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as fools-cap has a name.

The hasty gentleman whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry,

Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure:
What is he? What? touch-paper, to be sure.

What are the poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works in the same class you'll find;
They are the mere waste paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet,

She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet,
On which the happy man, whom Fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one, I'll bring;
'Tis the great man, who scorns a little thing—
Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own,
Formed on the feelings of his heart alone:
True, genuine royal paper is his breast;
Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

Ho

John Trumbull.

THE FОР.

(1772.)

OW blest the brainless fop, whose praise
Is doomed to grace these happy days,
When well-bred vice can genius teach,
And fame is placed in folly's reach;

Impertinence all tastes can hit,
And every rascal is a wit.

The lowest dunce, without despairing,

May learn the true sublime of swearing;
Learn the nice art of jests obscene,
While ladies wonder what they mean;
The heroism of brazen lungs,
The rhetoric of eternal tongues;
While whim usurps the name of spirit,
And impudence takes place of merit,
And every moneyed clown and dunce
Commences gentleman at once.

For now, by easy rules of trade,
Mechanic gentlemen are made!
From handicrafts of fashion born;
Those very arts so much their scorn.
To tailors half themselves they owe,
Who make the clothes that make the beau.
Lo! from the seats where, fops to bless,
Learned artists fix the forms of dress,
And sit in consultation grave
On folded skirt, or straitened sleeve,
The coxcomb trips with sprightly haste,
In all the flush of modern taste;
Oft turning, if the day be fair,
To view his shadow's graceful air
Well pleased, with eager eye runs o'er
The laced suit glittering gay before;
The ruffle, where from opened vest
The rubied brooch adorns the breast;
The coat, with lengthening waist behind,
Whose short skirts dangle in the wind;

The modish hat, whose breadth contains
The measure of its owner's brains;
The stockings gay, with various hues ;
The little toe-encircling shoes;

The cane, on whose carved top is shown
A head, just emblem of his own;
While, wrapped in self, with lofty stride,
His little heart elate with pride,

He struts in all the joys of show
That tailors give, or beaux can know.
And who for beauty need repine,
That's sold at every barber's sign;
Nor lies in features or complexion,
But curls disposed in meet direction.
With strong pomatum's grateful odor,
And quantum sufficit of powder?
These charms can shed a sprightly grace
O'er the dull eye and clumsy face;
While the trim dancing-master's art
Shall gestures, trips, and bows impart-
Give the gay piece its final touches,
And lend those airs would lure a duchess.
Thus shines the form, nor aught behind,
The gifts that deck the coxcomb's mind;
Then hear the daring muse disclose

The sense and piety of beaux.

Το

grace his speech, let France bestow A set of compliments for show.

Land of politeness! that affords
The treasure of new-fangled words,
And endless quantities disburses

Of bows and compliments and curses;