Classic Poem

Some gen'rous Painter now assist my Pen,
And help to draw the most despis'd of Men:
Or else, Oh Muse! do thou that Charge supply,
Thou that art injur'd too as well as I;
Revenge thy self, with Satyr arm thy Quill;
Display the Man, yet own a Justice still.

First, Paint a large two handed surly Clown,
In Silver Wastcoat, Stockins sliding down,
Shooes, (let me see) a Foot and Half in Length,
And stoutly arm'd with Sparrables for Strength.
Ascend! and let a Silver String appear,
Which seems to cry, a Golden Watch is here:
O'er all a D'oily Stuff, to which belongs
One Pocket charg'd with Citron Peel and Songs:
'Tother contains, more necessary far
A Snuff Box, Comb, a Glass, and Handkercher,
Three Parts of which hangs dangling by his Side,
The fourth is wisely to a Button tied:
Just as it was in former Days a Rule
To tie young Childrens Muckenders at School.
Forget not Muse, gold Buttons at the Wrist;
Nor Mecklin Lace, to shade the clumsy Fist:
Two Di'mond Rings thy Pencil next must show,
Always in Sight like Prim's the formal Beau,
But if rude Company their Notice spare,
Then draw that Hand elated to his Ear;
And at one View let Dy'mond Ring, and Golden Bob appear.
A Steenkirk next, of paltrey needle Stuff,
Which cost Eleven Guineas, (cheap enough.)
Next draw the Giant-Wigg of Shape profuse,
Larger than Foppington's, or Overdoe's.
The greasy Front, press'd down with Essence lyes,
The spreading Elf-Locks, cover half his Eyes;
But when he coughs, or bows, what Clouds of Powder rise.

Enough, O Muse! thou hast describ'd him right,
Th' Emetick's strong, I sicken at the Sight:
A Fop is nauseating howe'er he's drest,
But this too fulsome is to be exprest.
Such hideous Medley, would thy Work debase,
Where Rake and Clown, where Ape and Knave appear with open Face.

Yet stay, proceed and paint his awkward Bow,
And if thou hast forgot, I'll tell thee how;
Set one Leg forward, draw his other back;
Nor let the Lump, a Booby wallow lack:
His Head bend downward, with obsequious Quake;
Then quickly raise it, with a Spaniel Shake.
His Honours thus perform'd, a Speech begin
May shew th' obliging Principles within:
Thy Mem'ry to his Sense I now confine,
His be the Substance, but th' Expression thine.

Madam, cries he, Lord how my Soul is mov'd!
To see such silly Toys by you approv'd:
A Closet stuff'd with Books, pray what's your Crime,
To superannuate before your Time;
And make your self look old, and ugly in your Prime?
Our modern Pedants contradict the Schools,
For learned Ladies are but learned Fools.
With ev'ry Blockhead's Whim ye load your Brains.
And for a Shadow, take a World of Pains.
What is't to you what Numbers Cæsir slew?
Or who at Marathon beat the De'el knows who?
Defend me Fortune! from the Wife I hate,
And let not bookish Woman be my Fate.
For when with rural Sports fatigu'd I come,
And think to rest my wearied Limbs at home;
No sooner shall I be retir'd to Bed,
Than she, for one poor Word, shall break poor Pre Head.
Perhaps you'll say, in Books you Virtue learn,
And by right Reason, Good from Ill discern:
Ha! ha, believe me, Virtue's but Pretence
To cloak Hypocrisy and Insolence:
Let Woman mind her Occonomick Care,
And let the Man what he thinks fit prepare:
(What he thinks fit, I say, or please to spend,
For those are Fools, that on their Wives depend.)
Nor need they musty Books to pass their Time,
There's twenty Recreations more sublime.
When tir'd with Work, then let them to the Play,
If fair, go visit; if a Rainy Day
In Cards and Chat drive lazy Time away.
No hang me if I speak not as I mean;
If on my nuptial Day there is not seen
Of all my Spouse's Books, a stately Pire,
Which she her self obediently shall fire;
And Oh! might Europe's Learning in that Blaze expire.
Now, Madam, pray the mighty Diff'rence shew?
I eat, I drink, I sleep as well as you:
I know by Custom two and two is Four;
My Man is honest, then what need I more?
And truly speak it to my Joy and Praise,
I never Read six Books in all my Days.
Nor should my Son; for could my Wish prevail,
Elest Ignorance I'd on my Race entail.
Unthinking, and unlearn'd in plenteous Ease
My happy Heir each Appetite should please:
And when Chance strikes the last unlucky Blow,
Glutted with Life, I'd have him boldly go
To try that Somewhat, or that Nought below.

How is't my Friend? can you your Spleen contain,
At this ignoble Wretch, this less than Man?
Trust me, I'm weary, can repeat no more,
And own this Folly worse than when 'twas acted o'er.