Classic Poem

The Beau

These all their care expend on outward show
For wealth and fame; for fame alone, the beau.
Of late at White's was young Florello seen!
How blank his look! how discomposed his mien!
So hard it proves in grief sincere to feign!
Sunk were his spirits, for his coat was plain.
Next day his breast regained its wonted peace,
His health was mended with a silver lace.
A curious artist, long inured to toils
Of gentler sort, with combs, and fragrant oils,
Whether by chance, or by some god inspired,
So touched his curls, his mighty soul was fired.
The well-swoln ties an equal homage claim,
And either shoulder has its share of fame;
His sumptuous watch-case, though concealed it lies,
Like a good conscience, solid joy supplies.
He only thinks himself (so far from vain!)
Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine.
Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws his eye
On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye,
With how sublime a transport leaps his heart!
But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
In active measures, brought from France, he wheels,
And triumphs, conscious of his learned heels.
So have I seen, on some bright summer's day,
A calf of genius, debonair and gay,
Dance on the bank, as if inspired by fame,
Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.
Morose is sunk with shame, whene'er surprised
In linen clean, or peruke undisguised.
No sublunary chance his vestments fear,
Valued, like leopards, as their spots appear.
A famed surtout he wears, which once was blue,
And his foot swims in a capacious shoe.
One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim?)
Levelled her barb'rous needle at his fame;
But open force was vain; by night she went,
And while he slept, surprised the darling rent.
Where yawned the frieze is now become a doubt,
And glory, at one entrance, quite shut out.
He scorns Florello, and Florello him;
This hates the filthy creature; that the prim.
Thus, in each other, both these fools despise
Their own dear selves, with undiscerning eyes,
Their methods various, but alike their aim:
The sloven and the fopling are the same.
Ye Whigs and Tories! thus it fares with you,
When party rage too warmly you pursue;
Then both club nonsense, and impetuous pride,
And folly joins whom sentiments divide.
You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they pass,
Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glass,
While both are one: and henceforth be it known,
Fools of both sides shall stand for fools alone.
" But who art thou?" methinks Florello cries:
" Of all thy species art thou only wise?"
Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch,
As crossing straws retard a passing witch,
Florello, thou my monitor shalt be;
I'll conjure thus some profit out of thee.
O THOU myself! abroad our counsels roam,
And, like ill husbands, take no care at home.
Thou too art wounded with the common dart,
And love of fame lies throbbing at thy heart,
And what wise means to gain it hast thou chose?
Know, fame and fortune both are made of prose.
Is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme,
Thou unambitious fool, at this late time?
While I a moment name, a moment's past,
I'm nearer death in this verse, than the last.
What then is to be done? Be wise with speed;
A fool at forty is a fool indeed.