Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE, by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Shall essenc'd coxcombs who from toilettes
Last Line: Own the supreme omnipotence of gold.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets; Satire (as Poetic Genre); Sin; Vanity; Virtue


SHALL essenc'd Coxcombs who from Toilettes come,
Strut, and squeak Nonsense in the Drawing-room,
Sagacious Critics of a Knot or Fan,
Soft Sporus's, faint Images of Man,
All form'd of Nature's tend'rest, Porcelain Stuff,
Their snowy Fingers shelter'd by the Muff,
Heroes for Sonnets, but unfit for Fights,
Herds of emasculated Sybarites,
Shall painted Insects, busy buzzing Things,
In Armies rise and Favour gain from Kings?
While wounded Veterans obscurely mourn,
And S——r sees Lawrels from his Temples torn?

O courtly Atticus, my Warmth you blame,
Unconscious of the glowing Patriot's Flame:
I feel, I feel, its kindling Raptures rowl,
From Pleasures and from Business steal my Soul,
And while it strongly in my Bosom beats,
No more I rove collecting classic Sweets,
Nor warlike Homer's well-fought Battles warm,
Nor Fairy Forests of wild Spenser charm;
No more I weep while awful Tragedy
Like Sophocles array'd comes stalking by,
(Leading ill-fated Oedipus the Blind,
Or the lame Wretch in desert drear confin'd)
Nor in mild Maro's Groves and Grotts rejoice,
Nor Doric Shepherd's sweetly simple Voice,
No more convey'd by Pindar's rapid Song,
I see great Theron's Car victorious whirl along,
Nor crown'd with Grapes with gay Anacreon laid
Beneath a Plantane praise some beauteous Maid,
But oft resounding in my trembling Ear,
Methinks my Country's dying Groans I hear.

Rise, Satire, rise; 'tis sinful to be mute:
The Muse should whirl a Dart, not tune a Lute;
Gigantic Vice, beyond huge Tityus' Size,
Enormous Growth! o'er half Britannia lies;
O let my Satire on its Vitals feast,
Like the fierce Eagle on that Tityus' Breast!

Yet Oh! what Hero Folly can confound?
The dull, lethargic Villain feels no Wound:
Culprits, like poisonous Adders deaf, we find:
In Biscay's Bay who chides the raging Wind?
Such callous Hearts to no Impression yield,
All-guarded with Corruption's seven-fold Shield;
Unstung by Shame, and resolute in Ill;
Vice is a Python Phæbus ne'er can kill:
Heedless of Satire, Sin persists to reign,
As Curfews bid us leave our Fires in vain;
Poets, and Setting-Dogs, one Task employs,
Each points at Knaves or Birds, but ne'er destroys;
What tho' you sweat, complain, and rail, and write,
The mad, luxurious Town sins on for Spite.
Could Boileau to reform a Nation hope?
A Sodom can't be mended by a Pope.
To cleanse th' Augean Stable tho' you toil,
Still Virtue yields to Heidegger and Hoyle;
Still Britons (Justice, Freedom, Conscience sold)
Own the supreme Omnipotence of Gold.




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