FLORIO : A POETICAL TALE , FOR FINE GENTLEMEN AND FINE LADIES . FLORIO , a youth of gay renown , Who figur'd much about the Town , Had pass'd , with general approbation , The modish forms of Education ; Knew what was proper to be known , Th' establislih'd jargon of Bon-ton ; Had learnt , with very moderate reading , The whole new system of good breeding : Knew to be negligent and rude ; But still his feelings wou'd intrude : For FLORIO was not meant by nature , A silly , or a worthless creature : He had a heart dispos'd to feel , Had sense and spirit , taste and zeal ; Was handsome , generous ; but , by fate , Predestin'd to a large estate ! Hence all the hopes he gave were foil'd ; His mind by praise and pleasure spoil'd . The Destiny , who wove the thread Of FLORIO'S being , sigh'd , and said , Poor youth ! this cumbrous twist of gold , More , than my shuttle well can hold , For which thy anxious fathers toil'd , Thy white and even thread has spoil'd : This shall seduce thy pliant youth From sense , simplicity , and truth ; Thy erring fire , by this misled , Shall scatter pleasures round thy head , When wholesome disicipline's controul , Shou'd brace the sinews of thy soul ; Coldly thou'lt toil for Learning's prize , For why shou'd he that's rich be wise ? The gracious Master of mankind , Who knew us vain , and weak , and blind , In mercy , tho' in anger , said , That man shou'd earn his daily bread ; Who counteracts the order given , Disputes the high behest of Heaven . Forgive ( nor lay the fault on me ) This mixture of mythology ; The bard of Paradise has deign'd With truth to mingle fables feign'd ; Who cannot reach his style , or thoughts , With ease may irritate his faults . Poor FLORIO , at the ardent age When youth shou'd rush on Glory's stage ; When Life shou'd open fresh and fair , And Hope advance with smiling air ; Of youthful gaiety bereft , Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left ; He found already to his cost , The shining gloss of life was lost ; And Pleasure was so coy a prude , She fled the more the more pursued . But FLORIO knew the WORLD , that Science Set Sense and Learning at defiance ; He thought the world to him was known , Whereas he only knew the Town ; In men this blunder still you find , All think their little set — Mankind . Tho' high renown the youth had gain'd , No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd ; No tool of falsehood , slave of passion , But spoilt by CUSTOM , and the FASHION . Tho' known among a certain set , He did not like to be in debt ; He shudder'd at the dicer's box , Nor thought it very heterodox That tradesmen shou'd be sometimes paid , And promises be kept when made . His utmost credit , as a sinner , Was that he sometimes spoilt a dinner ; Ever , by system , came too late , And made his choicest parties wait ; Yet 'twas a hopeful indication , On which to found a reputation : Small habits , well pursued betimes , May reach the dignity of crimes . His mornings were not spent in vice , 'Twas lounging , sauntering , eating ice : Walk up and down St. James's Street , Full fifty times the youth you'd meet : He hated cards , detested drinking , But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking ; 'Twas doing nothing was his curse , Is there a vice can plague us worse ? The wretch who digs the mine for bread , Or ploughs , that others may be fed , Feels less fatigue than that decreed To him who cannot think , or read . Not all the struggle of temptation , Not all the furious war of passion , Can quench the spark of Glory's flame , Or blot out Virtue's very name ; Like the true taste for genuine saunter , No rival passions can supplant her ; They rule in short and quick succession , But SLOTH keeps one long , fast possession ; Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd , Th' usurper Rage is soon depos'd ; Intemperance , where there's no temptation , Makes voluntary abdication ; Of other tyrants short the strife , But INDOLENCE is king for life . Yet tho' so polish'd FLORIO'S breeding , Think him not ignorant of reading ; For he , to keep him from the vapours , Subscrib'd at HOOKHAM'S , saw the papers ; Was deep in Poet's-corner wit , Knew what was in Italics writ ; Explain'd fictitious names at will , Each gutted syllable cou'd fill ; There oft , in paragraphs , his name Gave symptom sweet of growing fame , Tho' yet they serv'd but to apprize Of buttons' form , or buckles' size . He studied while he dress'd , for true 'tis He read Compendiums , Extracts , Beauties , Abregés , Dictionnaires , Recueils , Mercures , Journaux , Extraits , and Feuilles : No work in substance now is follow'd , The Chemic Extract only's swallow'd . He lik'd those literary cooks Who skim the cream of others' books , And ruin half an Author's graces , By plucking bons-mots from their places ; He wonders any writing sells , But these spic'd mushrooms and morells ; His palate these alone can touch , Where every mouthful is bonne bouche . Of each new Play he saw a part , And all the Anas had by heart ; He found whatever they produce Is fit for conversation-use ; Is ever ready for display ; A page would prime him for a day : They cram not with a mass of knowledge , Which smacks of toil , and smells of college , Which in the memory useless lies , And only makes men — good and wise . A friend he had , BELLARIO hight , A reasoning , reading , learned wight ; At least , with men of FLORIO'S breeding , He was a prodigy of reading . He knew each stale and vapid lye In tomes of French Philosophy ; And then , we fairly may presume , From PYRRHO down to DAVID HUME , 'Twere difficult to single out A man more full of shallow doubt ; He knew the little sceptic prattle , The sophist's paltry arts of battle ; Talk'd gravely of th' atomic dance , Of moral fitness , fate , and chance ; Quoted the nonsense of LUCRETIUS , Stripp'd of the charm which makes it specious ; Dropt hints , with wondrous penetration , Against the history of Creation ; Then prov'd , by argument circuitous , The combination was fortuitous : Swore , Priests whole trade was to deceive , And prey on bigots who believe ; With bitter ridicule cou'd jeer , And had the true free-thinking sneer ; Stale arguments he had in store , Which have been answer'd o'er and o'er . Practis'd , to raise his reputation , The trite , old trick of false citation ; And wou'd from ancient Authors quote A sentiment they never wrote . Upon his highest shelf there stood The Classics , neatly cut in wood ; And in a more commodious station , You found them in a French translation : He swears , 'tis from the Greek he quotes , But keeps the French , just for the notes . He worshipp'd certain modern names Who History write in Epigrams , In pointed periods , shining phrases , And all the small poetic daisies , Which crowd the pert and florid style , Where fact is dropt to raise a smile ; Arts scorn'd by History's sober Muse , Arts CLARENDON disdain'd to use . Whate'er the subject of debate , 'Twas larded still with sceptic prate ; The good , with shame I speak it , feel Not half this proselyting zeal . Tho' FLORIO did not yet believe him , He thought , why shou'd a friend deceive him ? Much as he priz'd BELLARIO'S wit , He lik'd not all his notions yet ; He thought him charming , pleasant , odd , But hop'd he might believe in God ; Still , tho' he tried a thousand ways , Truth's insuppressive torch wou'd blaze ; Where once her flame has burnt , I doubt If ever it go fairly out . Yet , under great BELLARIO'S care , He gain'd each day a better air ; With many a leader of renown , Deep in the learning of the Town , Who never other science knew , But what from that prime source they drew ; Pleas'd , to the opera they repair , To get recruits of knowledge there ; Mythology gain at a glance , And learn the Classics from a dance : For tho' they never car'd a groat , How far'd the vent'rous Argonaut , Yet , pleas'd , they see MEDEA rise On fiery dragons to the skies : For DIDO , tho' they never knew her As MARO'S magic pencil drew her , Fond as she was , and broken-hearted , Her pious vagabond departed ; Yet , for DIDONE how they roar ! And Cara ! Cara ! loud encore . One taste , BELLARIO'S soul possess'd , The master passion of his breast ; Not one of those frail , transient joys , Which , by possession , quickly cloys ; This bliss was solid , constant , true , 'Twas action , and 'twas passion too ; For tho' the business might be finish'd , The pleasure scarcely was diminish'd ; Did he ride out , or sit , or walk , Still he liv'd o'er again in talk This keen , this ever new delight , His joy by day , his dream by night . 'Twas eating did his soul allure , In short , a modish Epicure ; Tho' once this word , as I opine , Meant not such men as live to dine , Yet all our modern Wits assure us , That's all they know of EPICURUS : They fondly fancy , that repletion Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian . To live in gardens full of flowers , And talk philosophy in bowers , Or , in the covert of a wood , To descant on the sovereign good , Might be the notion of their founder , But they have notions vastly sounder ; Their bolder standards they erect , To form a more voluptuous sect ; Old EPICURUS wou'd not own 'em , A dinner is their summum bonum . You'll rather find such sparks as these Like EPICURUS' deities ; Like them they laugh at human cares , And with disdain view all affairs . BELLARIO had embrac'd with glee , This practical philosophy . Young FLORIO'S father had a friend , And ne'er did Heaven a worthier send ; A cheerful knight of good estate , Whose heart was warm , whose bounty great . At Christmas still his oxen bled , With which the grateful poor were fed ; Resentment vanish'd where he came , And law-suits died before his name ; The old esteem'd , the young caress'd him , And all the smiling village bless'd him . Within his Castle's Gothic gate , Sate Plenty , and old-fashion'd State : Scarce Prudence cou'd his bounties stint ; — Such characters are out of print : O ! wou'd kind Heaven , the age to mend , A new edition of them send , Before our tottering Castles fall , And swarming Nabobs seize on all ! Some little whims he had , 'tis true , But they were harmless , and were few ; He dreaded nought like alteration , Improvement still was innovation ; He said , when any change was brewing , Reform was a fine name for ruin ; He thought 'twou'd shew a falling state , If STERNHOLD shou'd give way to TATE . This ever dwelt upon his tongue , How things were chang'd since he was young ! Of moderate parts , of moderate wit , But parts for life and business fit : He of no history made profession , But of the Protestant succession : On all occasions , ne'er wou'd fail , At Popery and the FRENCH to rail . Of BLACKSTONE he had read a part , And all BURN'S JUSTICE knew by heart : In books that he might waste no minute , His poetry had business in it ; He ne'er had heard of Bards of Greece , But had read half of " DYER'S Fleece ; " To make his sphere of knowledge wider , His Georgics , " PHILIPS upon cyder : " He cou'd produce in proper place , Three apt quotations from the A Poem by Mr. SOMERVILE . " Chace , " And in the hall , from day to day , Old ISAAC WALTON'S angler lay . This good and venerable knight , One daughter had , his soul's delight : For face , no mortal cou'd resist her , She smil'd like HEBE'S youngest sister : Her life , as lovely as her face , Each duty mark'd with every grace ; Her native sense improv'd by reading , Her native sweetness by good-breeding : No pretty starts of feign'd surprise , No sweet minauderies clos'd her eyes ; Led by Simplicity divine , She pleas'd , and never tried to shine ; She gave to Chance each unschool'd feature , And left her cause to Sense and Nature . The Sire of FLORIO , ere he died , Decreed fair CELIA , FLORIO'S bride ; Bade him his latest wish attend , And win the daughter of his friend ; When the last rites to him were paid , He charg'd him to address the maid : Sir GILBERT'S heart the wish approv'd , For much his ancient friend he lov'd . Six rapid months like lightning fly , And the last grey was now thrown by ; FLORIO , reluctant , calls to mind The orders of a Sire too kind : Yet go he must ; he must fulfil The hard conditions of the will : Go , at that precious hour of prime , Go , at that swarming , bustling time , When the full Town to joy invites , Distracted with its own delights ; When Pleasure pours from her full urn , Each tiresome transport in its turn ; When Dissipation's altars blaze , And men run mad a thousand ways ; When , on his tablets , there were found Engagements for full six weeks round ; Must leave , with grief and desperation , Three packs of cards of invitation , And all the wearisome delights Of slavish days , and sleepless nights . Ye Nymphs , whom tyrant Power drags down , With hand despotic , from the Town , When ALMACK'S doors wide open stand , And the gay partner's offer'd hand Courts to the dance ; when steaming rooms , Fetid with unguents and perfumes , Invite you to the dear delight Of well-bred crowds , and mobs polite ; You may conceive what FLORIO felt , And sympathetically melt ; None else can guess the hardship dire , To lawns and woodlands to retire , When , freed from Winter's icy chain , Glad Nature revels on the plain ; When blushing Spring leads on the hours , And May is prodigal of flow'rs ; When Passion warbles thro' the grove , And all is song , and all is love ; When new-born breezes sweep the vale , And health adds fragrance to the gale . Six bays , unconscious of their weight , Soon lodg'd him at Sir GILBERT'S gate ; His trusty Swiss , who flew still faster , Announc'd th' arrival of his Master : So loud the rap which shook the door , The hall re-echo'd to the roar ; Since first the Castle walls were rear'd , So dread a sound had ne'er been heard ; The din alarm'd the frighten'd deer , Who in a corner slunk for fear ; The Butler thought 'twas beat of drum , The Steward swore the French were come ; It ting'd with red poor FLORIO'S face , He thought himself in Portland Place . Short joy ! he enter'd , and the gate Clos'd on him with its ponderous weight . Who like Sir GILBERT now was blest ? With rapture he embrac'd his guest . Fair CELIA blush'd , and FLORIO utter'd Half sentences , or rather mutter'd Disjointed words — as , " honour ! pleasure ! " Kind ! — vastly good , Ma'am ! — beyond measure ; " Tame expletives , with which dull Fashion Fills vacancies of sense and passion . Yet , tho' disciple of cold Art , FLORIO perceiv'd he had a heart ; He saw ; and but that Admiration , Had been too active , too like passion , Or had he been to Ton less true , Cupid had shot him thro' and thro ; But , vainly speeds the surest dart , Where FASHION'S mail defends the heart , The shaft her cold repulsion found , And fell , without the pow'r to wound : For Fashion , with a mother's joy , Dipp'd in her lake the darling boy , That lake , whose chilling waves impart The gift to freeze the warmest heart : Yet , guarded as he was with phlegm , With such delight he ey'd the dame , The Goddess strait his peril knew , And , instant , to his succour flew ; But all was safe ; she saw and smil'd , And claim'd the triumph of her child . CELIA a dinner still supplied , Which modish luxury might deride : Yet her discreet , well-order'd table , Tho' sober , still was hospitable . A modest dinner best displays The Master eats on other days . And decent Elegance was there , And Plenty , with her liberal air ; But vulgar plenty gave offence , And shock'd poor FLORIO'S nicer sense : One dish there was which never fail'd , CELIA with this each guest regal'd ; 'Twas simple mutton , roast , or boil'd , Sole dish French cookery has not spoil'd . Tho' rich in game , and stor'd with fish , She ne'er forgot her standing dish . FLORIO in secret wou'd repine , For FLORIO now but liv'd to dine ; Disgusted at the constant round For ever at her table found ; He scarce cou'd stand the slender loyn , But fainted at the ample chine ; Yet still afraid to give offence , Or shock his CELIA'S grosser sense , Patient he yielded to his fate , When good Sir GILBERT pil'd his plate ; He bow'd submissive , made no question But that 'twas sovereign for digestion ; But , such was his unlucky whim , It never wou'd agree with him . Yet feign'd to praise the vulgar treat , And , if he eat not , seem'd to eat . In sleep sad FLORIO hop'd to find , The pleasures he had left behind . He dreamt , and lo ! to charm his eyes , The form of WELTJE seem'd to rise ; The gracious vision wav'd his wand , And banquets sprung to FLORIO'S hand ; Th' imaginary savours rose In tempting odours to his nose . A bell , not Fancy's false creation , Gives joyful " note of preparation ; " He starts , he wakes , the bell he hears ; Alas ! it rings for morning pray'rs . But how to spend next tedious morning , Was past his possible discerning ; Unable to amuse himself , He tumbled every well-rang'd shelf ; This book was dull , and that was wise , And this was monstrous as to size . With eager joy he gobbled down Whate'er related to the town ; Whate'er look'd small , whate'er look'd new , Half-bound , or only stitch'd in blue ; Old play-bills , ASTLEY'S last year's feats , And Opera disputes in sheets . As these dear records meet his eyes , Ghosts of departed pleasures rise ; He lays the book upon the shelf , And leaves the day to spend itself . To cheat the tedious hours , whene'er He sallied forth to take the air , His sympathetic ponies knew Which way their Lord's affections drew , And , every time he went abroad , Sought of themselves the London road ; He ask'd each mile of every clown , How far they reckon'd it to town ? And still his nimble spirits rise , Whilst thither he directs his eyes ; But when his coursers back he guides , The sinking Mercury quick subsides . A week he had resolv'd to stay , But found a week in every day ; Yet if the gentle maid was by , Faint pleasure glisten'd in his eye ; But when no more the room she grac'd , The slight impression was effac'd . Whene'er Sir GILBERT'S sporting guests Retail'd old news , or older jests , FLORIO , quite calm , and debonair , Still humm'd a new Italian air ; He did not even feign to hear 'em , But plainly shew'd he cou'd not bear 'em . CELIA perceiv'd his secret thoughts , But lik'd the youth with all his faults ; Yet 'twas unlike , she softly said , The tales of love which she had read , Where heroes vow'd , and sigh'd , and knelt ; Nay , 'twas unlike the love she felt ; Tho' to her Sire , with fault'ring tongue , She oft remark'd , — he was but young ; Confess'd his manners wrong in part , But then — he had so good a heart ! His interest farther to secure , She prais'd his bounty to the poor ; For , votary as he was of art , He had a kind and melting heart ; Tho' , with a smile , he us'd to own He had not time to feel in town ; Not that he blush'd to shew compassion , — It chanc'd that year to be the fashion . At length , to wake Ambition's flame , A letter from BELLARIO came ; Announcing the supreme delight , Preparing for a certain night , By FLAVIA fair , return'd from France , Who took him captive at a glance : The invitations all were given ! Five hundred cards ! — a little , heaven ! — A dinner first — he wou'd present him , And begg'd that nothing might prevent him . Whoever wish'd a noble air , Must gain it by an entrée there ; Of all the glories of the town , 'Twas the first passport to renown . Then ridicul'd his rural schemes , His pastoral shades , and purling streams ; Sneer'd at his present brilliant life , His polish'd Sire , and high-bred Wife ! Thus , doubly to inflame , he tried His curiosity , and pride . The youth , with agitated heart , Prepar'd directly to depart ; But , bound in honour to obey His father , at no distant day , He promis'd soon to hasten down , But business call'd him now to town ; Then faintly hints a cold proposal , But leaves it to the Knight's disposal ; Stammer'd half words of love and duty , And mutter'd much of — worth and — beauty ; Something of passion then he dropt , And hop'd his ardour — Here he stopt ; For some remains of native truth Flush'd in his face , and check'd the youth ; Yet still the ambiguous suffusion Might pass for artless love's confusion . The doating father thought 'twas strange , But fancied men with times might change ; Yet own'd , nor cou'd he check his tongue , It was not so when he was young . That was the reign of love he swore , But now those halcyon days are o'er . In that blest age , for honour fam'd , Love paid the homage Beauty claim'd ; Not that insipid , daudling Cupid , With heart so hard , and air so stupid , Who coldly courts the charms which lie In Affectation's half-clos'd eye . Love then was honest , genuine passon , And manly gallantry the fashion ; Yet pure as ardent was the flame Excited by the beauteous dame ; Hope cou'd subsist on slender bounties , And Courtiers gallop'd o'er two counties , The Ball's fair partner to behold , Or humbly hope — she caught no cold . But mark how much Love's annals mend ! Shou'd Beauty's Goddess now descend ; On some adventure shou'd she come , To grace a modish drawing-room , With radiant eye , and heavenly air ; What Beau wou'd hand her to her chair ? Vain were that motion which betray'd , The goddess was no earth-born maid ; If noxious FARO'S baleful spright , With rites infernal rul'd the night , The group so bent on play and pelf , VENUS might call her doves herself . As FLORIO pass'd the Castle-gate , His spirits seem to lose their weight ; He feasts his lately vacant mind With all the joys he hopes to find ; Yet on whate'er his fancies brood , The form of CELIA wou'd intrude ; Howe'er his random thoughts might fly , Her gentle graces fill'd his eye ; Nor was th' obtrusive vision o'er , E'en when he reach'd BELLARIO'S door ; The friends embrac'd with warm delight , And FLAVIA'S praises crown'd the night . Soon dawn'd the day which was to shew Glad FLORIO what was heaven below . FLAVIA , admir'd wherever known , Th' acknowledg'd Empress of bon-ton , O'er FASHION'S wayward kingdom reigns , And holds BELLARIO in her chains . Various her powers ; a wit by day , By night unmatch'd for lucky play . The flattering , fashionable tribe , Each stray bon-mot to her ascribe ; And all her " little senate " own She made the best charade in town ; Her midnight suppers always drew Whate'er was fine , whate'er was new . There oft the brightest fame you'd see The victim of a repartee ; For Slander's Priestess still supplies The spotless for the sacrifice . Who at her polish'd table sit , The summit reach of modish wit , The persiflage , th' unfeeling jeer , The civil , grave , ironic sneer ; The laugh , which , more than censure , wounds , Which , more than argument , confounds . Th' exalted deed , which wou'd engage The wonder of a nobler age , With unbelieving scorn is heard , Or else to selfish ends referr'd ; To Vanity's light effervescence , Ascribe they Virtue's purest essence . When Malice longs to throw her dart , But finds no vulnerable part , Because the Virtues all defend , At every pass , their guarded friend ; Yet , by one slight insinuation , One scarce perceiv'd exaggeration , Sly Ridicule , with half a word , Can fix her stigma of — absurd ; Her cruel caustics deeply pain , And scars indelible remain . Supreme in wit , supreme in play , Despotic FLAVIA all obey ; Small were her natural charms of face , But heighten'd with each foreign grace ; But what subdued BELLARIO'S soul Beyond Philosophy's controul , Her daily table was as fine As if ten Rajahs were to dine ; She every day produc'd such fish as Wou'd gratify the nice APICIUS , Or realize what we think fabulous I'th' bill of fare of ELAGABALUS . Yet still the natural taste was cheated ; 'Twas delug'd in some sauce one hated . All that can surfeit , or can cloy , Soupes Santés , which the health destroy , And , ever on her sumptuous board , The savoury pye of PERIGORD . All sauce ! all sweetmeat ! all confection ! All poignancy ! and all perfection ! Rich Entremets , whose name none knows , Ragouts , French Tourtes , and Fricandeaux , Might picque the sensuality O' th' hogs of EPICURUS' sty ; Yet all so foreign , and so fine , 'Twas easier to admire , than dine . O ! if the Muse had power to tell Each dish , no Muse has power to spell ! Great Goddess of the French Cuisine ! Not with unhallow'd hands I mean To violate thy secret shade , Which eyes prophane shall ne'er invade : No ! of thy dignity supreme , I , with " mysterious reverence , " deem ! Or , shou'd I venture with rash hand , The vulgar wou'd not understand ; Th' initiated only know The raptures keen thy rites bestow . Thus much to tell I lawful deem , Thy works are never what they seem ; Thy will this general law has past , That nothing of itself shall taste . Thy word this high decree enacted , " In all be NATURE , counteracted ! " Conceive , who can , the perfect bliss , For 'tis not given to all to guess , The rapturous joy BELLARIO found , When thus his ev'ry wish was crown'd ; To FLORIO , as the best of friends , One dish he secretly commends ; Then hinted , as a special favour , What gave it that delicious flavour ; A mystery he so much reveres , He never to unhallow'd ears Wou'd trust it , but to him wou'd show How far true Friendship's power cou'd go . FLORIO at first with transport eat , And marvell'd at the sumptuous fête . But soon his pleasure was destroy'd , Soon every craving sense was cloy'd . A little warp his taste had gain'd , Which , unperceiv'd , till now , remain'd ; For , from himself he wou'd conceal The change he did not chuse to feel ; He almost wish'd he cou'd be picking An unsophisticated chicken ; And when he cast his eyes around , And not one simple morsel found , O give me , was his secret wish , My charming CELIA'S Standing Dish ! Now Nature , struggling for her rights , Lets in some little , casual lights , And Love combines to war with Fashion , Tho' yet 'twas but an infant passion : The practis'd FLAVIA tried each art Of sly attack to steal his heart ; ( Her forc'd civilities oppress , Insulting thro' mere graciousness ; ) While many a gay , intrepid dame , By bold assault essay'd the same . Fill'd with disgust , he strove to fly The artful glance , and fearless eye ; Their jargon he but faintly praises , Nor echoes back their flimsy phrases . He felt not CELIA'S powers of face , Till weigh'd against bon-ton grimace ; Nor half her genuine beauties tasted , 'Till with factitious charms contrasted . No moment's liberty he found , Th' industrious harpies hover'd round ; By force and flattery circumvented , To play , reluctant , he consented ; Each Dame her power of pleasing tried , To fix the novice by her side ; Of Pigeons , he the very best , Who wealth , with ignorance , possest : But FLAVIA'S rhetoric best perswades , That Sybil leads him to the shades ; The fatal leaves around the room , Prophetic , tell th' approaching doom ! Yet , different from the tale of old , 'Twas she who pluck'd the tempting gold ; Her arts the ponderous purse exhaust , A borrow'd thousand , stak'd , and lost , Wakes him to sense and shame again , Nor force , nor fraud cou'd more obtain . He rose , indignant , to attend The summons of a ruin'd friend , Whom keen BELLARIO'S arts betray To all the depths of desperate play ; The youth , unconscious of deceit , Was plunder'd of his whole estate ; Too late he look'd for friendship's aid , A beggar in a moment made . And now , with horror , FLORIO views The wild confusion which ensues ; Marks where th' infernal furies hold Their orgies foul o'er heaps of gold ; And demons dire appear to rise , Guarding the horrid mysteries ; Marks how deforming passions tear The bosoms of the losing fair ; How haggard looks , convulsive faces , Banish the frighten'd loves , and graces ! Touch'd with disdain , with horror fir'd , He thought of CELIA , and retir'd . That night no sleep his eyelids prest , He thought ; and thought's a foe to rest : Or if , by chance , he clos'd his eyes , What hideous spectres round him rise ! Distemper'd Fancy wildly brings The broken images of things ; His ruin'd friend , with eye-ball fixt , Swallowing the draught Despair had mixt ; The frantic wife , beside him stands , With bursting heart , and wringing hands ; And every horror dreams bestow , Of pining Want , or raving Woe . Next morn , to check , or cherish thought , His Library's retreat he sought ; He view'd each book , with cold regard , Of serious sage , or lighter bard ; At length , among the motley band , The IDLER fell into his hand ; Th' alluring title caught his eye , It promis'd cold inanity : He read with pleasure and surprise , And found 'twas charming , tho' 'twas wise ; His tea grew cold , whilst he , unheeding , Pursu'd this new-discover'd reading . He wonder'd at the change he found , Th' elastic spirits nimbly bound ; Time slipt , without disgust , away , While many a card unanswer'd lay ; Three papers reeking from the press , Three Pamphlets thin , in azure dress , Ephemeral literature well known , The lie and scandal of the town ; Poison of letters , morals , time ! Assassin of our day's fresh prime ! These , on his table , all that day , Unthought of , and neglected lay . FLORIO had now full three hours read , Hours which he us'd to waste in bed ; His pulse beat Virtue's vigorous tone , The reason to himself unknown ; And if he stopp'd to seek the cause , Fair CELIA'S image fill'd the pause . And now , announc'd , BELLARIO'S name Had almost quench'd the new-born flame : " Admit him , " was the ready word Which first escap'd him , not unheard ; When sudden , to his mental sight , Uprose the horrors of last night ; His plunder'd friend before him stands , And — " not at home , " his firm commands . He felt the conquest , as a joy , The first temptation wou'd destroy . He knew that next day Hymen's hand , Shou'd tack the slight and slippery band , Which , in loose bondage , wou'd ensnare BELLARIO bright , and FLAVIA fair , Oft had he promis'd to attend The nuptials of his happy friend : He longs to go — but yet he fears ; At length a bolder deed he dares ; To CELIA he resolves to fly , And catch fresh virtue from her eye ; Tho' three full weeks did yet remain , Ere he engag'd to come again . This plan he tremblingly embrac'd , With doubtful zeal , and fluttering haste ; Nor ventur'd he one card to read , Which might his virtuous scheme impede ; Each note , he dreaded , might betray him , And shudder'd lest each rap shou'd stay him . Behold him seated in his chaise ; With face that self-distrust betrays ; He hazards not a single glance , Nor thro' the glasses peeps by chance , Lest some old friend , or haunt well known , Shou'd melt his resolution down ; Fast as his foaming coursers fly , Hyde Park attracts his half-rais'd eye ; He stole one fearful , conscious look , Then dropt his eye upon his book . Long as he view'd AUGUSTA'S tow'rs , The sight relax'd his thinking pow'rs ; In vain he better plans revolves , The softening sight his soul dissolves ; The tow'rs once lost , the smoke his eyes Pursue , while yet its volumes rise : Soon as he got entirely clear From this enfeebling atmosphere , His mind was brac'd , his spirits light , His heart was gay , his humour bright ; Thus feeling , at his inmost soul , The sweet reward of self-controul ; Impatient now , and all alive , He thought he never shou'd arrive ; At length he enter'd with delight , And , self-announc'd , embrac'd the knight : The youth his joy unfeign'd exprest , The knight with joy receiv'd his guest , And own'd , with no unwilling tongue , 'Twas done like men when he was young . For CELIA , not a word she said , But blush'd , " celestial , rosy red ! " Her heighten'd charms transport the youth , Who promis'd everlasting truth . CELIA , in honour of the day , Resolv'd her table to display ; Such was the charm her sweetness gave , He thought her Wedgwood had been séve ; Her taste diffus'd a gracious air , And neat Simplicity was there , Whose secret power , tho' silent , great is , The loveliest of the sweet Penates . FLORIO had now forgot to wish For aught besides the STANDING DISH . Sir GILBERT'S port he warmly praises , And carefully avoids French phrases ; With patience hears a dissertation . On Land-tax , and a ruin'd nation ; Listens to many a tedious tale Of poachers , who deserv'd a jail ; Heard all the business of the Quorum , Of hapless damsels brought before 'em ; Nor ever humm'd a single air , While good Sir GILBERT fill'd his chair . Abroad , with joy and grateful pride , He walks , with CELIA by his side : A thousand cheerful thoughts arise , Each rural scene enchants his eyes ; With transport he begins to look On Nature's all-instructive book ; No objects now seem mean , or low , Which point to HIM from whom they flow . A berry or a bud excites A chain of reasoning which delights , And , spite of sceptic ebullitions , Proves Atheists not the best Logicians . A tree , a brook , a blade of grass , Suggests reflections as they pass , 'Till FLORIO with a sigh , confest The simplest pleasures are the best ! BELLARIO'S systems sink in air , He feels the PERFECT , GOOD , and FAIR . When call'd to dress , that Titus wore A wig the alter'd FLORIO swore ; Or else , in estimating time , He ne'er had mark'd it as a crime , That he had lost but one day's blessing , When we so many lose , by dressing . The rest , suffice it now to say , Was finish'd in the usual way . Cupid , impatient for his hour , Revil'd slow Themis' tedious power , Whose parchment legends , signing , sealing , Are cruel forms for Love to deal in . At length , to FLORIO'S eager eyes , Behold the day of bliss arise ! The flaming sun illumes the globe ; The burning torch , the saffron robe , Just as of old , glad Hymen wears , And Cupid , as of old , appears In Hymen's train ; so strange the case , They hardly knew each other's face ; Yet both confess'd , with glowing heart , They never were design'd to part . This self-same sun , and where's the wonder ? Sees FLAVIA'S slight bands snapt asunder : BELLARIO sues for a divorce , And both pursue their separate course . Reader ! thy clemency to court , Tho' long the Tale , the Moral's short ; Yet dare I , spite of Critic Satire , Suppose the Standing Dish GOOD NATURE ? O ! gentlest blessing man can find ! Sweet soother of the ruffled mind ! As the soft powers of oil asswage Of Ocean's waves the furious rage ; Lull to repose the boiling tide , Whose billows , charm'd to rest , subside ; Smooth the vext bosom of the deep , 'Till every trembling motion sleep ! — Thy soft enchantments thus controul The tumult of the troubled soul ! By labour worn , by care opprest , On THEE the weary mind shall rest ; From business , and distraction free , Delighted , shall return to THEE ; To THEE the aching heart shall cling , And find the peace it does not bring . Ye candidates for Earth's best prize , Domestic Life's sweet charities ! O ! if your erring eye once strays From smooth Good-nature's level ways ; If e'er , in evil hour betray'd , You chuse some vain , fantastic maid , On such for bliss if you depend , Without the means you seek the end ; A pyramid you strive to place , The point inverted for the base ; You hope , in spite of Reason's laws , A consequence without a cause . And you , bright nymphs , who bless our eyes With all that skill , that Taste supplies ; Learn , that accomplishments at best , Serve but for garnish in Life's feast ; Yet still with these the polish'd wife Shou'd deck the feast of human life ; Wit a poor Standing Dish wou'd prove , Tho' 'tis an excellent Remove ; Howe'er your transient guests may praise Your gay parade on gala days , Yet know , your husband still will wish , Good-nature for his Standing Dish . Still , in Life's Fasti , you presume Eternal holidays will come ; But , in its highest , happiest lot , O ! let it never be forgot , Life is not an Olympic game , Where sports and plays must gain the same ; Each month is not the month of May , Nor is each day a holiday . Tho' wit may gild Life's atmosphere , When all is lucid , calm , and clear , In bleak Affliction's dreary hour , The brightest flash must lose its power ; While Temper , in the darkest skies , A kindly light and warmth supplies . Divine GOOD-NATURE ! 'tis decreed , The happiest still thy charm shou'd need . Sweet Architect ! rais'd by thy hands , Fair Concord's Temple firmly stands : Tho' Sense , tho' Prudence rear the pile , Tho' each approving Virtue smile , Some sudden gust , nor rare the case , May shake the building to its base , Unless , to guard against surprises , On thy firm arch the structure rises .