EVERY MAN THE ARCHITECT of his own FORTUNE : OR THE ART OF RISING IN THE CHURCH . A SATYRE . By Mr. SCOTT , of Trinity-College , Cambridge . A DIALOGUE betwixt a POET and his FRIEND . F. GOOD friend , forbear — the world will say 'tis spite , Or disappointment goads you thus to write — Some lord hath frown'd ; some bishop past dispute At surly distance spurn'd your eager suit , Prefer'd a dull vile clod of noble earth , And left neglected genius , wit , and worth . P. Regards it me what snarling critics say ? 'Tis honest indignation points the way . Thanks to my stars my infant sleeps are o'er , And dreams delusive catch my thoughts no more . Let clumsy DOGMATUS , with simp'ring face , Supply the nurse's , or the footman's place , Make coffee , when my lady calls , or whey , And fetch , and carry , like a two-leg'd tray ; Let blust'ring GNATHO swear with patriot rage , To poor , old , tott'ring TIMON bent with age , " Had you , my lord , the horse at MINDEN led , " 'Sdeath , what destruction would your grace have made ? " Like Wantley's dragon you had roar'd , and thunder'd , " And eat'n up Frenchmen hundred after hundred ; " Thus mean and vile let others live , not I , Who scorn to flatter , and who fear to lye . What honest man — F. Stop , or you ne'er can thrive — Sure you're the strangest , squeamish wretch alive ! What , in the name of wonder , friend , have you , In life's low vale , with honesty to do ? 'Tis a dead weight , that will retard you still , Oft as you strive to clamber up the hill . Strip , and be wise — strip off all bashful pride , Throw cumbrous honour , virtue , truth aside , Trust up , and girt like VIRRO , mend your pace , The first , the nimblest scoundrel in the race . Go copy TREBIUS — P. Copy TREBIUS ? — Hum — And forfeit peace for all my life to come . Should I devote my sister's virgin charms To the vile lewdness of a patron's arms , Too sure my father's injur'd ghost would rise , Rage on his brow , and horrour in his eyes ; Would haunt , would goad me in the social hall , Or break my rest — tho' slumb'ring in a stall . Oh gracious God , of what thin flimsy gear Is some men's conscience ? — F. Hold , you're too severe — Think when temptations ev'ry sense assail , How strong they prove , and human flesh how frail ! When satan came , by righteous heav'n ordain'd To tempt the leader of the Christian band , He drew , he caught him from the barren waste , And on the temple's tow'ring summit plac'd ; And nowadays , or sage experience lies , From church preferments great temptations rise . Spare TREBIUS then — e'en you yourself may yield — P. Not , friend , 'till vanquish'd reason quits the field : Then I , poor madman , 'midst the mad and vain , May Judas-like betray my God for gain ; At HELLUO's board , where smokes th' eternal treat , And all the fat on earth bow down , and eat , A genuine son of LEVI may adore The golden calf , as AARON did before . Then welcome the full levee , where resort Crouds of all ranks to pay their morning court , The well-rob'd dean with face so sleek , and fair , And tatter'd CODRUS pale and wan with care , Whose yearly-breeding wife , in mean attire , To feed her hungry brats must spin for hire . Hail medley dome , where like the ark we find Clean , and unclean , of ev'ry sort and kind ! Hail medley dome , where three whole hours together , ( Shiv'ring in cold , and faint in sultry weather ) We brook , athirst and hungry , all delay , And wear in expectation life away ! But hush ! in comes my lord — important , big , Squints thro' his glass , and bustling shakes his wig , Whose saucy curls , confin'd in triple tye , With constant work his busy hands supply . He stops , bows , stares — and whispers out aloud " What spark is you , that jostles thro' the croud ? " Sir William's heir — " enough — my dear , good friend , " Sir William liv'd — I think — at Ponder's end ; " Yes — yes — Sir William liv'd " — Then on he goes , And whispering this grand secret crams his nose Into your wig , and squeezing every hand , " 'Tis mine to serve you , Sir — Your's to command " — Thus kindly breathing many a promise fair , He feeds two rows of gaping fools with air ; Unmeaning gabbles set rotines of speech , As papists pray , or prelates us'd to preach , Makes himself o'er in trust , to keep his ground , And FAIRLY CULLS HIS CREDITORS ALL ROUND . With warm delight his words poor CODRUS hears , Sweet as the fancy'd music of the spheres ; Then trudges jocund home thro' mire and clay , While pleasing thoughts beguile the long long way ; A snug warm living skims before his eyes , His tythe pig gruntles , and his grey goose flies ; His lonely shatter'd cot , all patcht with mud , And hem'd around by many a fragrant flood , Chang'd to a neat , and modern house he sees , Built on high ground , and shelter'd well with trees ; Spacious in front the chequer'd lawns extend , With useful ponds , and gardens at the end , Where art and nature kindly join to bring The fruits of Autumn , and the flowers of Spring . No more a sun-burnt bob the preacher wears , Or coat of serge , where ev'ry thread appears : Behold him deckt in spruce and trim array , With cassock short , and vest of raven-grey ; In powder'd pomp the spacious grizzle flows , And the broad beaver trembles o'er his nose . Ah dear delusions tempt his thoughts no more , Leave him untortur'd by desire , though poor ! What can advance , in these degenerate days , When gold , or int'rest all preferment sways , A wretch unblest by Fortune , and by birth ? Alas , not TERRICK's parts , or TALBOT's worth ! Else long , long since had honest BUTLER shone High in the church religion's spotless sun ; Had beam'd around his friendly light to chear The lonely , wayworn , wandring traveller ; Chac'd errour's black and baleful shades away , And pour'd thro' every mind resistless day . Alas , the change ! far in a lowly vale , 'Midst straggling huts , where some few peasants dwell , He lives in virtue rich , in fortune poor , And treads the path his master trod before . Oh great , good man , to chear without request The drooping heart , and sooth the troubled breast ; With cords of love the wayward sheep to hold , And draw the lost , and wandring to the fold ; To spend so little , yet have some to spare ; To feed the hungry , and to cloath the bare ; To visit beds of sickness in the night , When rains descend , and rolling thunders fright , There death deprive of all his terrours foul , And sing soft requiems to the parting soul ! Blush , blush for shame ! — Your heads , ye Pastors , hide , Ye pamper'd sons of luxury and pride , Who leave to prowling wolves your helpless care , And truck preferments at the public fair ; In whose fat corps the soul supinely lies , Snug at her ease , and wondrous loth to rise ! F. Friend , friend , you're warm — why this is downright spleen , You flout the fat , because yourself are lean : Yet laugh to see behind the silver mace Black-brow'd CORNUTUS with his starveling face , A wretch so worn with penury and pride , His very bones stand staring thro' his hide . Why chuse the church , if petulant and vain You proudly shun the paths that lead to gain , Yet rack'd with envy , when your brethren rise , Revile the prudent arts that you despise ? Better some dirty , vile , mechanic trade , Cobler , or smith — a fortune might be made ; The cross-leg'd wretch , who stitches up the gown , Is of more worth than half the clerks in town : And laughs with purse-proud insolence to see The needy curate's full-sleev'd dignity . — P. Why chuse the church ? A father's prudent voice Determin'd , friend , and dignify'd the choice : To thee , religion , thro' the tranquil road , Himself with honour and with virtue trod , He led me on — and know , no slave to gain , Undow'r'd I took thee , and undow'r'd retain . What ? Durst the blind philosopher of yore Chuse thy half-sister Virtue , vile and poor , Chuse her begirt with all the ghastly train Of ills , contempt , and ridicule , and pain ? And shall not I , O dear celestial dame , Love thee with all my soul's devoutest flame ? Shall I not gaze , and doat upon thy charms , And fly to catch the heav'n within thy arms ? O my fair mistress , lovelier to be seen Than the chaste lily , opening on the green ; Sweet as the blushing rose in SHARON's vale , And soft as IDUMEA's balmy gale ! Of thee enamour'd martyr'd heroes stood Firm to their faith , and constant ev'n to blood ; No views of fame , no fears of sad disgrace , Had pow'r to tear them from thy lov'd embrace , Wrapt up in thee , tho' harlots stalkt abroad , And persecution shook her iron rod ! Peace to their souls ! — But tell me , gentle maid , Oh tell me are thy beauties all decay'd ? Hath time's foul canker ev'ry grace devour'd ? Thy virgin charms hath ignorance deflow'r'd ? That thus thou wander'st helpless and forlorn , Of knaves the hatred , and of fools the scorn ! F. Still knave , and fool ? — For God's sake , Sir , refrain ! This petulance of pride will prove your bane . What ! you're averse to dash thro' thick and thin ? Try cleaner ways — 'tis done , if you begin . Go with soft flattery , studious to oblige , Some dull , and self-admiring lord besiege , And like the dove , to MECCA's prophet dear , Pick a good living from your patron's ear : GULLION succeeded thus , and so may you — But railing , railing ! — Friend , it ne'er can do . P. Good heav'n forbid that I a plain blunt man , Who cannot fawn , and loath the wretch who can , Should brook a trencher-chaplain at the board , The loud horse-laugh , and raillery of my lord ; Slave to his jokes , his passion , and his pride , A dull tame fool for lacquies to deride , Who snort around to hear the wretch abuse My person , morals , family , and muse ! Shall I such base Egyptian bondage bear , And eat my heart thro' sorrow , grief , and care ? For twice sev'n tedious years wait , watch , ride , run , Nor dare to live , or speak , or think my own ? Observe with awe that fickle vane his mind , That shifts , and changes with the changeful wind ? Read ev'ry look , each twinkling of his eye , And thence divine the doubtful augury ? No PHARAOH no ! — Here in this calm retreat , Where ev'ry muse , and virtue fix their seat , Here let me shun each lordling proud and vain , And scorn the world ere scorn'd by it again ! Ye happier few , that in this stately dome Where still the soul of NEWTON deigns to roam , Inspires each youthful candidate for fame , His noonday vision , and his midnight dream ; Ye happier few , by regal bounty fed , Here eat in privacy and peace your bread ; Nor tempt the world , that monster-bearing deep , Where husht in grim repose the tempests sleep , Where rocks , and sands , dread ministers of fate , To whelm the pilot's hopes in ambush wait . On a huge hill , that braves the neighbouring sky , Washt by the sable gulph of infamy , Preferment's temple stands ; the base how wide , How steep the top , how cragged ev'ry side ! Compact of ice the dazzling mountain glows , Like rocks of crystal , or Lapponian snows , While all around the storm-clad whirlwind rides , Dread thunder breaks , and livid lightning glides , Hither by hope enliven'd crouds repair , Thick as the noontide swarms that float in air ; Dean jostles dean , each suffragan his brother , And half the jealous mob keeps down the other . Ah little knows the wretch , that hath not try'd , What hell it is this shouldring throng to bide , Where garish art , and falsehood win the day , And simple single truth is spurn'd away : Where round , and round , with painful steps and slow , Whoe'er would scale the sudden height must go ; Catch ev'ry twig , each brake and op'ning trace , Pull down his friend , nay father from his place , And raise himself by others foul disgrace . Yet some there are , gay Folly's flutt'ring train , That free from care and toil the summit gain , Sublimely soar on fortune's partial wind , And leave the sons of Science far behind . Thus straws and feathers easily can fly , And the light scale is sure to mount on high ; Thin air-blown bubbles with each breath are born , And wind will raise the chaff , that leaves the corn . Others again with crouds contentious strive , And thro' mere dint of opposition thrive ; Stiff in opinion , active , restless wights , They rise against the wind like paper kites : 'Twas thus proud RAMUS to the mitre flew , Opposing , and oppos'd — F. And thus must you — If opposition , faction , broils prevail , Take courage , friend , for sure you ne'er can fail . Misguided youth , is satyre thus your turn ! Haste while the baleful flames of party burn , In hist'ry read go join the grand dispute , And give one hireling more to PITT , or BUTE . Oh would you paint his lordship's jerkin o'er With imps , and fiends ( like base inquisitor ) Then boldly hang him out to public view , The scorn and laughter of the gaping crew , How G**A's sons would — P. What ? F. Exult for joy , And lift your grateful praises to the sky . P. Her sons exult ? your men of parts and skill Change like their dress , their principles at will , Where Mammon calls with haste obsequious run , And bow like Persians to the rising sun . Too long alas o'er Britain's bleeding land Hath fell corruption wav'd her iron hand , Too long possest a monarch's patient ear , While all the sons of freedom shrunk with fear . Is there then one , whose breast religion warms , And virtue decks with all her brightest charms ; Whose fiery glance the loathsome den pervades , Where vice , and foul corruption sculk in shades ; True to his king , and to the public just , No dupe to passion , and no slave to lust ; Whom all the good revere , the vile abuse , A friend to learning , and the gentle muse ; Scotchman , or Teague — be this his patriot view , I'll praise him , love him , friend , and so shall you . Curst be the lines ( tho' ev'ry THESPIAN maid Come uninvoked , and lend her timely aid , View them , like THETIS , with a mother's eye , And dip them o'er in dews of CASTALY ) Curst be the lines , that pow'rful vice adorn , Or treat fair virtue , and her friends with scorn : Let 'em cloath candles , wrap up cheese , line trunks ; Or flutt'ring on a rail , 'midst rogues and punks , Ne'er meet the mild judicious critic's praise , But die , like those that FANNY sings or says : FANNY , dull wight , to whom the ghost appears Of murder'd HORACE , pale and wan with tears ; FANNY , dull wight , a Mammon-serving slave , Half politician , atheist , parson , knave , That drunk each night , and liquor'd ev'ry chink , Dyes his red face in port , and his black soul in ink . No sly fanatic , no enthusiast wild , No party tool , beguiling and beguil'd , No slave to pride , no canting pimp to pow'r , Nor rigid churchman , nor dissenter sour , No fawning flatterer to the base and vain , No timist vile , or worshipper of gain ; When gay not dissolute , grave not severe , Tho' learn'd no pedant , civil tho' sincere ; Nor mean nor haughty , be one preacher's praise That — if he rise , he rise by manly ways : Yes , he abhors each sordid selfish view , And dreads the paths your men of art pursue ; Who trust some wand'ring meteor's dubious ray , And fly like owls from truth's meridian day . F. Alas , Alas ! I plainly , friend , foresee In points like these we never shall agree . Too sure debar'd from all the joys of life , From heav'n's best gifts , a living , and a wife , Chain'd to a college you must waste your days , ( Wrapt up in monkish indolence , and ease , ) In one dull round of sleeping , eating , drinking , A foe to care , but more a foe to thinking . There when ten lustrums are supinely spent In ENVIOUS SLOTH , AND MOPISH DISCONTENT ; When not one friend , one comfort more remains ; But slowly creeps the cold blood thro' your veins , And palsy'd hands , and tott'ring knees betray An helpless state of nature in decay ; While froward youth derides your squalid age , And longs to shove you trembling off the stage ; Then then you'll blame your conduct — but too late , And curse your enemies , and friends , and fate . P. Better be worn with age , with ills opprest , Distrest in fame , in fortune too distrest ; Better unknown , and unlamented die , With no kind friend to close the parting eye , ( So all is calm , and undisturb'd within ) Than feel , and fear the biting pangs of sin . For oh what odds , the curtain once withdrawn , Betwixt a saint in rags , and rev'rend knave in lawn ?