“See Tityrus, with merriment possest, Is burst with laughter ere he hears the jest, What need he stay, for when the joke is o’er, His _teeth_ will be no whiter than before.” Like Pope, whom he imitated, he sets out with a psychological mistake as the basis of his satire, attributing all forms of folly to one passion—the love of fame, or vanity—a much grosser mistake, indeed, than Pope’s, exaggeration of the extent to which the “ruling passion” determines conduct in the individual. Not that Young is consistent in his mistake. He sometimes implies no more than what is the truth—that the love of fame is the cause, not of all follies, but of many. Young’s satires on women are superior to Pope’s, which is only saying that they are superior to Pope’s greatest failure. We can more frequently pick out a couplet as successful than an entire sketch. Of the too emphatic “Syrena” he says: “Her judgment just, her sentence is too strong; Because she’s right, she’s ever in the wrong.” Of the diplomatic “Julia:” “For her own breakfast she’ll project a scheme, Nor take her tea without a stratagem.” Of “Lyce,” the old painted coquette: “In vain the cock has summoned sprites away; She walks at noon and blasts the bloom of day.” Of the nymph, who, “gratis, clears religious mysteries:” “’Tis hard, too, she who makes no use but chat Of her religion, should be barr’d in that.” The description of the literary _belle_, “Daphne,” well prefaces that of “Stella,” admired by Johnson: “With legs toss’d high, on her sophee she sits, Vouchsafing audience to contending wits: Of each performance she’s the final test; One act read o’er, she prophecies the rest; And then, pronouncing with decisive air, Fully convinces all the town—_she’s fair_. Had lonely Daphne Hecatessa’s face, How would her elegance of taste decrease! Some ladies’ judgment in their features lies, And all their genius sparkles in their eyes. But hold, she cries, lampooner! have a care; Must I want common sense because I’m fair? O no; see Stella: her eyes shine as bright As if her tongue was never in the right; And yet what real learning, judgment, fire! She seems inspir’d, and can herself inspire. How then (if malice ruled not all the fair) _Could Daphne publish_, _and could she forbear_?” After all, when we have gone through Young’s seven Satires, we seem to have made but an indifferent meal. They are a sort of fricassee, with some little solid meat in them, and yet the flavor is not always piquant. It is curious to find him, when he pauses a moment from his satiric sketching, recurring to his old platitudes: “Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine? Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine? Wisdom to gold prefer;”—