Roused at his name, up rose the bousy sire, And shook from out his pipe the seeds of fire; Then snapt his box, and stroked his belly down: Rosy and reverend, though without a gown. Bland and familiar to the throne he came, Led up the youth, and call'd the goddess dame. Then thus: 'From priestcraft happily set free, Lo! every finish'd son returns to thee: 500 First, slave to words,[437] then vassal to a name, Then dupe to party; child and man the same; Bounded by nature, narrow'd still by art, A trifling head, and a contracted heart; Thus bred, thus taught, how many have I seen, Smiling on all, and smiled on by a queen?[438] Mark'd out for honours, honour'd for their birth, To thee the most rebellious things on earth: Now to thy gentle shadow all are shrunk, All melted down in pension or in punk! 510 So K----, so B---- sneak'd into the grave, A monarch's half, and half a harlot's slave. Poor W----,[439] nipp'd in folly's broadest bloom, Who praises now? his chaplain on his tomb. Then take them all, oh, take them to thy breast! Thy Magus, goddess! shall perform the rest.'
With that, a wizard old his cup extends, Which whoso tastes forgets his former friends, Sire, ancestors, himself. One casts his eyes Up to a star, and like Endymion dies: 520 A feather, shooting from another's head, Extracts his brain, and principle is fled; Lost is his God, his country, everything; And nothing left but homage to a king![440] The vulgar herd turn off to roll with hogs, To run with horses, or to hunt with dogs; But, sad example! never to escape Their infamy, still keep the human shape. But she, good goddess, sent to every child Firm Impudence, or Stupefaction mild; 530 And strait succeeded, leaving shame no room, Cibberian forehead, or Cimmerian gloom.
Kind Self-conceit to some her glass applies, Which no one looks in with another's eyes: But as the flatterer or dependant paint, Beholds himself a patriot, chief, or saint.
On others Interest her gay livery flings, Interest, that waves on party-colour'd wings: Turn'd to the sun, she casts a thousand dyes, And, as she turns, the colours fall or rise. 540
Others the Syren sisters warble round, And empty heads console with empty sound. No more, alas! the voice of fame they hear, The balm of Dulness[441] trickling in their ear. Great C----, H----, P----, R----, K----, Why all your toils? your sons have learn'd to sing. How quick ambition hastes to ridicule! The sire is made a peer, the son a fool.