The Progress of Taste: or, the Fate of Delicacy, Part the Fourth

Why droops my Damon, whilst he roves Thro' ornamented meads and groves? Near columns, obelisks, and spires, Which ev'ry critic eye admires? 'Tis Poverty, detested maid! Sole tenant of their ample shade; 'Tis she that robs him of his ease, And bids their very charms displease.

But now, by Fancy long controll'd, And with the sons of Taste enroll'd, He deem'd it shameful to commence First minister to Common-sense; Far more elated to pursue The lowest talk of dear vertû.

And now, behold his lofty soul, That whilome flew from pole to pole, Settle on some elab'rate flow'r, And, like a bee, the sweets devour! Now, of a rose enamour'd, prove The wild solicitudes of love! Now in a lily's cup enshrin'd, Forego the commerce of mankind!

As in these toils he wore away The calm remainder of his day, Conducting sun, and shade, and show'r, As most might glad the new-born flow'r, So Fate ordain'd—before his eye— Starts up the long-sought butterfly, While flutt'ring round, her plumes unfold Celestial crimson dropp'd with gold.

Adieu, ye bands of flow'rets fair! The living beauty claims his care: For this he strips—nor bolt nor chain Could Damon's warm pursuit restrain.

See him o'er hill, morass, or mound, Where'er the speckled game is found, Tho' bent with age, with zeal pursue, And totter tow'rds the prey in view.

Nor rock nor stream his steps retard, Intent upon the bless'd reward! One vassal fly repays the chase! A wing, a film, rewards the race! Rewards him, tho' disease attend, And in a fatal surfeit end. So fierce Camilla skimm'd the plain, Smit with the purple's pleasing stain; She ey'd intent the glitt'ring stranger, And knew, alas! nor fear nor danger, Till deep within her panting heart Malicious Fate impell'd the dart.

How studious he what fav'rite food Regales Dame Nature's tiny brood! What junkets fat the filmy people! And what liqueurs they chuse to tipple!

Behold him, at some crise, prescribe, And raise with drugs the sick'ning tribe! Or haply, when their spirits fau'ter, Sprinkling my Lord of Cloyne's tar-water.

When Nature's brood of insects dies, See how he pimps for am'rous flies! See him the timely succour lend her, And help the wantons to engender!

Or see him guard their pregnant hour, Exert his soft obstetric pow'r, And, lending each his lenient hand, With new-born grubs enrich the land!

O Wilks! what poet's loftiest lays Can match thy labours and thy praise? Immortal Sage! by Fate decreed To guard the moth's illustrious breed! Till flutt'ring swarms on swarms arise, And all our wardrobes teem with flies!

And must we praise this taste for toys? Admire it then in girls and boys. Ye youths of fifteen years, or more! Resign your moths—the season's o'er; 'Tis time more social joys to prove; 'Twere now your nobler task—to love. Let ***'s eyes more deeply warm, Nor slighting Nature's fairest form, The bias of your souls determine Tow'rds the mean love of Nature's vermine.

But, ah! how wondrous few have known To give each stage of life its own.

'Tis the pretexta's utmost bound, With radiant purple edg'd around, To please the child, whose glowing dyes Too long delight maturer eyes; And few, but with regret, assume The plain-wrought labours of the loom. Ah! let not me by fancy steer, When life's antumnal clouds appear; Nor ev'n in learning's long delays Consume my fairest, fruitless days; Like him who should in armour spend The sums that armour should defend.

A while in Pleasure's myrtle bow'r We share her smiles and bless her pow'r, But find at last we vainly strive To fix the worst coquette alive.

O you! that with assiduous flame Have long pursu'd the faithless dame, Forsake her soft abodes a while, And dare her frown, and slight her smile; Nor scorn, whatever wits may say, The footpath road, the king's highway: No more the scrup'lous charmer teaze, But seek the roofs of honest Ease; The rival fair, no more pursu'd, Shall there with forward pace intrude; Shall there her ev'ry art essay, To win you to her slighted sway, And grant your scorn a glance more fair Than e'er she gave your fondest pray'r.

But would you happiness pursue? Partake both ease and pleasure too? Would you, thro' all your days, dispense The joys of reason and of sense? Or give to life the most you can? Let social virtue shape the plan: For does not to the virtuous deed A train of pleasing sweets succeed? Or, like the sweets of wild desire, Did social pleasures ever tire?

Yet midst the group be some preferr'd, Be some abhorr'd—for Damon err'd; And such there are—of fair address— As 'twere unsocial to caress. O learn by Reason's equal rule To shun the praise of knave or fool; Then tho' you deem it better still To gain some rustic 'squire's good will, And souls, however mean or vile, Like features, brighten by a smile, Yet Reason holds it for a crime The trivial breast should share thy time; And Virtue with reluctant eyes Beholds this human sacrifice!

Thro' deep reserve and air erect, Mistaken Damon won respect, But could the specious homage pass With any creature but an ass? If conscious, they who fear'd the skin Would scorn the sluggish brute within. What awe-struck slaves the tow'rs enclose Where Persian monarchs eat and doze! What prostrate rev'rence all agree To pay a prince they never see! Mere vassals of a royal throne; The Sophi's virtues must be shown To make the reverence his own.

As for Thalia—wouldst thou make her Thy bride without a portion?—take her: She will with duteous care attend, And all thy pensive hours befriend; Will swell thy joys, will share thy pain, With thee rejoice, with thee complain; Will smooth thy pillow, plait thy bow'rs, And bind thine aching head with flow'rs. But be this previous maxim known— If thou canst feed on Love alone, If, bless'd with her, thou canst sustain Contempt, and poverty, and pain; If so—then rifle all her graces— And fruitful be your fond embraces!

Too soon, by caitiff-spleen inspir'd, Sage Damon to his groves retir'd, The path disclaim'd by sober reason; Retirement claims a later season, Ere active youth and warm desires Have quite withdrawn their ling'ring fires. With the warm bosom ill agree Or limpid stream or shady tree; Love lurks within the rosy bow'r, And claims the speculative hour; Ambition finds his calm retreat, And bids his pulse too fiercely beat; Ev'n social Friendship duns his ear, And cites him to the public sphere. Does he resist their genuine force? His temper takes some froward course, Till passion, misdirected, sighs For weeds, or shells, or grubs, or flies!

Far happiest he whose early days, Spent in the social paths of praise, Leave fairly printed on his mind A train of virtuous deeds behind: From this rich fund the mem'ry draws The lasting meed of self-applause.

Such fair ideas lend their aid To people the sequester'd shade: Such are the Naiads, Nymphs, and Fauns, That haunt his floods or cheer his lawns. If, where his devious ramble strays, He Virtue's radiant form surveys, She seems no longer now to wear The rigid mien, the frown severe; To shew him her remote abode, To point the rocky arduous road; But from each flower his fields allow She twines a garland for his brow.