The town. A satire. By W. Kenrick

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

THE TOWN.

WISE was the Clown who, when he first descried

London, the Seat of Vanity and Pride,

And saw the Clouds that o'er it's Turrets spread,

Gravely stood still and shook his cautious Head:

What can this mean? the Portent is not good!

See, Heav'n has mark'd it with a sulph'rous Cloud!

Some Danger's near, this Warning is not vain!

Then turn'd him back, and travell'd home again.

How happy they who never yet have known

The num'rous Follies of the noisy Town,

Where Affectation joins to low Conceit,

And fills with Coxcombs ev'ry crowded Street;

All seek intent for what is new To-day,

And Noise and Nonsense bear them all away.

At Paulin's, Long's behold the glorious Trade,

How the Fools swarm to get in Masquerade;

That's done To-night—To-morrow something new

Again with equal Appetite pursue.

To Broughton's see the tender Stripling goes

To hear the Battle and to see the Blows.

Some [*] H—'s calls, where snuffing Punsters meet,

And all the Company is plagu'd with Wit:

So great the Virtue of the strong Rappee,

That ev'ry Pinch creates a Repartee!

Strange Power in Dust! be H—'s all the Gain,

Whose wond'rous Art can thus affect the Brain;

Strait let his Shop commence a publick School,

To teach the Blockhead and instruct the Fool.

'Twas here the Player took his first Degrees,

Who wrote a Farce, then help'd his Farce to please;

Here, first establish'd, was he call'd a Wit,

And since has charm'd the World with what he writ.

In vain dull Songsters [†] Woman's Praise rehearse,

His Peggy proves the mighty Power of Verse,

His Vocal Shell, what Shell soe'er it be,

Speaks a just Taste of senseless Poetry:

Pleas'd may the [*]Fair review each charming Line,

By her inspir'd; and think herself divine:

Yet, Oh! how mortal on a sudden grown,

To be the sing-song Ballad of the Town.

Hail, mighty G—k, Chief amidst the Throng,

Of leading Nonsense and of Apish Song;

To thee, with Joy, the Herd of Fools submit,

And Curse me Fellow's current Coin for Wit,

Thy keenest Satire bears the silliest Phrase,

And, Oh! how much unworthy of our Praise:

Pleasing the Character you set to View,

(For Fools are ever pleas'd with what is new)

The mean Infection catches thro' the Street,

And see a [*] Fribble ev'ry Fop we meet:

So great the [†] fav'rite Work, so learn'd, so wise;

One Fool is lash'd, and thence lo! ten arise.

A Fool's a resolute and sturdy Beast,

And thy weak Hand but tickles him at best;

How much we owe to such a Pen as thine,

Where Blockheads with the Satyrist combine,

First taught by thee, they boast the strange Pretence,

To satire Coxcombs, while they murder Sense;

Fondly they write each other's Follies down,

And quite forget those Follies are their own.

As once a Fool beheld his antick Face,

And saw his Visage in the Magick Glass,

Surpriz'd he saw, and this Construction made,

A Man is wond'rous strange with such a Head:

Then laugh'd to view the Oddness of the Phiz,

But little thought the monstrous Picture his.

So when a Fop 'gainst Fops a Satire reads,

He smiles whene'er he thinks the Victim bleeds,

Again the Tale insensibly pursues,

And struck afresh, afresh the Smile renews.

See 'mongst the Crowd new endless Follies rise;

Whilst all for Wit contend, a glorious Prize!

Each Blockhead boasts how just his own Pretence,

And proves how much he wants of common Sense.

The spruce young Templar, or th'affected Cit,

Maintains his Title as a first-rate Wit,

Prates of the Play-house,—"I was there To-day,

"Saw the Rehearsal of a new writ Play,

"'Bout which the Manager's in Doubt perplex'd,

"To bring it out this Season, or the next."

Of all the Coxcombs that infest the Age,

None like the Politicians of the Stage,

Those Dupes to Wit, who ever boldly say

They know as much as others, wise as they.

Eternal Bablers! yet they boast to know

More than the Managers or Actors do.

Name but a Play, they've seen it o'er and o'er,

And Speeches could rehearse, if need, a Score:

Beg but the Favour they would one repeat,

Puff'd up with Vanity and loud Conceit,

With op'ning Lungs (for never they refuse

To tear the Product of a worthy Muse)

They plague your Ears, then fly the Place, or stay

To see a barb'rous Murder on a Play:

As soon I'd go to Smithfield's dirty Fair,

And bear the Gabbling of a stroling Player:

As soon I'd be in James-street Hovel seen,

Where low-liv'd 'Prentices play Tamerlane:

Or at the Wells, where bawling Butchers wait,

And the fit Theme is wretched Barnwell's Fate:

As wou'd I go where Fools like these resort,

The Curse of Company, the Publick Sport.

Yet say what Place is free from Folly now,

Where do we lose the Fop's affected Bow,

Where doth the Dunce attentive silent sit,

Or where the Blockhead fear to trust his Wit?

At W—'s behold the Fools and Coxcombs there,

But Fools and Coxcombs in a higher Sphere,

There Lords and Knights fill up the crowded Room,

And Rakes polite that from the Bagnio come;

There Whisper, Nonsense, Apes, embroider'd Cloaths

Make up the sweet Society of Beaux:

Sense, scorn'd by all, the worthless House denies,

And W—'s remains a Box of Butterflies.

Hold, cries a Friend, that at my Elbow sits,

What meddle with the Great, you've lost your Wits!

Perchance some Lord your Verses may receive.

And when they've Money, Lords, you know, can give.

Besides, there's some may boast a good Pretence,

However strange it seem, to Wit and Sense.

Well, Sir, suppose your just Assertion true,

That some Great Man is near as wise as you;

If 'mongst the Fools, [*] St. James's constant Guest,

How shall we know to mark him from the rest?

But think not I wou'd e'er so meanly serve,

Shew Verses to my Lord, then hope and starve:

Such be the Fate of ev'ry rhiming Fool

Who learn'd to pen his wretched Lines at School.

Like C—'s self wrote Odes at Twelve to show,

Odes writ at Twelve are better Odes than now.

Dull Asses! void of Genius or of Thought,

And write (so Parrots prate) as once they're taught.

D—s to those he had by Physick slain,

So sung to tell 'em how to rise again;

Finely describes how [*] broken Members fly,

Odd Legs and Arms how bustle in the Sky:

(How vast the Genius that such Thoughts contains)

So then, if true be his prophetick Strains,

D—s perhaps may find his scatter'd Brains.

To low Petitions can the Muses stoop!

See Invocations from a Baker's Shop.

To Stanhope's Name the [*] mighty Work address'd,

But not by Stanhope's Name it's Worth confess'd:

Man's dreadful Passion was the dreadful Verse,

But [†] R—d's Passion was the greatest Curse.

He call'd the Muse, and begg'd her quick Relief,

In vain he call'd, for oh! the Muse was deaf.

Then down he sat and rack'd his brainless Head,

And swore to write, and writ without her Aid.

Oh! could I hope to catch th' exalted Fires

(Which drop'd from Heav'n) the sacred Muse inspires,

Glad o'er the World, the noisy World I'd fly,

And taste the various Beauties of the Sky;

I'd seek the Groves and make the Dwelling mine

Where dwell the Graces and the tuneful Nine,

There wish to live in one continu'd Day,

Where bright Urania sings and heavenly Muses play.

How vain the Wish! the Prospect's vanish'd quite!

New Scenes of Folly rush upon my Sight.

What loads of Paper destin'd to the Press

To bear the dull Impressions of an Ass,

Who takes th' Advantage of a senseless Age,

And cheats the Reader with a Title Page.

Of such the [*] solitary, tuneless Ode,

With nought of Solitude nor ought of Good.

Cease, worthless Tribe, and give your Scribbling o'er,

If you would gain Applause then write no more;

That Maxim's taught in all our publick Schools,

That Silence is the best Recourse of Fools:

Yet how perverse ye wander from the Right,

As if you would be Blockheads out of Spight,

Whilst all your Study and your utmost Care

Is to be viler Asses than ye are:

Yet each one thinks the more a Fool he grows,

The more he has of Wit, the more he knows,

Thus of all Follies that possess the Brain,

The Coxcomb's greatest Curse is to be vain.

E'en sacred Temples are not sacred now,

For Fops and Fools intrude where'er you go,

Tho' Coxcombs ever are too vain to pray,

They go for Company, as to the Play.

See Clody enter in the Velvet Pew

(He comes To-day, because his Cloaths are new)

His Head he turns, his Body turns withal,

Or else the Buckle of his Hair might fall;

He coughs aloud, to tell the Ladies by

Who plagues the Church—Hem!—Ladies see—'tis I.

Now down he sits, still peeping at the Fair,

Pulls out a Mirrour to adjust his Hair,

Lays out the Dresden, settles ev'ry Pleat,

Each Atom's set, his Lap-Dog's scarce so neat.

But on a sudden see the Mortal grieve,

For, oh! a dreadful Spot upon his Sleeve:

Pain insupportable! too much to bear;

But Thanks to Heaven, his Cordial Drops are near;

But see he goes, and leaves each sneering Fair,

Forsakes the Bishop, and the godly Pray'r.

E'en Priests themselves just Satire cannot pass,

Nor is the Bishop free if he's an Ass.

How oft the Chaplain flies from serving God,

Strips off his Gown and turns a Man of Mode.

The low Priz'd Reader skips the Collects o'er

To get a Breakfast with a gen'rous Whore.

In Brothels see the Priest a lech'rous Swine,

Dead drunk To-night, To-morrow's a Divine.

These, Britain, these your pious Teachers are;

If these not all, but others boast your Care;

How many such whom senseless Learning makes

As wretched Blockheads as the others Rakes.

Hold—hold—again thus interrupts, my Friend

Stop here, good Sir, and let your Satire end:

How vain, how needless! give the Purpose o'er,

Folly's a boundless Sea without a Shore;

As the light Bark is on the Waters tost,

Thy Pen's amidst the floating Billows lost,

As soon you might the Sea's mad Wave contain,

As Folly's wide Prerogative restrain;

Nor Fops, nor Fools you ever can destroy,

For who will mind the Satire of a Boy.

Yet still in vain I curb th' unruly Pen

Still it pursues and strikes at Fools again.

But what Misfortune has the Verse befell,

Convey'd, how sudden, to the crowded Mall.

Here Folly reigns, behold her num'rous Tribe,

Which Fool, which Coxcomb shall I first describe:

Lost in the thronging Tumult of Conceit,

The Verse relents, and Satire would retreat;

But now too late, no Way is left to go,

Plac'd in between a Blockhead and a Beau:

Here doom'd to bear the vast Impertinence

Of Wretches void of Learning as of Sense.

See now a Train of Ladies sailing by,

Strait whips the double Concave to the Eye;

The Laugh, the Sneer, the Look without the Glass

Denote the Blockhead and confirm the Ass:

There stalks a Creature some might call a Man,

Playing the Monkey with a Lady's Fan:

Lo! there a blust'ring Hector from the Wars,

Behind a Row of Smock-fac'd Sons of Mars.

Here Fools of ev'ry Kind—Fops, Rakes, and Cits

Among the rest the worst of Fools, the Wits.

Say where shall those who Sense or Thought admire,

Free, undisturb'd, amidst the Town retire.

No—Here's no Safety, here no Refuge found,

Where Nonsense rules and Vanities abound.

Behold the Stage, where Shakespear once could charm,

And Rowe with sacred Fire each Bosom warm:

E'en there low Folly finds a kind Retreat,

Whilst Shakespear's trod beneath the Dancer's Feet.

To what low Ebb is Taste and Judgment grown,

That Sense must need a Dance, to please the Town.

Soft Otway's Lines sound tedious to the Pit,

And 〈◊〉 expectant for [*] Auretti sit.

Blush, senseless Audience, blush to see a Play'r,

(Whose Sounds of Sense should charm th' attentive Ear)

Go silent off, or seldom more can boast

Than the poor Gall'ry's half-strain'd Praise at most:

Yet if [*] Janeton shakes her slender Feet,

How the loud Thunder clatters thro' the Pit:

How oft we see the Hero half divine,

In noble Worth and gen'rous Passion shine

We see him fetch the last dear parting Breath,

And greatly bear the Agonies of Death.

Lo! the Scene shifts and see the Hero pass,

A mimick Sir and now is turn'd an Ass.

How ill proportion'd! what a monstrous Thing!

Thus [†] Nab To-morrow swells into a King:

No Wonder Follies thus o'er-run the Stage,

Since nought but Folly takes the senseless Age;

What Shame to see, as I myself have seen,

When well-play'd [*] Shylock grac'd the lively Scene;

A Stage-Box Beau, who sat a finish'd Ass,

And play'd at Peep-bo with a Spying-Glass,

Coxcomb! such Wretches would I more despise

Than Ideots Nature ne'er intended wise:

Expell'd the House was ev'ry Fool like these,

More Men of Sense would come, less Farces please.

F— by himself had mimick'd o'er his Tea,

For F— and [†] Fool alike in Sound agree.

But B—n calls, fly thither strait my Pen,

Again he calls, the Bull-Dog barks again—

The Kennel opens—see the wretched Crew—

How base the Scene presented to the View,

Among the Boxers see my Lord and 'Squire,

All Hounds alike, for all the Pack admire.

But lo! the Curs for bloody Fight prepare,

And roaring Oaths loud bellow desp'rate War;

Whilst all the Gall'ry is in Praises lost

On him, the worthiest Cur that worries most.

So when two Mastiffs, better Dogs than they,

In James's Market mix the noisy Fray,

Before the snarly Fight is half begun

Lo! hooting Butchers from the Shambles run,

Redoubled Noise promotes the fav'rite Cause,

Whilst the poor Curs lose Blood and gain Applause.

But see the Kennel turn'd a publick School,

Where 'Squires and Coachmen may be Brutes by Rule:

Mufflers for those the naked Fist may fright,

For here young Lords and Puppies learn to fight.

Did Britain boast no better Arts than these,

Let ev'ry worthless Art in Britain cease,

A Boxer be the Great Man's constant Guest,

And ev'ry Man of Fortune, turn a BEAST.

FINIS.

Notes

*
A Placè of Resort among some Wits.
↵

†
A barbarous and favourite Song on Woman, at Vaux Hall.
↵

*
Mrs. W-f—g—n.
↵

*
A Character too much known and practis'd to need Explanation.
↵

†
Miss in her Teens.
↵

*
St. James's Coffee-house.
↵

*
Vide, Dr. D—s Poem on the Resurrection, printed in Folio, 1747. Part 1st.
↵

*
A wretched Poem (publish'd by Subscription by the Author) on the Passions of Man. Dedicated to the Earl of Chesterfield.
↵

†
The Author of it.
↵

*
An Ode inscrib'd to Ralph Allen, Esq of Bath, for which it's conjectur'd the Author has robb'd some poor Bell-man of his yearly Verses.
↵

*
A favourite Dancer.
↵

*
Auretti.
↵

†

Abel Drugger, a low Character of Mr. G—k's in Ben. Johnson's Alchymist.

It were to be wish'd that Persons of great Abilities for the Stage (instead of being seen in the mean Characters they often are) would study and play those more suitable to their Capacities, and to the Taste of Judges of Theatrical Performances.

↵

*
An admirable Character in Shakespear's Merchant of Venice, then beautifully represented by Mr. Macklin. Jan. 1st.
↵

†
At least in the Character of Punch.
↵

THE TOWN.

A SATIRE.

Oh! that I'd had in those blest Times my Birth,

E'er Coxcomb Pies, or Coxcombs were on Earth.

POPE.

By W. KENRICK.

LONDON: Printed for R. GRIFFITHS, at the Dunciad, in Ludgate-Street. 1748.

(Price, One Shilling.)

Information about this book

Title statement

The town. A satire. By W. Kenrick

Kenrick, W. (William), 1725?-1779.

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/4228

ID [isbn10]

1106012275

ID [isbn13]

9781106012272

ID [TCP]

K046839.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3313522179

ID [ECLL]

0578804200

Availability

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

Source

— The town. A satire. By W. Kenrick, Kenrick, W. (William), 1725?-1779.. 24p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for R. Griffiths,. 1748.. [Verse.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Foxon, K15] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT51487.] [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

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2p5.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

This electronic text file was keyed from page images and partially proofread for accuracy. Character capture and encoding have been done following the guidelines of the ECCO Text Creation Partnership, which correspond roughly to the recommendations found in Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Digital page images are linked to the text file.