Volume 2 / Part 2 / Act 4 — EPIGRAMS[951:1]

Said William to Edmund I can't guess the reason Why Spencers abound in this bleak wintry season. Quoth Edmund to William, I perceive you're no Solon— Men may purchase a half-coat when they cannot a whole-one.

Tho' Miss ——'s match is a subject of mirth, She considered the matter full well, And wisely preferred leading one ape on earth To perhaps a whole dozen in hell.

From Rufa's eye sly Cupid shot his dart And left it sticking in Sangrado's heart. No quiet from that moment has he known, And peaceful sleep has from his eyelids flown. And opium's force, and what is more, alack! His own orations cannot bring it back. In short, unless she pities his afflictions, Despair will make him take his own prescriptions.

Of smart pretty Fellows in Bristol are numbers, some Who so modish are grown, that they think plain sense cumbersome; And lest they should seem to be queer or ridiculous, They affect to believe neither God or old Nicholas!

By many a booby's vengeance bit I leave your haunts, ye sons of wit! And swear, by Heaven's blessed light, That Epigrams no more I'll write. Now hang that ***** for an ass, Thus to thrust in his idiot face, Which spite of oaths, if e'er I spy, I'll write an Epigram—or die.

To be ruled like a Frenchman the Briton is loth, Yet in truth a direct-tory governs them both.

I fancy whenever I spy Nosy Ross, More great than a Lion is Rhy nose ros.

Bob now resolves on marriage schemes to trample, And now he'll have a wife all in a trice. Must I advise—Pursue thy dad's example And marry not.—There, heed now my advice.

Say what you will, Ingenious Youth! You'll find me neither Dupe nor Dunce: Once you deceived me—only once, 'Twas then when you told me the Truth.

If the guilt of all lying consists in deceit, Lie on—'tis your duty, sweet youth! For believe me, then only we find you a cheat When you cunningly tell us the truth.

No doleful faces here, no sighing— Here rots a thing that won by dying: 'Tis Cypher lies beneath this crust— Whom Death created into dust.

'Hier modert Nitulus, jungfräuliches Gesichts, Der durch den Tod gewann: er wurde Staub aus Nichts.'

There comes from old Avaro's grave A deadly stench—why, sure they have Immured his soul within his grave?

From yonder tomb of recent date, There comes a strange mephitic blast. Here lies—Ha! Backbite, you at last— 'Tis he indeed: and sure as fate, They buried him in overhaste— Into the earth he has been cast, And in this grave, Before the man had breathed his last.

We both attended the same College, Where sheets of paper we did blur many, And now we're going to sport our knowledge, In England I, and you in Germany.

Hippona lets no silly flush Disturb her cheek, nought makes her blush. Whate'er obscenities you say, She nods and titters frank and gay. Oh Shame, awake one honest flush For this,—that nothing makes her blush.

Hoarse Mævius reads his hobbling verse To all and at all times, And deems them both divinely smooth, His voice as well as rhymes. [956] But folks say, Mævius is no ass! But Mævius makes it clear That he's a monster of an ass, An ass without an ear.

Last Monday all the Papers said That Mr. —— was dead; Why, then, what said the City? The tenth part sadly shook their head, And shaking sigh'd and sighing said, 'Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!' But when the said report was found A rumour wholly without ground, Why, then, what said the city? The other nine parts shook their head, Repeating what the tenth had said, 'Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!'

Jem writes his verses with more speed Than the printer's boy can set 'em; Quite as fast as we can read, And only not so fast as we forget 'em.

Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience; He took his honours, took his health, He took his children, took his wealth, His camels, horses, asses, cows— And the sly Devil did not take his spouse. But Heaven that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the Devil, Had predetermined to restore Twofold all Job had before, His children, camels, horses, cows,— Short-sighted Devil, not to take his spouse!

'Als der Satan ging von Hiob, ist sein Anwalt dennoch blieben, Hiobs Weib; er hätte nimmer einen bessern aufgetrieben.'

'Hornutus las, was Gott Job habe weggenommen, Sei doppelt ihm hernach zu Hause wiederkommen: Wie gut, sprach er, war dies, dass Gott sein Weib nicht nahm, Auf dass Job ihrer zwei für eine nicht bekam!'

Pluto commanded death to take away Billy—Death made pretences to obey, And only made pretences, for he shot A headless dart that struck nor wounded not. The ghaunt Economist who (tho' my grandam Thinks otherwise) ne'er shoots his darts at random [958] Mutter'd, 'What? put my Billy in arrest? Upon my life that were a pretty jest! So flat a thing of Death shall ne'er be said or sung— No! Ministers and Quacks, them take I not so young.'

You're careful o'er your wealth 'tis true: Yet so that of your plenteous store The needy takes and blesses you, For you hate Poverty, but not the Poor.

'Du liebst zwar Geld und Gut, doch so dass dein Erbarmen Der Arme fühlt.'

Jack drinks fine wines, wears modish clothing, But prithee where lies Jack's estate? In Algebra for there I found of late A quantity call'd less than nothing.

Speak out, Sir! you're safe, for so ruddy your nose That, talk where you will, 'tis all under the Rose.

Your poem must eternal be, Eternal! it can't fail, For 'tis incomprehensible, And without head or tail!

O would the Baptist come again And preach aloud with might and main Repentance to our viperous race! But should this miracle take place, I hope, ere Irish ground he treads, He'll lay in a good stock of heads!

'Nicht recht! nicht recht! würd' immer schrein Johannes, sollt' er wieder sein. Doch käm er, riet' ich, dass er dächte, Wie viel er Köpf' in Vorrat brächte.'

I hold of all our viperous race The greedy creeping things in place Most vile, most venomous; and then The United Irishmen! To come on earth should John determine, Imprimis, we'll excuse his sermon. Without a word the good old Dervis Might work incalculable service, At once from tyranny and riot Save laws, lives, liberties and moneys, If sticking to his ancient diet He'd but eat up our locusts and wild honeys!

As Dick and I at Charing Cross were walking, Whom should we see on t'other side pass by But Informator with a stranger talking, So I exclaim'd, 'Lord, what a lie!' Quoth Dick—'What, can you hear him?' 'Hear him! stuff! I saw him open his mouth—an't that enough?'

Thy babes ne'er greet thee with the father's name; 'My Lud!' they lisp. Now whence can this arise? Perhaps their mother feels an honest shame And will not teach her infant to tell lies.

Thy lap-dog, Rufa, is a dainty beast, It don't surprise me in the least To see thee lick so dainty clean a beast. But that so dainty clean a beast licks thee, Yes—that surprises me.

Swans sing before they die—'twere no bad thing Should certain persons die before they sing.

A joke (cries Jack) without a sting— Post obitum can no man sing. And true, if Jack don't mend his manners And quit the atheistic banners, Post obitum will Jack run foul Of such folks as can only howl.

Know thou who walks't by, Man! that wrapp'd up in lead, man, What once was a Dieman, now lies here a dead man. Alive a proud Major! but ah me! of our poor all, The soul having gone, he is now merely Corporal.

As long as ere the life-blood's running, Say, what can stop a Punster's punning? He dares bepun even thee, O Death! To punish him, Stop thou his breath.

Of him that in this gorgeous tomb doth lie, This sad brief tale is all that Truth can give— He lived like one who never thought to die, He died like one who dared not hope to live![961:1]

Under this stone does Walter Harcourt lie, Who valued nought that God or man could give; He lived as if he never thought to die; He died as if he dared not hope to live![962:1]

Beneath this stone does William Hazlitt lie, Thankless of all that God or man could give. He lived like one who never thought to die, He died like one who dared not hope to live.

Do call, dear Jess, whene'er my way you come; My looking-glass will always be at home.

Most candid critic, what if I, By way of joke, pull out your eye, And holding up the fragment, cry, 'Ha! ha! that men such fools should be! Behold this shapeless Dab!—and he Who own'd it, fancied it could see!' The joke were mighty analytic, But should you like it, candid critic?

Pass under Jack's window at twelve at night You'll hear him still—he's roaring! Pass under Jack's window at twelve at noon, You'll hear him still—he's snoring!

Friends should be weigh'd, not told; who boasts to have won A multitude of friends, he ne'er had one.

'Freunde muss man sich erwählen Nur nach Wägen, nicht nach Zählen.'

To wed a fool, I really cannot see Why thou, Eliza, art so very loth; Still on a par with other pairs you'd be, Since thou hast wit and sense enough for both.

What is an Epigram? a dwarfish whole, Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

'Dann lässt die Überschrift kein Leser aus der Acht, Wenn in der Kürz' ihr Leib, die Seel' in Witz bestehet.'

Charles, grave or merry, at no lie would stick, And taught at length his memory the same trick. Believing thus what he so oft repeats, He's brought the thing to such a pass, poor youth, That now himself and no one else he cheats, Save when unluckily he tells the truth.

An evil spirit's on thee, friend! of late! Ev'n from the hour thou cam'st to thy Estate. Thy mirth all gone, thy kindness, thy discretion, Th' estate hath prov'd to thee a most complete possession. Shame, shame, old friend! would'st thou be truly best, Be thy wealth's Lord, not slave! possessor not possess'd.

Here lies the Devil—ask no other name. Well—but you mean Lord——? Hush! we mean the same.

Two things hast thou made known to half the nation, My secrets and my want of penetration: For O! far more than all which thou hast penn'd It shames me to have call'd a wretch, like thee, my friend!

Scarce any scandal, but has a handle; In truth most falsehoods have their rise; Truth first unlocks Pandora's box, And out there fly a host of lies. Malignant light, by cloudy night, To precipices it decoys one! One nectar-drop from Jove's own shop Will flavour a whole cup of poison.

Old Harpy jeers at castles in the air, And thanks his stars, whenever Edmund speaks, That such a dupe as that is not his heir— But know, old Harpy! that these fancy freaks, Though vain and light, as floating gossamer, Always amuse, and sometimes mend the heart: A young man's idlest hopes are still his pleasures, And fetch a higher price in Wisdom's mart Than all the unenjoying Miser's treasures.

'Steht's einem Geizhals an auf Aelius zu schmähn Weil er vergebens hofft auf was nicht kann geschehn?'

Didst thou think less of thy dear self Far more would others think of thee! Sweet Anne! the knowledge of thy wealth Reduces thee to poverty. Boon Nature gave wit, beauty, health, On thee as on her darling pitching; Couldst thou forget thou'rt thus enrich'd That moment would'st thou become rich in! And wert thou not so self-bewitch'd, Sweet Anne! thou wert, indeed, bewitching.

Three truths should make thee often think and pause; The first is, that thou govern'st over men; The second, that thy power is from the laws; And this the third, that thou must die!—and then?—

From me, Aurelia! you desired Your proper praise to know; Well! you're the Fair by all admired— Some twenty years ago.

When thieves come, I bark: when gallants, I am still— So perform both my Master's and Mistress's will.

In vain I praise thee, Zoilus! In vain thou rail'st at me! Me no one credits, Zoilus! And no one credits thee!

'Frustra ego te laudo, frustra Me, Zoile, laedis; Nemo mihi credit, Zoile, nemo, tibi.'

A poor benighted Pedlar knock'd One night at Sell-all's door, The same who saved old Sell-all's life— 'Twas but the year before! And Sell-all rose and let him in, Not utterly unwilling, But first he bargain'd with the man, And took his only shilling! That night he dreamt he'd given away his pelf, Walk'd in his sleep, and sleeping hung himself! And now his soul and body rest below; And here they say his punishment and fate is To lie awake and every hour to know How many people read his tombstone gratis.

Author. Come; your opinion of my manuscript! Friend. Dear Joe! I would almost as soon be whipt. Author. But I will have it! Friend. If it must be had—(hesitating) You write so ill, I scarce could read the hand— Author. A mere evasion! Friend. And you spell so bad, That what I read I could not understand.

Tom Slothful talks, as slothful Tom beseems, What he shall shortly gain and what be doing, Then drops asleep, and so prolongs his dreams And thus enjoys at once what half the world are wooing.

Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf! He shews his clothes! Alas! he shews himself. O that they knew, these overdrest self-lovers, What hides the body oft the mind discovers.

That France has put us oft to rout With powder, which ourselves found out; And laughs at us for fools in print, Of which our genius was the Mint; All this I easily admit, For we have genius, France has wit. But 'tis too bad, that blind and mad To Frenchmen's wives each travelling German goes, Expands his manly vigour by their sides, Becomes the father of his country's foes And turns their warriors oft to parricides.

'Dass Frankreich uns pflegt zu verwunden Durch Pulver, welches wir erfunden.'

Our English poets, bad and good, agree To make the Sun a male, the Moon a she. He drives his dazzling diligence on high, In verse, as constantly as in the sky; And cheap as blackberries our sonnets shew The Moon, Heaven's huntress, with her silver bow; By which they'd teach us, if I guess aright, Man rules the day, and woman rules the night. In Germany, they just reverse the thing; The Sun becomes a queen, the Moon a king. [969] Now, that the Sun should represent the women, The Moon the men, to me seem'd mighty humming; And when I first read German, made me stare. Surely it is not that the wives are there As common as the Sun, to lord and loon, And all their husbands hornéd as the Moon.

'Die Sonn' heisst die, der Mond heisst der In unsrer Sprach', und kommt daher, Weil meist die Fraun wie die gemein, Wie der gehörnt wir Männer sein.'

My father confessor is strict and holy, Mi Fili, still he cries, peccare noli. And yet how oft I find the pious man At Annette's door, the lovely courtesan! Her soul's deformity the good man wins And not her charms! he comes to hear her sins! Good father! I would fain not do thee wrong; But ah! I fear that they who oft and long Stand gazing at the sun, to count each spot, Must sometimes find the sun itself too hot.

When Surface talks of other people's worth He has the weakest memory on earth! And when his own good deeds he deigns to mention, His memory still is no whit better grown; But then he makes up for it, all will own, By a prodigious talent of invention.

Good Candle, thou that with thy brother, Fire, Art my best friend and comforter at night, Just snuff'd, thou look'st as if thou didst desire That I on thee an epigram should write. [970] Dear Candle, burnt down to a finger-joint, Thy own flame is an epigram of sight; 'Tis short, and pointed, and all over light, Yet gives most light and burns the keenest at the point.

Here sleeps at length poor Col., and without screaming— Who died as he had always lived, a-dreaming: Shot dead, while sleeping, by the Gout within— Alone, and all unknown, at E'nbro' in an Inn.

Some whim or fancy pleases every eye; For talents premature 'tis now the rage: In Music how great Handel would have smil'd T' have seen what crowds are raptur'd with a child! A Garrick we have had in little Betty— And now we're told we have a Pitt in Petty! All must allow, since thus it is decreed, He is a very petty Pitt indeed!

Britannia's boast, her glory and her pride, Pitt in his Country's service lived and died: At length resolv'd, like Pitt had done, to do, For once to serve his Country, Fox died too!

"Our Nation's Foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when Pitt resigned his breath: These feelings wide let Sense and Truth unclue, We give the palm where Justice points its due."'

An excellent adage commands that we should Relate of the dead that alone which is good; But of the great Lord who here lies in lead We know nothing good but that he is dead.

χρυσὸν ἀνὴρ εὑρὼν ἔλιπε βρόχον, αὐτὰρ ὁ χρυσὸν ὅν λίπεν οὐχ εὑρὼν ἧψεν ὅν εὗρε βρόχον. Jack finding gold left a rope on the ground: Bill missing his gold used the rope which he found.

'She's secret as the grave, allow!' 'I do; I cannot doubt it. But 'tis a grave with tombstone on, That tells you all about it.'

We've fought for Peace, and conquer'd it at last, The rav'ning vulture's leg seems fetter'd fast! Britons, rejoice! and yet be wary too: The chain may break, the clipt wing sprout anew.

We've conquered us a Peace, like lads true metalled: And Bankrupt Nap's accounts seem all now settled.

Money, I've heard a wise man say, Makes herself wings and flies away— Ah! would she take it in her head To make a pair for me instead.

No private grudge they need, no personal spite, The viva sectio is its own delight! All enmity, all envy, they disclaim, Disinterested thieves of our good name— Cool, sober murderers of their neighbours' fame!

Parry seeks the Polar ridge, Rhymes seeks S. T. Coleridge, Author of Works, whereof—tho' not in Dutch— The public little knows—the publisher too much.

On nothing, Fanny, shall I write? Shall I not one charm of thee indite? The Muse is most unruly, And vows to sing of what's more free, More soft, more beautiful than thee;— And that is Nothing, truly!

The rose that blushes like the morn, Bedecks the valleys low; And so dost thou, sweet infant corn, My Angelina's toe. But on the rose there grows a thorn That breeds disastrous woe; And so dost thou, remorseless corn, On Angelina's toe.

So Mr. Baker heart did pluck— And did a-courting go! And Mr. Baker is a buck; For why? he needs the doe.

'A heavy wit shall hang at every lord,' So sung Dan Pope; but 'pon my word, He was a story-teller, Or else the times have altered quite; For wits, or heavy, now, or light Hang each by a bookseller.

This way or that, ye Powers above me! I of my grief were rid— Did Enna either really love me, Or cease to think she did.

In Spain, that land of Monks and Apes, The thing called Wine doth come from grapes, But on the noble River Rhine, The thing called Gripes doth come from Wine!

Now! It is gone—Our brief hours travel post, Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How:— But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost To dwell within thee—an eternal Now!

Tom Hill, who laughs at Cares and Woes, As nauci—nili—pili— What is he like, as I suppose? Why, to be sure, a Rose—a Rose. At least, no soul that Tom Hill knows Could e'er recall a Li-ly.

Nothing speaks our mind so well As to speak Nothing. Come then, tell Thy Mind in Tears, whoe'er thou be That ow'st a name to Misery: None can fluency deny To Tears, the Language of the Eye.

A Lutheran stout, I hold for Goose-and-Gaundry Both the Pope's Limbo and his fiery Laundry: No wit e'er saw I in Original Sin, And no Sin find I in Original Wit; But if I'm all in the wrong, and, Grin for Grin, Scorch'd Souls must pay for each too lucky hit,— Oh, Fuller! much I fear, so vast thy debt, Thou art not out of Purgatory yet; Tho' one, eight, three and three this year is reckon'd, And thou, I think, didst die sub Charles the Second.