From new-born violets, or sweet-scented roses;
And if still fouler air came from them, 'twas
A most delicious perfume, and inquiries
From whence it was procured.—Such practices
Have brought disgrace upon the name and office,
And what was honest and respectable
Is now become disgraceful and ignoble.—Anon.
The same.
I'd have you better know this trade of ours:
'Tis a profession, sirs, to ravish admiration:
Its nursing-father is the Law; its birth
Derives from heaven. All other trades bear stamp
Of frail humanity upon them, mix'd,
I grant, with show of wisdom—but your parasite
Is sprung from Jove: and tell me, who in heaven
Is Jove's compeer? 'Tis he that under name
Of Philian, enters ev'ry mansion—own it
Who will, gentle or simple, prince or artisan:
Be't room of state or poverty's mean hovel,
He stands upon no points:—the couch is spread,
The table furnish'd—on't a goodly show
Of tempting dishes: what should he ask more?
He drops into a graceful attitude,
Calls like a lord about him, gorges greedily
The daintiest dish, washes it down with wine,
Then bilks his club, and quietly walks home.
I too am pieced with him in this respect,
And by the god my prudent course is fashion'd.
Is there a gala-day, and feast on foot,
With open door that offers invitation?
In walk I, silence for my only usher:
I fall into a chair with sweet composure,
(Why should my neighbour's peace be marr'd by noise?)
I dip my finger in whate'er's before me,
And having feasted ev'ry appetite
Up to a surfeit, I walk home with purse
Untouch'd—hath not a god done so before me?
Mitchell.
