Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene! The Legislature join'd with Drury-Lane! When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run, And serve their country--if the dance is done. "Are we not then allow'd to be polite?" Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right. Worth, of politeness is the needful ground; Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found. Triflers not even in trifles can excel; 'Tis solid bodies only polish well. Great, chosen prophet! for these latter days, To turn a willing world from righteous ways! Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve; Well has he seen his servant should not starve, Thou to his name hast splendid temples raised In various forms of worship seen him prais'd, Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown, And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown. Inferior offerings to thy god of vice Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice; Thy sacrifice supreme, an hundred maids! That solemn rite of midnight masquerades! Though bold these truths, thou, Muse, with truths like these, Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please; Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow. How terrible it were to common-sense, To write a satire, which gave none offence! And, since from life I take the draughts you see. If men dislike them, do they censure me? The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend, And Godlike an attempt the world to mend, The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall, Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all. How hard for real worth to gain its price! A man shall make his fortune in a trice, If blest with pliant, though but slender, sense, Feign'd modesty, and real impudence: A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace. A curse within, a smile upon his face; A beauteous sister, or convenient wife, Are prizes in the lottery of life; Genius and Virtue they will soon defeat, And lodge you in the bosom of the great. To merit, is but to provide a pain For men's refusing what you ought to gain. May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you, Whom my presaging thoughts already view By Walpole's conduct fired, and friendship grac'd, Still higher in your Prince's favour plac'd: And lending, here, those awful councils aid, Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd! Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear; What most we wish, with ease we fancy near. JOHN GAY. (1685-1732.) XXXIV. THE QUIDNUNCKIS. The following piece was originally claimed for Swift in the edition of his works published in 1749. But it was undoubtedly written by Gay, being only sent to Swift for perusal. This explains the fact of its being found amongst the papers of the latter. The poem is suggested by the death of the Duke Regent of France.