See Tityrus, with merriment possest, Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest: What need he stay? for when the jest is o'er, His teeth will be no whiter than before. Is there of thee, ye fair! so great a dearth, That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth! Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire; Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire: Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife; And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life. Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their airs; My lord has vapours, and my lady swears; Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind, My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind. To show the strength, and infamy of pride, By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied. What numbers are there, which at once pursue, Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too? Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame, And therefore lays a stratagem for fame; Makes his approach in modesty's disguise, To win applause; and takes it by surprise. "To err," says he, "in small things, is my fate." You know your answer, "he's exact in great". "My style", says he, "is rude and full of faults." "But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!" That he wants algebra, he must confess; "But not a soul to give our arms success". "Ah! that's an hit indeed," Vincenna cries; "But who in heat of blood was ever wise? I own 'twas wrong, when thousands called me back To make that hopeless, ill-advised attack; All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny; Sure never fool so well deserved to die." Could this deceive in others to be free, It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee! Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue, So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong. Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear; And haunt the court, without a prospect there. Are these expedients for renown? Confess Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less. Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake; Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make. Even men of merit, ere their point they gain, In hardy service make a long campaign; Most manfully besiege the patron's gate, And oft repulsed, as oft attack the great With painful art, and application warm. And take, at last, some little place by storm; Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean, And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer-Lane. Already this thy fortune can afford; Then starve without the favour of my lord. 'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer, But often, even in doing right, they err: From caprice, not from choice, their favours come: They give, but think it toil to know to whom: The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance: 'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance. If merit sues, and greatness is so loth To break its downy trance, I pity both.