Song LIII. the Scurvy

Eve tempted to err, ill betide the sad time, Ye modern wives pity her fall, Since we her sons suffer for Grandmamma's crime, The Scurvy has tainted us all.

To curb the contagion which putrifies here, In vain have the Faculty try'd; Its pestilent symptoms offensive appear In vulgar Erruptions of Pride.

For all Pride is low, 'tis a Cancerous Brain, A Poorness or Foulness of Blood; The want of Sound Sense renders wretches insane Who are lifted above what they shou'd.

Epidemic Prognostics appear in each State, Where Meaness in office is plac'd, Who scurvily ape the odd airs of the Great, And fancy ill breeding is Taste.

But when their high mighty Superiors approach, The malady takes a new turn; As abjectly then the base Scurvy things crouch, As before they were bloated with Scorn.

With Artists the Scurvy of Envy appears, When Comates they coldly commend; Nay, oft it breaks out in illiberal sneers, And poisons the Fame of a Friend.

Shou'd Genius a visit to Greatness presume, He's scurvily offer'd a Chair; Disdain marks the Things in the Visiting-room, Who wonder the Fright shou'd come there.

Be proud, if you please, ye gay Groups of Conceit, Still flatter, be venal, and vain; We know what ye feel, what ye pay for each treat, And we know too—Ye dare not complain.

With unmeaning gaze pamper'd Wealth wheel'd along, With the Scurvy of Vanity swell'd, Took the snuff of Contempt at the more worthy throng, By whom he's with pity beheld.

Come meek-ey'd Humility, lend me thy hand, Humanity deign me thy aid, Instruct me, that I may myself understand Not to scorn those my MAKER has made.