THE MAN of TASTE. Occasion'd by an EPISTLE Of Mr. POPE's on that Subject.

THE MAN of TASTE . Occasion'd by an EPISTLE Of Mr. POPE's on that Subject . By the Same . WHoe'er he be that to a Taste aspires , Let him read this , and be what he desires . In men and manners vers'd from life I write , Not what was once , but what is now polite . Those who of courtly France have made the tour , Can scarce our English aukwardness endure . But honest men who never were abroad , Like England only , and its Taste applaud . Strife still subsists , which yields the better goût ; Books or the world , the many or the few . True Taste to me is by this touchstone known , That's always best that's nearest to my own . To shew that my pretensions are not vain , My father was a play'r in Drury-lane , Pears and pistachio-nuts my mother sold , He a dramatick poet , she a scold . His tragic Muse could countesses affright , His wit in boxes was my lord's delight . No mercenary priest e'er join'd their hands , Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetick bands . Laws my Pindarick parents matter'd not , So I was tragi-comically got . My infant tears a sort of measure kept , I squall'd in distichs , and in triplets wept . No youth did I in education waste , Happy in an hereditary Taste . Writing ne'er cramp'd the sinews of my thumb , Nor barbarous birch e'er brush'd my tender bum . My guts ne'er suffer'd from a college cook , My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book . Grammar in vain the sons of Priscian teach , Good parts are better than eight parts of speech : Since these declin'd , those undeclin'd they call , I thank my stars , that I declin'd them all . To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence , I trust to mother wit and father sense . Nature's my guide , all sciences I scorn , Pains I abhor , I was a poet born . Yet is my goût for criticism such , I've got some French , and know a little Dutch . Huge commentators grace my learned shelves , Notes upon books out-do the books themselves . Criticks indeed are valuable men , But hyper-criticks are as good agen . Tho' Blackmore's works my soul with raptures fill , With notes by Bentley they'd be better still . The Boghouse-Miscellany's well design'd . To ease the body , and improve the mind . Swift's whims and jokes for my resentment call , For he displeases me that pleases all . Verse without rhyme I never could endure , Uncouth in numbers , and in sense obscure . To him as nature , when he ceas'd to see , Milton's an universal blank to me . Confirm'd and settled by the nation's voice , Rhyme is the poet's pride , and people's choice . Always upheld by national support , Of market , university , and court : Thomson , write blank ; but know that for that reason , These lines shall live when thine are out of season . Rhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays , As London ladies owe their shape to stays . Had Cibber's self the Careless Husband wrote , He for the laurel ne'er had had my vote : But for his epilogues and other plays , He thoroughly deserves the modern bays . It pleases me , that Pope unlaurell'd goes , While Cibber wears the bays for play-house prose : So Britain's monarch once uncover'd sate , While Bradshaw bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat . Long live old Curl ! he ne'er to publish fears The speeches , verses , and last will of peers . How oft has he a publick spirit shewn , And pleas'd our ears , regardless of his own ? But to give merit due , though Curl's the fame , Are not his brother book-sellers the same ? Can statutes keep the British press in awe , While that sells best , that's most against the law ? Lives of dead play'rs my leisure hours beguile , And Sessions-papers tragedize my stile . 'Tis charming reading in Ophelia's life , So oft a mother , and not once a wife : She could with just propriety behave , Alive with peers , with monarchs in her grave : Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept , By prebends bury'd , and by generals kept . T'improve in morals Mandevil I read , And Tyndal's scruples are my settled creed . I travell'd early , and I soon saw through Religion all , ere I was twenty-two , Shame , pain , or poverty shall I endure , When ropes or opium can my ease procure ? When money's gone , and I no debts can pay , Self-murder is an honourable way . As Pasaran directs I'd end my life , And kill myself , my daughter , and my wife . Burn but that Bible which the parson quotes , And men of spirit all shall cut their throats . But not to writings I confine my pen , I have a Taste for buildings , musick , men . Young travell'd coxcombs mighty knowledge boast , With superficial smattering at most . Not so my mind , unsatisfied with hints , Knows more than Budgel writes , or Roberts prints . I know the town , all houses I have seen , From High-Park corner down to Bednal-Green . Sure wretched Wren was taught by bungling Jones , To murder mortar , and disfigure stones ! Who in Whitehall can symmetry discern ? I reckon Covent-garden church a barn . Nor hate I less thy vile catheral , Paul ! The choir's too big , the cupola's too small : Substantial walls and heavy roofs I like , 'Tis Vanbrug's structures that my fancy strike : Such noble ruins ev'ry pile wou'd make , I wish they'd tumble for the prospect sake . To lofty Chelsea , or to Greenwich dome , Soldiers and sailors all are welcom'd home . Her poor to palaces Britannia brings , St. James's hospital may serve for kings . Buildings so happily I understand , That for one house I'd mortgage all my land . Dorick , Ionick , shall not there be found , But it shall cast me threescore thousand pound . From out my honest workmen , I'll select A Bricklay'r , and proclaim him artichect ; First bid him build me a stupendous dome , Which having finish'd , we set out for Rome ; Take a week's view of Venice and the Brent , Stare round , see nothing , and come home content . I'll have my Villa too , a sweet abode , Its situation shall be London road : Pots o'er the door I'll place like Cits balconies , Which Bentley's Milton , Book 9. ver. 439. Bentley calls the Gardens of Adonis . I'll have my gardens in the fashion too , For what is beautiful that is not new ? Fair four-legg'd temples , theatres that vye With all the angles of a Christmas-pye . Does it not merit the beholder's praise , What's high to sink ? and what is low to raise ? Slopes shall ascend where once a green-house stood , And in my horse-pond I will plant a wood . Let misers dread the hoarded gold to waste , Expence and alteration shews a Taste . In curious paintings I'm exceeding nice , And know their several beauties by their price . Auctions and sales I constantly attend , But chuse my pictures by a skilful friend . Originals and copies much the same . The picture's value is the painter's name . My Taste in sculpture from my choice is seen , I buy no statues that are not obscene . In spite of Addison and ancient Rome , Sir Cloudesly Shovel's is my fav'rite tomb . How oft have I with admiration stood , To view some city-magistrate in wood ! I gaze with pleasure on a lord-mayor's head , Cast with propriety in gilded lead . Oh could I view through London as I pass , Some broad Sir Balaam in Corinthian brass : High on a pedestal , ye freemen , place His magisterial paunch and griping face ; Letter'd and gilt , let him adorn Cheapside , And grant the tradesman , what a king's deny'd . Old coins and medals I collect , 'tis true , Sir Andrew has 'em , and I'll have 'em too . But among friends if I the truth might speak , I like the modern , and despise th' antique . Tho' in the drawers of my japan bureau , To lady Gripeall I the Caesars shew , 'Tis equal to her ladyship or me , A copper Otho , or a Scotch baubeè . Without Italian , or without an ear , To Bononcini's musick I adhere : Musick has charms to sooth a savage breast , And therefore proper at a sheriff's feast . My soul has oft a secret pleasure found , In the harmonious bagpipe's lofty sound . Bagpipes for men , shrill German-flutes for boys , I'm English born , and love a grumbling noise . The stage should yield the solemn organ's note , And scripture tremble in the Eunuch's throat . Let Senesino sing , what David writ , And hallelujahs charm the pious pit . Eager in throngs the town to Hester came , And Oratorio was a lucky name . Thou , Heidegger ! the English Taste hast found , And rul'st the mob of quality with sound . In Lent , if masquerades displease the town , Call e'm Ridotto's , and they still go down . Go on prince Phiz ! to please the British Nation , Call thy next Masquerade a Convocation . Bears , lions , wolves , and elephants I breed , And Philosophical Transactions read . Next lodge I'll be Free-mason , nothing less , Unless I happen to be F. R. S. I have a palate , and ( as yet ) two ears , Fit company for porters or for peers . Of ev'ry useful knowledge I've a share , But my top talent is a bill of fare . Sir loins and rumps of beef offend my eyes , Pleas'd with frogs fricasseed , and coxcomb-pies . Dishes I chuse though little , yet genteel , Snails the first course , and peepers crown the meal . Pigs heads with hair on , much my fancy please , I love young colly-flow'rs if stew'd in cheese , And give ten guineas for a pint of peas . No tattling servants to my table come , My grace is silence , and my waiter dumb , Queer country-puts extol queen Bess's reign , And of lost hospitality complain . Say thou that dost thy father's table praise , Was there mahogena in former days ? Oh ! could a British barony be sold ! I would bright honour buy with dazling gold . Could I the privilege of peer procure , The rich I'd bully , and oppress the poor . To give is wrong , but it is wronger still , On any terms to pay a tradesman's bill . I'd make the insolent mechanicks stay , And keep my ready money all for play . I'd try if any pleasure could be found , In tossing up for twenty-thousand pound . Had I whole counties , I to White's would go , And set land , woods , and rivers , at a throw . But should I meet with an unlucky run , And at a throw be gloriously undone ; My debts of honour I'd discharge the first , Let all my lawful creditors be curs'd : My title would preserve me from arrest , And seizing hired horses is a jest . I'd walk the morning with an oaken stick , With gloves and hat , like my own footman , Dick . A footman I wou'd be , in outward show , In sense , and education , truly so . As for my head it should ambiguous wear At once a perriwig and its own hair . My hair I'd powder in the women's way , And dress and talk of dressing more than they . I'll please the maids of honour , if I can ; Without black velvet breeches , what is man ? I will my skill in button-holes display , And brag how oft I shift me every day . Shall I wear cloaths in aukward England made ? And sweat in cloth , to help the woollen trade ? In French embroid'ry and in Flanders lace I'll spend the income of a treasurer's place . Deard's bill for baubles shall to thousands mount , And I'd out-di'mond even the di'mond count . I would convince the world by tawdry cloaths That belles are less effeminate than beaux , And doctor Lamb should pare my lordship's toes . To boon companions I my time would give , With players , pimps , and parasites I'd live . I would with jockeys from Newmarket dine , And to rough-riders give my choicest wine ; I would caress some stableman of note , And imitate his language and his coat . My ev'nings all I would with sharpers spend , And make the thief-catcher my bosom friend . In Fig the prize-fighter by day delight , And sup with Colley Cibber ev'ry night . Should I perchance be fashionably ill , I'll send for Misaubin , and take his pill . I should abhor , though in the utmost need , Arbuthnot , Hollins , Wigan , Lee , or Mead ; But if I found that I grew worse and worse , I'd turn off Misaubin and take a nurse , How oft when eminent physicians fail , Do good old women's remedies prevail ? When beauty's gone , and Chloe's struck with years , Eyes she can touch , or she can syringe ears . Of graduates I dislike the learned rout , And chuse a female doctor for the gout . Thus would I live , with no dull pedants curs'd , Sure , of all blockheads , scholars are the worst . Back to your universities , ye fools , And dangle arguments on strings in schools : Those schools which Universities they call , 'Twere well for England were there none at all . With ease that loss the nation might sustain , Supply'd by Goodman's fields and Drury-lane . Oxford and Cambridge are not worth one farthing , Compar'd to Haymarket and Covent-garden : Quit those , ye British youth , and follow these , Turn players all , and take your 'squires degrees . Boast not your incomes now , as heretofore , Ye book-learn'd seats ! the theatres have more : Ye stiff-rump'd heads of colleges be dumb ; A single Eunuch gets a larger sum . Have some of you three hundred by the year ; Booth , Rich , and Cibber , twice three thousand clear . Should Oxford to her sister Cambridge join A year's rack-rent , and arbitrary fine : Thence not one winter's charge would be defray'd , For play-house , opera , ball , and masquerade . Glad I congratulate the judging age , The players are the world , the world the stage . I am a politician too , and hate Of any party , ministers of state : I'm for an Act , that he , who sev'n whole years Has serv'd his king and country , lose his ears . Thus from my birth I'm qualified you find , To give the laws of Taste to human kind . Mine are the gallant schemes of politesse , For books , and buildings , politicks , and dress . This is true Taste , and whoso likes it not , Is blockhead , coxcomb , puppy , fool , and sot .