New-market, a satire

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NEW-MARKET, A SATIRE.

HIS Country's hope, when now the blooming Heir

Has left the parent's, or the guardian's care;

Fond to possess, yet eager to destroy,

Of each vain youth, say, what's the darling joy?

Of each fond frolic what the source and end,

His sole and first ambition what?—to spend.

Some 'Squires, to Gallia's cooks most dainty dupes,

Melt manors in ragouts, or drown in soups.

This coxcomb doats on fiddlers, till he sees

His mortgag'd mountains destitute of trees;

Convinc'd too late, that modern strains can move,

With mightier force than those of Greece, the grove.

In headless statues rich, and useless urns,

MARMOREO from the classic tour returns;

So poor the wretch of current coin, you'd laugh—

He cares not—if his [†] CAESARS be but safe.

Some tread the slippery paths of love's delights,

These deal the cards, or shake the box at WHITE's.

To different pleasures different tastes incline,

Nor the same sea receives the rushing swine.

Tho' drunk alike with CIRCE's poisonous bowl,

In seperate sties the mimic monsters roll.

But would ye learn, ye leisure-loving 'Squires

How best ye may disgrace your prudent sires;

How soonest soar to fashionable shame,

Be damn'd at once to ruin—and to fame;

By hands of Grooms ambitious to be crown'd,

O greatly dare to tread Olympic ground!

Where fam'd NEW-MARKET spreads her tempting plain,

There let the chosen steed victorious strain;

Where not [*] (as erst was sung in manly lays)

Men fly to different ends thro' different ways;

Thro' the same path, to the same goal ye run,

And are at once, undoing and undone.

Forfeit, forget friends, honour, and estate,

Lose all at once—for what?—to win the plate:

All are betray'd, and all alike betray,

To your own beasts, ACTAEON-like, a prey.

What dreams of conquest flush'd HILARIO's breast,

When the good Knight at last retir'd to rest!

Behold the youth with new-felt rapture mark

Each pleasing prospect of the spacious Park:

That Park, where beauties undisguis'd engage,

Those beauties less the work of art than age;

In simple state, where genuine Nature wears

Her venerable dress of ancient years;

Where all the charms of chance with order meet,

The rude the gay, the graceful and the great.

Here aged oaks uprear their branches hoar,

And form dark groves, which Druids might adore;

Pride and support of Britain's conquering cross,

Which distant ancestors saw crown'd with moss:

With meeting boughs, and deepening to the view,

Here shoots the broad umbrageous avenue:

Here various trees compose a chequer'd scene,

Glowing in gay diversities of Green:

There the full stream thro' intermingling glades

Shines a broad lake, or falls in deep cascades.

Nor wants there hazle copse, or beechen lawn,

To chear with sun or shade the bounding fawn.

And see the good old seat, whose Gothic tow'rs

Awful emerge from yonder tufted bow'rs;

Whose rafter'd hall the crowding tenants fed,

And dealt to Age and Want their daily bread.

Where garter'd knights with peerless beauties joyn'd,

At high and solemn festivals have din'd;

Presenting oft fair virtue's shining task,

In mystic pageantries, and moral [‡] Masque.

But vain all ancient praise, or boast of birth,

Vain all the palms of old heroic worth!

At once a bankrupt, and a prosperous Heir

HILARIO bets—Park, House dissolve in air.

With antique armour hung, his trophied rooms

Descend to Gamesters, Prostitutes, and Grooms.

He sees his steel-clad Sires, and Mothers mild,

Who bravely shook the lance, or sweetly smil'd,

All the fair series of the whisker'd race,

Whose pictur'd forms the stately gallery grace;

Debas'd, abus'd, the price of ill-got gold,

To deck some tavern vile, at auctions sold.

The parish wonders at th' unopening door,

The chimnies blaze, the tables groan no more.

Thick weeds around th' untrodden courts arise,

And all the social scene in silence lies.

Himself, the loss politely to repair,

Turns Atheist, Fiddler, Highwayman, or Play'r.

At length, the scorn, the shame of Man and God,

Is doom'd to rub the steeds that once he rode.

Ye rival Youths, your golden hopes how vain,

Your dreams of thousands on the listed plain!

Not more fantastic [*] SANCHO's airy course,

When madly mounted on the magic horse,

He pierc'd heavn's opening spheres with dazzled eyes,

And seem'd to soar in visionary skies.

Nor less, I ween, precarious is the meed,

Of young advent'rers, on the Muse's steed;

For Poets have, like you, their destin'd round,

And Ours is but a race on classic ground.

Long time, soft son of patrimonial ease,

HIPPOLITUS had ate sirloins in peace:

Had quaff'd secure, unvex'd by toils or wife,

The mild October of a rural life:

Long liv'd with calm domestic conquests crown'd,

And kill'd his game on safe paternal ground.

As bland he puff'd the pipe o'er weekly news

His bosom kindles with sublimer views.

Lo there, thy triumphs T—thy palms P—

Tempt him to rein the steed, and stake his store.

Like a new bruiser on BROUGHTONIC sand,

Amid the lists our hero takes his stand;

Suck'd by the Sharper, to the Peer a prey,

He rolls his eyes that witness huge dismay;

When lo! the chance of one unlucky heat,

Strips him of game, strong beer, and sweet retreat.

How awkward now he bears disgrace and dirt,

Nor knows the Poor's last refuge, to be pert.—

The shiftless beggar bears of ills the worst,

At once with dulness, and with hunger curst.

And feels the tasteless breast equestrian fires,

And dwells such mighty rage in graver 'squires?

In all attempts, but for their country, bold,

Britain, thy CONSCRIPT COUNSELLORS behold;

(For some perhaps, by fortune favour'd yet,

May gain a burrough, by a lucky bet,)

Smit with the love of the laconic boot,

The cap and wig succinct, the silken suit,

Mere modern PHAETON's, usurp the reins,

And scour in rival race NEW-MARKET's plains.

See side by side, the Jockey and Sir JOHN,

Discuss th' important point—of six to one.

For oh, my Muse, the deep-felt bliss how dear,

How great the pride, to gain a Jockey's ear!

See, like a routed host, with headlong pace,

Thy Members pour amid the mingling race!

All ask, what crouds the tumult could produce—

"Is Bedlam or the C—ns all broke loose?"

Such noise and nonsense, betting, damning, sinking,

Such emphasis of oaths, and claret-drinking!

Like school-boys freed, they run as chance directs,

Proud from a well-bred thing to risque their necks.

The warrior's scar not half so graceful seems,

As, at NEW-MARKET, dislocated limbs.

Thy sages hear, amid th' admiring croud

Adjudge the stakes, most eloquently loud:

With critic skill, o'er dubious bets preside,

The low dispute or kindle, or decide:

All empty wisdom, and judicious prate,

Of distanc'd horses gravely fix the fate.

Guide the nice conduct of a daring match,

And o'er th' equestrian rights, with care paternal, watch.

Meantime, no more the mimic patriots rise,

To guard Britannia's honour, warm and wise:

No more in Senates dare assert her laws,

Nor pour the bold debate in freedom's cause:

Neglect the counsels of a sinking land,

And know no Rostrum, but New-Market's [†] Stand.

Are these the sage directive pow'rs design'd,

With the nice search of a sagacious mind;

In judgment's scales, the fate of realms to weigh,

Britannia's interest, trade, and laws survey?

O say, when least their sapient schemes are crost,

Or when a nation, or a match is lost?

Who dams and sires with more exactness trace,

Than of their country's Kings the sacred race:

Think London journies are the worst of ills,

And set their hands to articles for bills:

Strangers to all historians sage relate,

Their's are the memoirs of th' equestrian state:

Unskill'd in Albion's past and present views,

Who [*] CHENY's records for RAPIN peruse.

Go on, brave Youths, till in some future age,

Whips shall become the senatorial badge;

Till England see her thronging senators

Meet all at Westminster, in boots and spurs;

See the whole House, with mutual frenzy mad,

Her Patriots all in leathern breeches clad:

Of bets, for taxes, learnedly debate,

And guide with equal reins a Steed and State.

How would a virtuous [†] Houhnhym neigh disdain,

To see his brethren brook th' imperious rein;

Bear slavery's wanton whip, or galling goad,

Smoak thro' the glebe, or trace the destin'd road,

And robb'd of manhood by the murderous knife,

Sustain each sordid toil of servile life.

Yet oh, what rage would touch his generous mind,

To see his sons of more than mortal kind;

A kind, with each ingenuous virtue blest,

That fills the prudent head, or valorous breast,

Afford diversion to that monster base,

That meanest spawn of man's half-monkey race;

In whom pride, avarice, ignorance conspire,

That hated animal, a Yahoo-Squire.

How are th' advent'rers of the British race,

Chang'd from the chosen chiefs of ancient days;

Who warm'd with genuine glory's honest thirst,

Divinely labour'd in the Pythian dust.

Their's was the wreath that lifted from the throng,

Their's was the Theban bard's recording song.

Meantime, to manly emulation blind,

Slaves to each vulgar vice that stains the mind,

Our British THERON's issue to the race,

Of their own generous coursers the disgrace.

What tho' the grooms of Greece ne'er took the odds,

They won no bets—but then they soar'd to gods;

And more an HIERO's Palm, a PINDAR's Ode,

Than all the united plates of G—E bestow'd.

Greece! how I kindle at thy magic name,

Feel all thy warmth, and catch the kindred flame.

Thy solemn scenes, and awful visions rise,

In ancient grace before my musing eyes.

Here Sparta's sons in mute attention hang,

While sage LYCURGUS pours the mild harangue;

There XERXES' hosts all pale with deadly fear,

Shrink at her [†] fated Hero's flashing spear.

Here hung with many a lyre of silver string,

The laureat walks of sweet ILISSUS spring:

And lo where, rapt in beauty's heav'nly dream

Hoar PLATO walks his oliv'd Academe.—

Yet ah! no more the seat of art and arms,

Delights with wisdom, or with virtue warms,

Lo! the stern Turk, with more than Gothic rage,

Has blasted all the bays of ancient age;

No more her groves by sacred feet are trod

Each Attic Grace has left the lov'd abode.

Fall'n is fair GREECE! by luxury's pleasing bane

Seduc'd, she drags a barbarous foreign chain.

BRITANNIA watch! O trim thy withering bays,

Remember thou hast rival'd GRAECIA's praise,

Great Nurse of works divine! yet oh! beware

Lest thou the fate of GREECE, my Country share.

Recall thy wonted worth with conscious pride,

Thou too hast seen a SOLON in a HYDE;

Hast bade thine EDWARDS and thine HENRY's rear

With Spartan fortitude the British spear;

Alike hast seen thy sons deserve the meed,

Or of the moral, or the martial Deed.

FINIS.

Notes

†
Antique Medals.
↵

*

Alluding to those well-known lines of Sir JOHN DENHAM (in Cooper's Hill) on London.

"——Thro' several ways they run,

"Some to undo, and some to be undone."

↵

‡

It was a fashionable Practice among our ancient nobility and gentry, of both sexes, to perform personally in entertainments of this kind. Nothing could be a more delightful or rational method of spending an evening than this. MILTON's Comus was thus exhibited at Ludlow-Castle, in the Year 1631. See BEN JOHNSON's Masques.

Poetry, painting, and musick, were here united in their highest perfection. It were to be wished that our modern people of distinction would revive this excellent practice, and substitute it in the place of routes and masquerades. But in the present age, the idea of the true decorum seems to be utterly extinct; and even the dignity of human nature seems to be quite over-run with the false refinements of affected elegance, and all the inconsistent fopperies of studied folly.

↵

*
Clavileno. See Don Quixote. B. ii. Chap. 41.
↵

†
A kind of scaffold, where is held a consistory, made up of several very eminent gentlemen, for determining doubtful cases in the race, &c. This place might not improperly be called, a Pandaemonium.
↵

*
The accurate and annual author of an historical list of the runninghorses, &c.
↵

†
Vid. GULLIVER's travels, voyage to the Houhnhyms.
↵

†
LEONIDAS.
↵

NEW-MARKET, A SATIRE.

ΠΟΥΛΥΠΟΝΟΣ ΙΠΠΕΙΑ.

ΩΣ ΕΜΟΛΕΣ ΑΙΑΝΗ

ΤΑΔΕ ΓΑ.

Σοφοκ. Ελ. 508.

LONDON, Printed for J. NEWBERY, at the Bible and Sun in St. Paul's Church-Yard. MDCCLI.

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Title statement

New-market, a satire

Warton, Thomas, 1728-1790.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3392

ID [isbn10]

1106003918

ID [isbn13]

9781106003911

ID [TCP]

K005846.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310431182

ID [ECLL]

0149501300

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Source

— New-market, a satire, Warton, Thomas, 1728-1790.. 17,[1]p. ; 2⁰. London :: printed for J. Newbery,. 1751.. [Anonymous. By Thomas Warton.] [Verse.] [On the horse races at Newmarket.] [Reproduction of original from the Harvard University Houghton Library.] [Roscoe, A619] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN10089.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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