Florio: a tale: for fine gentlemen and fine ladies: and, the bas bleu; or, conversation: two poems.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- TO THE HON. HORACE WALPOLE.

- FLORIO: A POETICAL TALE, FOR FINE GENTLEMEN AND FINE LADIES.

- [titlepage]

- THE BAS BLEU.

- [titlepage]

- ADVERTISEMENT.

- Lately published, by the same Author,

FLORIO: A TALE, FOR FINE GENTLEMAN AND FINE LADIES: AND, THE BAS BLEU; OR, CONVERSATION: TWO POEMS.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL, IN THE STRAND. MDCCLXXXVI, [Price Three Shillings.]

TO THE HON. HORACE WALPOLE.

SIR,

IT would be very flattering to me, if I might hope that the little Tale, which I now take the liberty of presenting to you, could amuse a few moments of your tedious indisposition. It is, I confess, but a paltry return for the many hours of agreeable information, and elegant amusement, which I have received from your spirited and very entertaining writings: yet I am persuaded, that you will receive it with favour, as a small offering of esteem and gratitude, of which the intention alone makes all the little value.

The slight verses, Sir, which I place under your protection, will not, I fear, impress the world with a very favourable idea of my poetical powers: But I shall, at least, be suspected of having some taste, and of keeping good company, when I confes s that some of the pleasantest hours of my life have been passed in your conversation. I should be unjust to your very engaging and well-bred turn of wit, if I did not declare that, among all the lively and brilliant things I have heard from you, I do not remember ever to have heard an unkind, or an ungenerous one: Let me be allowed to bear my feeble testimony to your temperate use of this charming faculty, so delightful in itself, but which can only be safely trusted in such hands as yours, where it is guarded by politeness, and directed by humanity.

I have the honour to be, SIR, Your much obliged, And most obedient Humble Servant, HANNAH MORE.
JANUARY 27, 1786.

FLORIO: A POETICAL TALE.

FLORIO: A POETICAL TALE, FOR FINE GENTLEMEN AND FINE LADIES.

FLORIO, a youth of gay renown,

Who figur'd much about the Town,

Had pass'd, with general approbation,

The modish forms of Education;

Knew what was proper to be known,

Th' establislih'd jargon of Bon-ton;

Had learnt, with very moderate reading,

The whole new system of good breeding:

Knew to be negligent and rude;

But still his feelings wou'd intrude:

For FLORIO was not meant by nature,

A silly, or a worthless creature:

He had a heart dispos'd to feel,

Had sense and spirit, taste and zeal;

Was handsome, generous; but, by fate,

Predestin'd to a large estate!

Hence all the hopes he gave were foil'd;

His mind by praise and pleasure spoil'd.

The Destiny, who wove the thread

Of FLORIO'S being, sigh'd, and said,

Poor youth! this cumbrous twist of gold,

More, than my shuttle well can hold,

For which thy anxious fathers toil'd,

Thy white and even thread has spoil'd:

This shall seduce thy pliant youth

From sense, simplicity, and truth;

Thy erring fire, by this misled,

Shall scatter pleasures round thy head,

When wholesome disicipline's controul,

Shou'd brace the sinews of thy soul;

Coldly thou'lt toil for Learning's prize,

For why shou'd he that's rich be wise?

The gracious Master of mankind,

Who knew us vain, and weak, and blind,

In mercy, tho' in anger, said,

That man shou'd earn his daily bread;

Who counteracts the order given,

Disputes the high behest of Heaven.

Forgive (nor lay the fault on me)

This mixture of mythology;

The bard of Paradise has deign'd

With truth to mingle fables feign'd;

Who cannot reach his style, or thoughts,

With ease may irritate his faults.

Poor FLORIO, at the ardent age

When youth shou'd rush on Glory's stage;

When Life shou'd open fresh and fair,

And Hope advance with smiling air;

Of youthful gaiety bereft,

Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left;

He found already to his cost,

The shining gloss of life was lost;

And Pleasure was so coy a prude,

She fled the more the more pursued.

But FLORIO knew the WORLD, that Science

Set Sense and Learning at defiance;

He thought the world to him was known,

Whereas he only knew the Town;

In men this blunder still you find,

All think their little set—Mankind.

Tho' high renown the youth had gain'd,

No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd;

No tool of falsehood, slave of passion,

But spoilt by CUSTOM, and the FASHION.

Tho' known among a certain set,

He did not like to be in debt;

He shudder'd at the dicer's box,

Nor thought it very heterodox

That tradesmen shou'd be sometimes paid,

And promises be kept when made.

His utmost credit, as a sinner,

Was that he sometimes spoilt a dinner;

Ever, by system, came too late,

And made his choicest parties wait;

Yet 'twas a hopeful indication,

On which to found a reputation:

Small habits, well pursued betimes,

May reach the dignity of crimes.

His mornings were not spent in vice,

'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice:

Walk up and down St. James's Street,

Full fifty times the youth you'd meet:

He hated cards, detested drinking,

But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking;

'Twas doing nothing was his curse,

Is there a vice can plague us worse?

The wretch who digs the mine for bread,

Or ploughs, that others may be fed,

Feels less fatigue than that decreed

To him who cannot think, or read.

Not all the struggle of temptation,

Not all the furious war of passion,

Can quench the spark of Glory's flame,

Or blot out Virtue's very name;

Like the true taste for genuine saunter,

No rival passions can supplant her;

They rule in short and quick succession,

But SLOTH keeps one long, fast possession;

Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd,

Th' usurper Rage is soon depos'd;

Intemperance, where there's no temptation,

Makes voluntary abdication;

Of other tyrants short the strife,

But INDOLENCE is king for life.

Yet tho' so polish'd FLORIO'S breeding,

Think him not ignorant of reading;

For he, to keep him from the vapours,

Subscrib'd at HOOKHAM'S, saw the papers;

Was deep in Poet's-corner wit,

Knew what was in Italics writ;

Explain'd fictitious names at will,

Each gutted syllable cou'd fill;

There oft, in paragraphs, his name

Gave symptom sweet of growing fame,

Tho' yet they serv'd but to apprize

Of buttons' form, or buckles' size.

He studied while he dress'd, for true 'tis

He read Compendiums, Extracts, Beauties,

Abregés, Dictionnaires, Recueils,

Mercures, Journaux, Extraits, and Feuilles:

No work in substance now is follow'd,

The Chemic Extract only's swallow'd.

He lik'd those literary cooks

Who skim the cream of others' books,

And ruin half an Author's graces,

By plucking bons-mots from their places;

He wonders any writing sells,

But these spic'd mushrooms and morells;

His palate these alone can touch,

Where every mouthful is bonne bouche.

Of each new Play he saw a part,

And all the Anas had by heart;

He found whatever they produce

Is fit for conversation-use;

Is ever ready for display;

A page would prime him for a day:

They cram not with a mass of knowledge,

Which smacks of toil, and smells of college,

Which in the memory useless lies,

And only makes men—good and wise.

A friend he had, BELLARIO hight,

A reasoning, reading, learned wight;

At least, with men of FLORIO'S breeding,

He was a prodigy of reading.

He knew each stale and vapid lye

In tomes of French Philosophy;

And then, we fairly may presume,

From PYRRHO down to DAVID HUME,

'Twere difficult to single out

A man more full of shallow doubt;

He knew the little sceptic prattle,

The sophist's paltry arts of battle;

Talk'd gravely of th' atomic dance,

Of moral fitness, fate, and chance;

Quoted the nonsense of LUCRETIUS,

Stripp'd of the charm which makes it specious;

Dropt hints, with wondrous penetration,

Against the history of Creation;

Then prov'd, by argument circuitous,

The combination was fortuitous:

Swore, Priests whole trade was to deceive,

And prey on bigots who believe;

With bitter ridicule cou'd jeer,

And had the true free-thinking sneer;

Stale arguments he had in store,

Which have been answer'd o'er and o'er.

Practis'd, to raise his reputation,

The trite, old trick of false citation;

And wou'd from ancient Authors quote

A sentiment they never wrote.

Upon his highest shelf there stood

The Classics, neatly cut in wood;

And in a more commodious station,

You found them in a French translation:

He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes,

But keeps the French, just for the notes.

He worshipp'd certain modern names

Who History write in Epigrams,

In pointed periods, shining phrases,

And all the small poetic daisies,

Which crowd the pert and florid style,

Where fact is dropt to raise a smile;

Arts scorn'd by History's sober Muse,

Arts CLARENDON disdain'd to use.

Whate'er the subject of debate,

'Twas larded still with sceptic prate;

The good, with shame I speak it, feel

Not half this proselyting zeal.

Tho' FLORIO did not yet believe him,

He thought, why shou'd a friend deceive him?

Much as he priz'd BELLARIO'S wit,

He lik'd not all his notions yet;

He thought him charming, pleasant, odd,

But hop'd he might believe in God;

Still, tho' he tried a thousand ways,

Truth's insuppressive torch wou'd blaze;

Where once her flame has burnt, I doubt

If ever it go fairly out.

Yet, under great BELLARIO'S care,

He gain'd each day a better air;

With many a leader of renown,

Deep in the learning of the Town,

Who never other science knew,

But what from that prime source they drew;

Pleas'd, to the opera they repair,

To get recruits of knowledge there;

Mythology gain at a glance,

And learn the Classics from a dance:

For tho' they never car'd a groat,

How far'd the vent'rous Argonaut,

Yet, pleas'd, they see MEDEA rise

On fiery dragons to the skies:

For DIDO, tho' they never knew her

As MARO'S magic pencil drew her,

Fond as she was, and broken-hearted,

Her pious vagabond departed;

Yet, for DIDONE how they roar!

And Cara! Cara! loud encore.

One taste, BELLARIO'S soul possess'd,

The master passion of his breast;

Not one of those frail, transient joys,

Which, by possession, quickly cloys;

This bliss was solid, constant, true,

'Twas action, and 'twas passion too;

For tho' the business might be finish'd,

The pleasure scarcely was diminish'd;

Did he ride out, or sit, or walk,

Still he liv'd o'er again in talk

This keen, this ever new delight,

His joy by day, his dream by night.

'Twas eating did his soul allure,

In short, a modish Epicure;

Tho' once this word, as I opine,

Meant not such men as live to dine,

Yet all our modern Wits assure us,

That's all they know of EPICURUS:

They fondly fancy, that repletion

Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian.

To live in gardens full of flowers,

And talk philosophy in bowers,

Or, in the covert of a wood,

To descant on the sovereign good,

Might be the notion of their founder,

But they have notions vastly sounder;

Their bolder standards they erect,

To form a more voluptuous sect;

Old EPICURUS wou'd not own 'em,

A dinner is their summum bonum.

You'll rather find such sparks as these

Like EPICURUS' deities;

Like them they laugh at human cares,

And with disdain view all affairs.

BELLARIO had embrac'd with glee,

This practical philosophy.

Young FLORIO'S father had a friend,

And ne'er did Heaven a worthier send;

A cheerful knight of good estate,

Whose heart was warm, whose bounty great.

At Christmas still his oxen bled,

With which the grateful poor were fed;

Resentment vanish'd where he came,

And law-suits died before his name;

The old esteem'd, the young caress'd him,

And all the smiling village bless'd him.

Within his Castle's Gothic gate,

Sate Plenty, and old-fashion'd State:

Scarce Prudence cou'd his bounties stint;—

Such characters are out of print:

O! wou'd kind Heaven, the age to mend,

A new edition of them send,

Before our tottering Castles fall,

And swarming Nabobs seize on all!

Some little whims he had, 'tis true,

But they were harmless, and were few;

He dreaded nought like alteration,

Improvement still was innovation;

He said, when any change was brewing,

Reform was a fine name for ruin;

He thought 'twou'd shew a falling state,

If STERNHOLD shou'd give way to TATE.

This ever dwelt upon his tongue,

How things were chang'd since he was young!

Of moderate parts, of moderate wit,

But parts for life and business fit:

He of no history made profession,

But of the Protestant succession:

On all occasions, ne'er wou'd fail,

At Popery and the FRENCH to rail.

Of BLACKSTONE he had read a part,

And all BURN'S JUSTICE knew by heart:

In books that he might waste no minute,

His poetry had business in it;

He ne'er had heard of Bards of Greece,

But had read half of "DYER'S Fleece;"

To make his sphere of knowledge wider,

His Georgics, "PHILIPS upon cyder:"

He cou'd produce in proper place,

Three apt quotations from the [*] "Chace,"

And in the hall, from day to day,

Old ISAAC WALTON'S angler lay.

This good and venerable knight,

One daughter had, his soul's delight:

For face, no mortal cou'd resist her,

She smil'd like HEBE'S youngest sister:

Her life, as lovely as her face,

Each duty mark'd with every grace;

Her native sense improv'd by reading,

Her native sweetness by good-breeding:

No pretty starts of feign'd surprise,

No sweet minauderies clos'd her eyes;

Led by Simplicity divine,

She pleas'd, and never tried to shine;

She gave to Chance each unschool'd feature,

And left her cause to Sense and Nature.

The Sire of FLORIO, ere he died,

Decreed fair CELIA, FLORIO'S bride;

Bade him his latest wish attend,

And win the daughter of his friend;

When the last rites to him were paid,

He charg'd him to address the maid:

Sir GILBERT'S heart the wish approv'd,

For much his ancient friend he lov'd.

Six rapid months like lightning fly,

And the last grey was now thrown by;

FLORIO, reluctant, calls to mind

The orders of a Sire too kind:

Yet go he must; he must fulfil

The hard conditions of the will:

Go, at that precious hour of prime,

Go, at that swarming, bustling time,

When the full Town to joy invites,

Distracted with its own delights;

When Pleasure pours from her full urn,

Each tiresome transport in its turn;

When Dissipation's altars blaze,

And men run mad a thousand ways;

When, on his tablets, there were found

Engagements for full six weeks round;

Must leave, with grief and desperation,

Three packs of cards of invitation,

And all the wearisome delights

Of slavish days, and sleepless nights.

Ye Nymphs, whom tyrant Power drags down,

With hand despotic, from the Town,

When ALMACK'S doors wide open stand,

And the gay partner's offer'd hand

Courts to the dance; when steaming rooms,

Fetid with unguents and perfumes,

Invite you to the dear delight

Of well-bred crowds, and mobs polite;

You may conceive what FLORIO felt,

And sympathetically melt;

None else can guess the hardship dire,

To lawns and woodlands to retire,

When, freed from Winter's icy chain,

Glad Nature revels on the plain;

When blushing Spring leads on the hours,

And May is prodigal of flow'rs;

When Passion warbles thro' the grove,

And all is song, and all is love;

When new-born breezes sweep the vale,

And health adds fragrance to the gale.

Six bays, unconscious of their weight,

Soon lodg'd him at Sir GILBERT'S gate;

His trusty Swiss, who flew still faster,

Announc'd th' arrival of his Master:

So loud the rap which shook the door,

The hall re-echo'd to the roar;

Since first the Castle walls were rear'd,

So dread a sound had ne'er been heard;

The din alarm'd the frighten'd deer,

Who in a corner slunk for fear;

The Butler thought 'twas beat of drum,

The Steward swore the French were come;

It ting'd with red poor FLORIO'S face,

He thought himself in Portland Place.

Short joy! he enter'd, and the gate

Clos'd on him with its ponderous weight.

Who like Sir GILBERT now was blest?

With rapture he embrac'd his guest.

Fair CELIA blush'd, and FLORIO utter'd

Half sentences, or rather mutter'd

Disjointed words—as, "honour! pleasure!

"Kind!—vastly good, Ma'am!—beyond measure;"

Tame expletives, with which dull Fashion

Fills vacancies of sense and passion.

Yet, tho' disciple of cold Art,

FLORIO perceiv'd he had a heart;

He saw; and but that Admiration,

Had been too active, too like passion,

Or had he been to Ton less true,

Cupid had shot him thro' and thro;

But, vainly speeds the surest dart,

Where FASHION'S mail defends the heart,

The shaft her cold repulsion found,

And fell, without the pow'r to wound:

For Fashion, with a mother's joy,

Dipp'd in her lake the darling boy,

That lake, whose chilling waves impart

The gift to freeze the warmest heart:

Yet, guarded as he was with phlegm,

With such delight he ey'd the dame,

The Goddess strait his peril knew,

And, instant, to his succour flew;

But all was safe; she saw and smil'd,

And claim'd the triumph of her child.

CELIA a dinner still supplied,

Which modish luxury might deride:

Yet her discreet, well-order'd table,

Tho' sober, still was hospitable.

A modest dinner best displays

The Master eats on other days.

And decent Elegance was there,

And Plenty, with her liberal air;

But vulgar plenty gave offence,

And shock'd poor FLORIO'S nicer sense:

One dish there was which never fail'd,

CELIA with this each guest regal'd;

'Twas simple mutton, roast, or boil'd,

Sole dish French cookery has not spoil'd.

Tho' rich in game, and stor'd with fish,

She ne'er forgot her standing dish.

FLORIO in secret wou'd repine,

For FLORIO now but liv'd to dine;

Disgusted at the constant round

For ever at her table found;

He scarce cou'd stand the slender loyn,

But fainted at the ample chine;

Yet still afraid to give offence,

Or shock his CELIA'S grosser sense,

Patient he yielded to his fate,

When good Sir GILBERT pil'd his plate;

He bow'd submissive, made no question

But that 'twas sovereign for digestion;

But, such was his unlucky whim,

It never wou'd agree with him.

Yet feign'd to praise the vulgar treat,

And, if he eat not, seem'd to eat.

In sleep sad FLORIO hop'd to find,

The pleasures he had left behind.

He dreamt, and lo! to charm his eyes,

The form of WELTJE seem'd to rise;

The gracious vision wav'd his wand,

And banquets sprung to FLORIO'S hand;

Th' imaginary savours rose

In tempting odours to his nose.

A bell, not Fancy's false creation,

Gives joyful "note of preparation;"

He starts, he wakes, the bell he hears;

Alas! it rings for morning pray'rs.

But how to spend next tedious morning,

Was past his possible discerning;

Unable to amuse himself,

He tumbled every well-rang'd shelf;

This book was dull, and that was wise,

And this was monstrous as to size.

With eager joy he gobbled down

Whate'er related to the town;

Whate'er look'd small, whate'er look'd new,

Half-bound, or only stitch'd in blue;

Old play-bills, ASTLEY'S last year's feats,

And Opera disputes in sheets.

As these dear records meet his eyes,

Ghosts of departed pleasures rise;

He lays the book upon the shelf,

And leaves the day to spend itself.

To cheat the tedious hours, whene'er

He sallied forth to take the air,

His sympathetic ponies knew

Which way their Lord's affections drew,

And, every time he went abroad,

Sought of themselves the London road;

He ask'd each mile of every clown,

How far they reckon'd it to town?

And still his nimble spirits rise,

Whilst thither he directs his eyes;

But when his coursers back he guides,

The sinking Mercury quick subsides.

A week he had resolv'd to stay,

But found a week in every day;

Yet if the gentle maid was by,

Faint pleasure glisten'd in his eye;

But when no more the room she grac'd,

The slight impression was effac'd.

Whene'er Sir GILBERT'S sporting guests

Retail'd old news, or older jests,

FLORIO, quite calm, and debonair,

Still humm'd a new Italian air;

He did not even feign to hear 'em,

But plainly shew'd he cou'd not bear 'em.

CELIA perceiv'd his secret thoughts,

But lik'd the youth with all his faults;

Yet 'twas unlike, she softly said,

The tales of love which she had read,

Where heroes vow'd, and sigh'd, and knelt;

Nay, 'twas unlike the love she felt;

Tho' to her Sire, with fault'ring tongue,

She oft remark'd,—he was but young;

Confess'd his manners wrong in part,

But then—he had so good a heart!

His interest farther to secure,

She prais'd his bounty to the poor;

For, votary as he was of art,

He had a kind and melting heart;

Tho', with a smile, he us'd to own

He had not time to feel in town;

Not that he blush'd to shew compassion,—

It chanc'd that year to be the fashion.

At length, to wake Ambition's flame,

A letter from BELLARIO came;

Announcing the supreme delight,

Preparing for a certain night,

By FLAVIA fair, return'd from France,

Who took him captive at a glance:

The invitations all were given!

Five hundred cards!—a little, heaven!—

A dinner first—he wou'd present him,

And begg'd that nothing might prevent him.

Whoever wish'd a noble air,

Must gain it by an entrée there;

Of all the glories of the town,

'Twas the first passport to renown.

Then ridicul'd his rural schemes,

His pastoral shades, and purling streams;

Sneer'd at his present brilliant life,

His polish'd Sire, and high-bred Wife!

Thus, doubly to inflame, he tried

His curiosity, and pride.

The youth, with agitated heart,

Prepar'd directly to depart;

But, bound in honour to obey

His father, at no distant day,

He promis'd soon to hasten down,

But business call'd him now to town;

Then faintly hints a cold proposal,

But leaves it to the Knight's disposal;

Stammer'd half words of love and duty,

And mutter'd much of—worth and—beauty;

Something of passion then he dropt,

And hop'd his ardour—Here he stopt;

For some remains of native truth

Flush'd in his face, and check'd the youth;

Yet still the ambiguous suffusion

Might pass for artless love's confusion.

The doating father thought 'twas strange,

But fancied men with times might change;

Yet own'd, nor cou'd he check his tongue,

It was not so when he was young.

That was the reign of love he swore,

But now those halcyon days are o'er.

In that blest age, for honour fam'd,

Love paid the homage Beauty claim'd;

Not that insipid, daudling Cupid,

With heart so hard, and air so stupid,

Who coldly courts the charms which lie

In Affectation's half-clos'd eye.

Love then was honest, genuine passon,

And manly gallantry the fashion;

Yet pure as ardent was the flame

Excited by the beauteous dame;

Hope cou'd subsist on slender bounties,

And Courtiers gallop'd o'er two counties,

The Ball's fair partner to behold,

Or humbly hope—she caught no cold.

But mark how much Love's annals mend!

Shou'd Beauty's Goddess now descend;

On some adventure shou'd she come,

To grace a modish drawing-room,

With radiant eye, and heavenly air;

What Beau wou'd hand her to her chair?

Vain were that motion which betray'd,

The goddess was no earth-born maid;

If noxious FARO'S baleful spright,

With rites infernal rul'd the night,

The group so bent on play and pelf,

VENUS might call her doves herself.

As FLORIO pass'd the Castle-gate,

His spirits seem to lose their weight;

He feasts his lately vacant mind

With all the joys he hopes to find;

Yet on whate'er his fancies brood,

The form of CELIA wou'd intrude;

Howe'er his random thoughts might fly,

Her gentle graces fill'd his eye;

Nor was th' obtrusive vision o'er,

E'en when he reach'd BELLARIO'S door;

The friends embrac'd with warm delight,

And FLAVIA'S praises crown'd the night.

Soon dawn'd the day which was to shew

Glad FLORIO what was heaven below.

FLAVIA, admir'd wherever known,

Th' acknowledg'd Empress of bon-ton,

O'er FASHION'S wayward kingdom reigns,

And holds BELLARIO in her chains.

Various her powers; a wit by day,

By night unmatch'd for lucky play.

The flattering, fashionable tribe,

Each stray bon-mot to her ascribe;

And all her "little senate" own

She made the best charade in town;

Her midnight suppers always drew

Whate'er was fine, whate'er was new.

There oft the brightest fame you'd see

The victim of a repartee;

For Slander's Priestess still supplies

The spotless for the sacrifice.

Who at her polish'd table sit,

The summit reach of modish wit,

The persiflage, th' unfeeling jeer,

The civil, grave, ironic sneer;

The laugh, which, more than censure, wounds,

Which, more than argument, confounds.

Th' exalted deed, which wou'd engage

The wonder of a nobler age,

With unbelieving scorn is heard,

Or else to selfish ends referr'd;

To Vanity's light effervescence,

Ascribe they Virtue's purest essence.

When Malice longs to throw her dart,

But finds no vulnerable part,

Because the Virtues all defend,

At every pass, their guarded friend;

Yet, by one slight insinuation,

One scarce perceiv'd exaggeration,

Sly Ridicule, with half a word,

Can fix her stigma of—absurd;

Her cruel caustics deeply pain,

And scars indelible remain.

Supreme in wit, supreme in play,

Despotic FLAVIA all obey;

Small were her natural charms of face,

But heighten'd with each foreign grace;

But what subdued BELLARIO'S soul

Beyond Philosophy's controul,

Her daily table was as fine

As if ten Rajahs were to dine;

She every day produc'd such fish as

Wou'd gratify the nice APICIUS,

Or realize what we think fabulous

I'th' bill of fare of ELAGABALUS.

Yet still the natural taste was cheated;

'Twas delug'd in some sauce one hated.

All that can surfeit, or can cloy,

Soupes Santés, which the health destroy,

And, ever on her sumptuous board,

The savoury pye of PERIGORD.

All sauce! all sweetmeat! all confection!

All poignancy! and all perfection!

Rich Entremets, whose name none knows,

Ragouts, French Tourtes, and Fricandeaux,

Might picque the sensuality

O' th' hogs of EPICURUS' sty;

Yet all so foreign, and so fine,

'Twas easier to admire, than dine.

O! if the Muse had power to tell

Each dish, no Muse has power to spell!

Great Goddess of the French Cuisine!

Not with unhallow'd hands I mean

To violate thy secret shade,

Which eyes prophane shall ne'er invade:

No! of thy dignity supreme,

I, with "mysterious reverence," deem!

Or, shou'd I venture with rash hand,

The vulgar wou'd not understand;

Th' initiated only know

The raptures keen thy rites bestow.

Thus much to tell I lawful deem,

Thy works are never what they seem;

Thy will this general law has past,

That nothing of itself shall taste.

Thy word this high decree enacted,

"In all be NATURE, counteracted!"

Conceive, who can, the perfect bliss,

For 'tis not given to all to guess,

The rapturous joy BELLARIO found,

When thus his ev'ry wish was crown'd;

To FLORIO, as the best of friends,

One dish he secretly commends;

Then hinted, as a special favour,

What gave it that delicious flavour;

A mystery he so much reveres,

He never to unhallow'd ears

Wou'd trust it, but to him wou'd show

How far true Friendship's power cou'd go.

FLORIO at first with transport eat,

And marvell'd at the sumptuous fête.

But soon his pleasure was destroy'd,

Soon every craving sense was cloy'd.

A little warp his taste had gain'd,

Which, unperceiv'd, till now, remain'd;

For, from himself he wou'd conceal

The change he did not chuse to feel;

He almost wish'd he cou'd be picking

An unsophisticated chicken;

And when he cast his eyes around,

And not one simple morsel found,

O give me, was his secret wish,

My charming CELIA'S Standing Dish!

Now Nature, struggling for her rights,

Lets in some little, casual lights,

And Love combines to war with Fashion,

Tho' yet 'twas but an infant passion:

The practis'd FLAVIA tried each art

Of sly attack to steal his heart;

(Her forc'd civilities oppress,

Insulting thro' mere graciousness;)

While many a gay, intrepid dame,

By bold assault essay'd the same.

Fill'd with disgust, he strove to fly

The artful glance, and fearless eye;

Their jargon he but faintly praises,

Nor echoes back their flimsy phrases.

He felt not CELIA'S powers of face,

Till weigh'd against bon-ton grimace;

Nor half her genuine beauties tasted,

'Till with factitious charms contrasted.

No moment's liberty he found,

Th' industrious harpies hover'd round;

By force and flattery circumvented,

To play, reluctant, he consented;

Each Dame her power of pleasing tried,

To fix the novice by her side;

Of Pigeons, he the very best,

Who wealth, with ignorance, possest:

But FLAVIA'S rhetoric best perswades,

That Sybil leads him to the shades;

The fatal leaves around the room,

Prophetic, tell th' approaching doom!

Yet, different from the tale of old,

'Twas she who pluck'd the tempting gold;

Her arts the ponderous purse exhaust,

A borrow'd thousand, stak'd, and lost,

Wakes him to sense and shame again,

Nor force, nor fraud cou'd more obtain.

He rose, indignant, to attend

The summons of a ruin'd friend,

Whom keen BELLARIO'S arts betray

To all the depths of desperate play;

The youth, unconscious of deceit,

Was plunder'd of his whole estate;

Too late he look'd for friendship's aid,

A beggar in a moment made.

And now, with horror, FLORIO views

The wild confusion which ensues;

Marks where th' infernal furies hold

Their orgies foul o'er heaps of gold;

And demons dire appear to rise,

Guarding the horrid mysteries;

Marks how deforming passions tear

The bosoms of the losing fair;

How haggard looks, convulsive faces,

Banish the frighten'd loves, and graces!

Touch'd with disdain, with horror fir'd,

He thought of CELIA, and retir'd.

That night no sleep his eyelids prest,

He thought; and thought's a foe to rest:

Or if, by chance, he clos'd his eyes,

What hideous spectres round him rise!

Distemper'd Fancy wildly brings

The broken images of things;

His ruin'd friend, with eye-ball fixt,

Swallowing the draught Despair had mixt;

The frantic wife, beside him stands,

With bursting heart, and wringing hands;

And every horror dreams bestow,

Of pining Want, or raving Woe.

Next morn, to check, or cherish thought,

His Library's retreat he sought;

He view'd each book, with cold regard,

Of serious sage, or lighter bard;

At length, among the motley band,

The IDLER fell into his hand;

Th' alluring title caught his eye,

It promis'd cold inanity:

He read with pleasure and surprise,

And found 'twas charming, tho' 'twas wise;

His tea grew cold, whilst he, unheeding,

Pursu'd this new-discover'd reading.

He wonder'd at the change he found,

Th' elastic spirits nimbly bound;

Time slipt, without disgust, away,

While many a card unanswer'd lay;

Three papers reeking from the press,

Three Pamphlets thin, in azure dress,

Ephemeral literature well known,

The lie and scandal of the town;

Poison of letters, morals, time!

Assassin of our day's fresh prime!

These, on his table, all that day,

Unthought of, and neglected lay.

FLORIO had now full three hours read,

Hours which he us'd to waste in bed;

His pulse beat Virtue's vigorous tone,

The reason to himself unknown;

And if he stopp'd to seek the cause,

Fair CELIA'S image fill'd the pause.

And now, announc'd, BELLARIO'S name

Had almost quench'd the new-born flame:

"Admit him," was the ready word

Which first escap'd him, not unheard;

When sudden, to his mental sight,

Uprose the horrors of last night;

His plunder'd friend before him stands,

And—"not at home," his firm commands.

He felt the conquest, as a joy,

The first temptation wou'd destroy.

He knew that next day Hymen's hand,

Shou'd tack the slight and slippery band,

Which, in loose bondage, wou'd ensnare

BELLARIO bright, and FLAVIA fair,

Oft had he promis'd to attend

The nuptials of his happy friend:

He longs to go—but yet he fears;

At length a bolder deed he dares;

To CELIA he resolves to fly,

And catch fresh virtue from her eye;

Tho' three full weeks did yet remain,

Ere he engag'd to come again.

This plan he tremblingly embrac'd,

With doubtful zeal, and fluttering haste;

Nor ventur'd he one card to read,

Which might his virtuous scheme impede;

Each note, he dreaded, might betray him,

And shudder'd lest each rap shou'd stay him.

Behold him seated in his chaise;

With face that self-distrust betrays;

He hazards not a single glance,

Nor thro' the glasses peeps by chance,

Lest some old friend, or haunt well known,

Shou'd melt his resolution down;

Fast as his foaming coursers fly,

Hyde Park attracts his half-rais'd eye;

He stole one fearful, conscious look,

Then dropt his eye upon his book.

Long as he view'd AUGUSTA'S tow'rs,

The sight relax'd his thinking pow'rs;

In vain he better plans revolves,

The softening sight his soul dissolves;

The tow'rs once lost, the smoke his eyes

Pursue, while yet its volumes rise:

Soon as he got entirely clear

From this enfeebling atmosphere,

His mind was brac'd, his spirits light,

His heart was gay, his humour bright;

Thus feeling, at his inmost soul,

The sweet reward of self-controul;

Impatient now, and all alive,

He thought he never shou'd arrive;

At length he enter'd with delight,

And, self-announc'd, embrac'd the knight:

The youth his joy unfeign'd exprest,

The knight with joy receiv'd his guest,

And own'd, with no unwilling tongue,

'Twas done like men when he was young.

For CELIA, not a word she said,

But blush'd, "celestial, rosy red!"

Her heighten'd charms transport the youth,

Who promis'd everlasting truth.

CELIA, in honour of the day,

Resolv'd her table to display;

Such was the charm her sweetness gave,

He thought her Wedgwood had been séve;

Her taste diffus'd a gracious air,

And neat Simplicity was there,

Whose secret power, tho' silent, great is,

The loveliest of the sweet Penates.

FLORIO had now forgot to wish

For aught besides the STANDING DISH.

Sir GILBERT'S port he warmly praises,

And carefully avoids French phrases;

With patience hears a dissertation.

On Land-tax, and a ruin'd nation;

Listens to many a tedious tale

Of poachers, who deserv'd a jail;

Heard all the business of the Quorum,

Of hapless damsels brought before 'em;

Nor ever humm'd a single air,

While good Sir GILBERT fill'd his chair.

Abroad, with joy and grateful pride,

He walks, with CELIA by his side:

A thousand cheerful thoughts arise,

Each rural scene enchants his eyes;

With transport he begins to look

On Nature's all-instructive book;

No objects now seem mean, or low,

Which point to HIM from whom they flow.

A berry or a bud excites

A chain of reasoning which delights,

And, spite of sceptic ebullitions,

Proves Atheists not the best Logicians.

A tree, a brook, a blade of grass,

Suggests reflections as they pass,

'Till FLORIO with a sigh, confest

The simplest pleasures are the best!

BELLARIO'S systems sink in air,

He feels the PERFECT, GOOD, and FAIR.

When call'd to dress, that Titus wore

A wig the alter'd FLORIO swore;

Or else, in estimating time,

He ne'er had mark'd it as a crime,

That he had lost but one day's blessing,

When we so many lose, by dressing.

The rest, suffice it now to say,

Was finish'd in the usual way.

Cupid, impatient for his hour,

Revil'd slow Themis' tedious power,

Whose parchment legends, signing, sealing,

Are cruel forms for Love to deal in.

At length, to FLORIO'S eager eyes,

Behold the day of bliss arise!

The flaming sun illumes the globe;

The burning torch, the saffron robe,

Just as of old, glad Hymen wears,

And Cupid, as of old, appears

In Hymen's train; so strange the case,

They hardly knew each other's face;

Yet both confess'd, with glowing heart,

They never were design'd to part.

This self-same sun, and where's the wonder?

Sees FLAVIA'S slight bands snapt asunder:

BELLARIO sues for a divorce,

And both pursue their separate course.

Reader! thy clemency to court,

Tho' long the Tale, the Moral's short;

Yet dare I, spite of Critic Satire,

Suppose the Standing Dish GOOD NATURE?

O! gentlest blessing man can find!

Sweet soother of the ruffled mind!

As the soft powers of oil asswage

Of Ocean's waves the furious rage;

Lull to repose the boiling tide,

Whose billows, charm'd to rest, subside;

Smooth the vext bosom of the deep,

'Till every trembling motion sleep!—

Thy soft enchantments thus controul

The tumult of the troubled soul!

By labour worn, by care opprest,

On THEE the weary mind shall rest;

From business, and distraction free,

Delighted, shall return to THEE;

To THEE the aching heart shall cling,

And find the peace it does not bring.

Ye candidates for Earth's best prize,

Domestic Life's sweet charities!

O! if your erring eye once strays

From smooth Good-nature's level ways;

If e'er, in evil hour betray'd,

You chuse some vain, fantastic maid,

On such for bliss if you depend,

Without the means you seek the end;

A pyramid you strive to place,

The point inverted for the base;

You hope, in spite of Reason's laws,

A consequence without a cause.

And you, bright nymphs, who bless our eyes

With all that skill, that Taste supplies;

Learn, that accomplishments at best,

Serve but for garnish in Life's feast;

Yet still with these the polish'd wife

Shou'd deck the feast of human life;

Wit a poor Standing Dish wou'd prove,

Tho' 'tis an excellent Remove;

Howe'er your transient guests may praise

Your gay parade on gala days,

Yet know, your husband still will wish,

Good-nature for his Standing Dish.

Still, in Life's Fasti, you presume

Eternal holidays will come;

But, in its highest, happiest lot,

O! let it never be forgot,

Life is not an Olympic game,

Where sports and plays must gain the same;

Each month is not the month of May,

Nor is each day a holiday.

Tho' wit may gild Life's atmosphere,

When all is lucid, calm, and clear,

In bleak Affliction's dreary hour,

The brightest flash must lose its power;

While Temper, in the darkest skies,

A kindly light and warmth supplies.

Divine GOOD-NATURE! 'tis decreed,

The happiest still thy charm shou'd need.

Sweet Architect! rais'd by thy hands,

Fair Concord's Temple firmly stands:

Tho' Sense, tho' Prudence rear the pile,

Tho' each approving Virtue smile,

Some sudden gust, nor rare the case,

May shake the building to its base,

Unless, to guard against surprises,

On thy firm arch the structure rises.

Notes

*
A Poem by Mr. SOMERVILE.
↵

THE BAS BLEU: OR, CONVERSATION.

ADDRESSED TO MRS. VESEY.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following Trifle owes its birth and name to the mistake of a Foreigner of Distinction, who gave the literal appellation of the Bas-bleu, to a small party of friends, who had been sometimes called, by way of pleasantry, the Blue Stockings. The slight performance, occasioned by this little circumstance, was never intended to appear in print: It is, in general, too local, and too personal for publication; and was only written with a wish to amuse the amiable Lady to whom it is addressed, and a few partial friends. But copies having been multiplied, far beyond the intention of the Author, she has been advised to publish it, lest it should steal into the world in a state of still greater imperfection; though she is almost ashamed to take refuge in so hackneyed an apology, however true.

THE BAS BLEU.

VESEY! of Verse the judge and friend!

Awhile my idle strain attend:

Not with the days of early Greece,

I mean to ope' my slender piece;

The rare Symposium to proclaim,

Which crown'd th' Athenians' social name;

Or how ASPASIA'S parties shone,

The first Bas-bleu at Athens known;

Nor need I stop my tale, to shew,

At least to Readers such as you,

How all that Rome esteem'd polite,

Supp'd with LUCULLUS every night;

LUCULLUS, who, from Pontus come,

Brought conquests, and brought cherries home:

Name but the suppers in th' Apollo,

What classic images will follow!

How wit flew round, while each might take

Conchylia from the Lucrine lake;

And Attic Salt, and Garum Sauce,

And Lettuce from the Isle of Cos;

The first and last from Greece transplanted,

Us'd here—because the rhyme I wanted:

How Pheasants' heads, with cost collected,

And Phenicopters' stood neglected,

To laugh at SCIPIO'S lucky hit,

POMPEY'S bon-mot, or CAESAR'S wit!

Intemperance, list'ning to the tale,

Forgot the Mullet growing[*] stale;

And Admiration, balanc'd, hung

'Twixt PEACOCKS' brains, and TULLY'S tongue.

I shall not stop to dwell on these,

But be as epic as I please,

And plunge at once in medias res.

To prove the privilege I plead,

I'll quote some Greek I cannot read;

Stunn'd by Authority, you yield,

And I, not Reason, keep the field.

Long was Society, e'er-run

By Whist, that desolating Hun;

Long did Quadrille despotic sit,

That Vandal of colloquial wit;

And Conversation's setting light

Lay half-obscur'd in Gothic night;

Till LEO'S triple crown, to you,

BOSCAWEN sage, bright MONTAGU,

Divided, fell;—your cares in haste

Rescued the ravag'd realms of Taste;

And LYTTELTON'S accomplish'd name,

And witty PULTNEY shar'd the fame;

The Men, not bound by pedant rules,

Nor Ladies' precieuses ridicules;

For polish'd WALPOLE shew'd the way,

How Wits may be both learn'd and gay;

And CARTER taught the female train,

The deeply wise are never vain;

And she, who SHAKESPEARE'S wrongs redrest,

Prov'd that the brightest are the best.

O! how unlike the wit that fell,

RAMBOUILLET[*]! at thy quaint Hotel;

Where point, and turn, and equivoque,

Distorted every word they spoke!

All so intolerably bright,

Plain Common Sense was put to flight;

Each speaker, so ingenious ever,

'Twas tiresome to be quite so clever;

There twisted Wit forgot to please,

And Mood and Figure banish'd ease:

Poor exil'd Nature houseless stray'd,

'Till SEVIGNE receiv'd the maid.

Tho' here she comes to bless our isle,

Not universal is her smile.

Muse! snatch the lyre which CAMBRIDGE strung,

When he the empty ball-room sung;

'Tis tun'd above thy pitch, I doubt,

And thou no music wou'dst draw out;

Yet, in a lower note, presume

To sing the full, dull Drawing-room.

Where the dire Circle keeps its station,

Each common phrase is an oration;

And cracking fans, and whisp'ring Misses,

Compose their Conversation blisses.

The Matron marks the goodly shew,

While the tall daughter eyes the Beau—

The frigid Beau!—Ah! luckless fair,

'Tis not for you that studied air;

Ah! not for you that sidelong glance,

And all that charming nonchalance;

Ah! not for you the three long hours

He worship'd the "Cosmetic powers;"

That finish'd head which breathes perfume,

And kills the nerves of half the room;

And all the murders meant to lie

In that large, languishing, grey eye;

Desist;—less wild th' attempt wou'd be,

To warm the snows of Rhodope:

Too cold to feel, too proud to feign,

For him you're wise and fair in vain.

Chill shade of that affected Peer,

Who dreaded Mirth! come safely here;

For here no vulgar joy effaces

Thy rage for polish, ton, and graces.

Cold Ceremony's leaden hand,

Waves o'er the room her poppy wand;

Arrives the stranger; every guest

Conspires to torture the distrest;

At once they rise—so have I seen—

You guess the simile I mean,

Take what comparison you please,

The crowded streets, the swarming bees,

The pebbles on the shores that lie,

The stars, which form the galaxy;

This serves t' embellish what is said,

And shews, besides, that one has read;—

At once they rise—th' astonish'd guest

Back in a corner slinks, distrest;

Scar'd at the many bowing round,

And shock'd at her own voice's sound,

Forgot the thing she meant to say,

Her words, half-utter'd, die away;

In sweet oblivion down she sinks,

And of her ten appointments thinks:

While her loud neighbour on the right,

Boasts what she has to do to-night;

So very much, you'd swear her pride is

To match the labours of ALCIDES;

'Tis true, in hyperbolic measure,

She nobly calls her labours Pleasure;

In this, unlike ALCMENA'S son,

She never means they shou'd be done;

Her fancy of no limits dreams,

No! ne plus ultra bounds her schemes;

Fir'd at th' idea, out she flounces,

And a new Martyr JOHN announces.

We pass the pleasures vast and various

Of Routs, not social, but gregarious;

And, pleas'd, to gentler scenes retreat,

Where Conversation holds her seat.

Small were that art which wou'd ensure

The Circle's boasted quadrature!

See VESEY'S plastic genius make

A Circle every figure take;

Nay, shapes and forms which wou'd defy

All science of Geometry,

Isosceles, and Parallel,

Names hard to speak, and hard to spell!

Th' enchantress wav'd her wand, and spoke!

Her potent wand the Circle broke;

The social Spirits hover round,

And bless the liberated ground.

Ask you what charms this gift dispense?

'Tis the strong spell of COMMON SENSE.

Away fell Ceremony flew,

And with her bore Detraction too.

Nor only Geometric Art,

Does this presiding power impart;

But Chymists too, who want the essence,

Which makes or mars all coalescence,

Of her the secret rare might get,

How different kinds amalgamate:

And he, who wilder studies chose,

Find here a new metempsychose;

How forms can other forms assume,

Within her Pythagoric room;

Or be, and stranger is th' event,

The very things which Nature meant;

Nor strive, by art and affectation,

To cross their genuine destination.

Here sober Duchesses are seen,

Chaste Wits, and Critics void of spleen;

Physicians, fraught with real science,

And Whigs and Tories in alliance;

Poets, fulfilling Christian duties,

Just Lawyers, reasonable Beauties;

Bishops who preach, and Peers who pay,

And Countesses who seldom play;

Learn'd Antiquaries, who, from college,

Reject the rust, and bring the knowledge;

And, hear it, age, believe it, youth,

Polemics, really seeking truth;

And Travellers of that rare tribe,

Who've seen the countries they describe;

Ladies who point, nor think me partial,

An Epigram as well as MARTIAL;

Yet in all female worth succeed,

As well as those who cannot read.

Right pleasant were the task, I ween,

To name the groupes which fill the scene;

But Rhyme's of such fastidious nature,

She proudly scorns all Nomenclature,

Nor grace our Northern names her lips,

Like HOMER'S Catalogue of Ships.

Once—faithful Memory! heave a sigh,

Here ROSCIUS gladden'd every eye.

Why comes not MARO? Far from town,

He rears the Urn to Taste, and BROWN;

His English garden breathes perfume,

And promises perennial bloom.

Here, rigid CATO, awful Sage!

Bold Censor of a thoughtless age,

Once dealt his pointed moral round,

And, not unheeded, fell the sound;

The Muse his honour'd memory weeps,

For CATO now with ROSCIUS sleeps!

Here once HORTENSIUS lov'd to sit,

Apostate now from social Wit:

Ah! why in wrangling senates waste

The noblest parts, the happiest taste?

Why Democratic Thunders wield,

And quit the Muses' calmer field?

Taste thou the gentler joys they give;

With HORACE and with LELIUS live.

Hail, Conversation, soothing Power,

Sweet Goddess of the social hour!

Not with more heart-felt warmth, at least,

Does LELIUS bend, thy true High Priest,

Than I, the lowest of thy train,

These field-flow'rs bring to deck thy fane;

Who to thy shrine like him can haste,

With warmer zeal, or purer taste?

O may thy worship long prevail,

And thy true votaries never fail!

Long may thy polish'd altars blaze

With wax-lights' undiminish'd rays!

Still be thy nightly offerings paid,

Libations large of Limonade!

On silver Vases, loaded, rise

The biscuits' ample sacrifice!

Nor be the milk-white streams forgot

Of thirst-assuaging, cool orgeat;

Rise, incense pure from fragrant Tea,

Delicious incense, worthy Thee!

Hail, Conversation, heav'nly fair,

Thou bliss of life, and balm of care!

Call forth the long-forgotten knowlege

Of school, of travel, and of college!

For thee, best solace of his toil!

The sage consumes his midnight oil;

And keeps late vigils, to produce

Materials for thy future use.

If none behold, ah! wherefore fair?

Ah! wherefore wise, if none must hear?

Our intellectual ore must shine,

Not slumber, idly, in the mine.

Let Education's moral mint

The noblest images imprint;

Let Taste her curious touchstone hold,

To try if standard be the gold;

But 'tis thy commerce, Conversation,

Must give it use by circulation;

That noblest commerce of mankind,

Whose precious merchandize is MIND!

What stoic Traveller wou'd try

A sterile soul, and parching sky,

Or dare th' intemperate Northern zone,

If what he saw must ne'er be known?

For this he bids his home farewell,

The joy of seeing is to tell.

Trust me, he never wou'd have stirr'd,

Were he forbid to speak a word;

And Curiosity wou'd sleep,

If her own secrets she must keep:

The bliss of telling what is past,

Becomes her rich reward at last.

Yet not from low desire to shine,

Does Genius toil in Learning's Mine;

Not to indulge in idle vision,

But strike new light by strong collision.

O'er books the mind inactive lies,

Books, the mind's food, not exercise!

Her vigorous wing she scarcely feels,

'Till use the latest strength reveals;

Her slumbering energies call'd forth,

She rises, conscious of her worth;

And, at her new-found powers elated,

Thinks them not rous'd, but new created.

Enlighten'd spirits! you, who know

What charms from polish'd converse flow,

Speak, for you can, the pure delight

When kindred sympathies unite;

When correspondent tastes impart

Communion sweet from heart to heart;

You ne'er the cold gradations need

Which vulgar souls to union lead;

No dry discussion to unfold

The meaning, caught as soon as told:

But sparks electric only strike

On souls electrical alike;

The flash of Intellect expires,

Unless it meet congenial fires.

The language to th' Elect alone

Is, like the Mason's mystery, known;

In vain th' unerring sign is made

To him who is not of the Trade.

What lively pleasure to divine,

The thought implied, the hinted line,

To feel Allusion's artful force,

And trace the Image to its source!

Quick Memory blends her scatter'd rays,

'Till Fancy kindles at the blaze;

The works of ages start to view,

And ancient Wit elicits new.

But wit and parts if thus we praise,

What nobler altars shou'd we raise,

Those sacrifices cou'd we see

Which Wit, O Virtue! makes to Thee.

At once the rising thought to dash,

To quench at once the bursting flash!

The shining Mischief to subdue,

And lose the praise, and pleasure too!

This is high Principle's controul!

This is true continence of soul!

Blush, heroes, at your cheap renown,

A vanquish'd realm, a plunder'd town!

Your conquests were to gain a name,

This conquest triumphs over Fame;

So pure its essence; 'twere destroy'd.

If known, and if commended, void.

Amidst the brightest truths believ'd,

Amidst the fairest deeds atchiev'd,

Shall stand recorded and admir'd,

That Virtue sunk what Wit inspir'd!

But let the letter'd, and the fair,

And, chiefly, let the Wit beware;

You, whose warm spirits never fail,

Forgive the hint which ends my tale.

Tho' Science nurs'd you in her bow'rs,

Tho' Fancy crown your brow with flowers,

Each thought, tho' bright Invention fill,

Tho' Attic bees each word distil;

Yet, if one gracious power refuse

Her gentle influence to infuse,

In vain shall listening crowds approve,

They'll praise you, but they will not love.

What is this power, you're loth to mention,

This charm, this witchcraft? 'tis ATTENTION:

Mute Angel, yes; thy looks dispense

The silence of intelligence;

Thy graceful form I well discern,

In act to listen and to learn;

'Tis Thou for talents shalt obtain

That pardon Wit wou'd hope in vain;

Thy wond'rous power, thy secret charm,

Shall Envy of her sting disarm;

Thy silent flattery sooths our spirit,

And we forgive eclipsing merit;

The sweet atonement screens the fault,

And love and praise are cheaply bought.

With mild complacency to hear,

Tho' somewhat long the tale appear,—

Tis more than Wit, 'tis moral Beauty,

'Tis Pleasure rising out of Duty.

THE END.

Notes

*
Seneca says, that in his time the Romans were arrived at such a pitch of luxury, that the Mullet was reckoned stale which did not die in the hands of the guest.
↵

*
The Society at the Hotel de RAMBOUILLET, though composed of polite and ingenious persons, was much tainted with affectation and false taste. See VOITURE, MENAGE, &c.
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Lately published, by the same Author,

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Information about this book

Title statement

Florio: a tale: for fine gentlemen and fine ladies: and, the bas bleu; or, conversation: two poems.

More, Hannah, 1745-1833.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3982

ID [isbn10]

1106009819

ID [isbn13]

9781106009814

ID [TCP]

K037413.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310600190

ID [ECLL]

0134303500

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— Florio: a tale: for fine gentlemen and fine ladies: and, the bas bleu; or, conversation: two poems., More, Hannah, 1745-1833.. v,[3],89,[3]p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for T. Cadell,. 1786.. [The dedication signed: Hannah More.] [With a final advertisement leaf.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT35621.] [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).]

Creation

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Editorial practices

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