A Satire, in imitation of the Third of Juvenal

THOUGH much concerned to lose my dear old friend,I must however his design commendOf fixing in the country; for were IAs free to chose my residence as he,The Peak, the Fens, the Hundreds, or Land's-end,I would prefer to Fleet-street, or the Strand.What place so desert, and so wild is there,Whose inconveniences one would not bear,Bather than the alarms of midnight fire,The fall of houses, knavery of cits,The plots of factions, and the noise of wits,And thousand other plagues, which up and downEach day and hour infest the cursèd town?As fate would have it, on the appointed dayOf parting hence, I met him on the way,

Hard by Mile-end, the place so famed of late,In prose and verse, for the great faction's treat;Here we stood still, and after complimentsOf course, and wishing his good journey hence,I asked what sudden causes made him flyThe once loved town, and his dear company;When, on the hated prospect looking back,Thus with just rage the good old Timon spake.'Since virtue here in no repute is had,Since worth is scorned, learning and sense unpaid,And knavery the only thriving trade;Finding my slender fortune every dayDwindle, and waste insensibly away,I, like a losing gamester, thus retreat,To manage wiselier my last stake of fate;While I have strength, and want no staff to propMy tottering limbs, ere age has made me stoopBeneath its weight, ere all my thread be spun,And life has yet in store some sands to run,’Tis my resolve to quit the nauseous town.’Let thriving Morecraft choose his dwelling there,Rich with the spoils of some young spendthrift heir;Let the plot-mongers stay behind, whose artCan truth to sham, and sham to truth convert;Whoever has an house to build, or set,His wife, his conscience, or his oath to let;Whoever has, or hopes for offices,A navy, guard, or custom-house's place;Let sharping courtiers stay, who there are greatBy putting the false dice on king and state;Where they, who once were grooms and footboys known,Are now to fair estates and honours grown;Nor need we envy them, or wonder muchAt their fantastic greatness, since they're such,Whom fortune oft in her capricious freaksIs pleased to raise from kennels, and the jakes,

To wealth, and dignity above the rest,When she is frolic, and disposed to jest,'I live in London! What should I do there?I cannot lie, nor flatter, nor forswear;I can't commend a book, or piece of wit,Though a lord were the author, dully writ;I'm no Sir Sidrophel to read the stars,And cast nativities for longing heirs,When fathers shall drop off; no GadburyTo tell the minute when the king shall die,And you know what—come in; nor can I steer,And tack about my conscience, whensoe'er,To a new point, I see religion veer.Let others pimp to courtier's lechery,I'll draw no city cuckold's curse on me;Nor would I do it, though to be made great,And raised to be chief minister of state.Therefore I think it fit to rid the townOf one, that is an useless member grown.'Besides, who has pretence to favour now,But he, who hidden villany does know,Whose breast does with some burning secret glow?By none thou shalt preferred or valued be,That trusts thee with an honest secrecy;He only may to great men's friendship reach,Who great men, when he pleases, can impeach.Let others thus aspire to dignity;For me, I’d not their envied grandeur buyFor all the Exchange is worth, that Paul's will cost,Or was of late in the Scotch voyage lost.

What would it boot, if I, to gain my end,Forego my quiet, and my ease of mind,Still feared, at last betrayed by my great friend?’Another cause, which I must boldly own,And not the least, for which I quit the town,Is to behold it made the common-sewer,Where France does all her filth and ordure pour;What spark of true old English rage can bearThose, who were slaves at home, to lord it here?We've all our fashions, language, compliments,Our music, dances, curing, cooking thence;And we shall have their poisoning too ere long,If still in the improvement we go on.What would'st thou say, great Harry, should'st thou viewThy gaudy fluttering race of English now,Their tawdry clothes, pulvilios, essences;Their Chedreux' perruques, and those vanities,Which thou, and they of old did so despise?What would'st thou say to see the infected townWith the foul spawn of foreigners o'er run?Hither from Paris, and all parts they come,The spew and vomit of their gaols at home;To court they flock, and to St. James’s-square,And wriggle into great men's service there;Footboys at first, till they, from wiping shoes,Grow by degrees the masters of the house;

Ready of wit, hardened of impudence,Able with ease to put down either Haines,Both the King's player, and King's evidence;Flippant of talk, and voluble of tongue,With words at will, no lawyer better hung;Softer than flattering court-parasite,Or city trader, when he means to cheat,No calling or profession comes amiss;A needy monsieur can be what he please,Groom, page, valet, quack, operator, fencer,Perfumer, pimp, Jack-pudding, juggler, dancer:Give but the word, the cur will fetch and bring,Come over to the Emperor, or King;Or, if you please, fly o'er the pyramid,Which Johnston and the rest in vain have tried.’Can I have patience, and endure to seeThe paltry foreign wretch take place of me,Whom the same wind and vessel brought ashore,That brought prohibited goods, and vices o'er?Then, pray, what mighty privilege is thereFor me, that at my birth drew English air?And where's the benefit to have my veinsRun British blood, if there's no difference'Twixt me and him, the statute freedom gave,And made a subject of a true-born slave?'But nothing shocks, and is more loathed by me,Than the vile rascal's fulsome flattery;By help of this false magnifying glass,A louse or flea shall for a camel pass;Produce an hideous wight, more ugly farThan those ill shapes which in old hangings are,He'll make him straight a beau garçon appear;

Commend his voice and singing, though he brayWorse than Sir Martin Marr-all in the play:And, if he rhyme, shall praise for standard wit,More scurvy sense than Prynne, and Vicars writ.'And here's the mischief, though we say the same,He is believed, and we are thought to sham;Do you but smile, immediately the beastLaughs out aloud, though he ne'er heard the jest;Pretend you're sad, he's presently in tears,Yet grieves no more than marble, when it wearsSorrow in metaphor; but speak of heat,’O God! how sultry 'tis!' he'll cry, and sweatIn depth of winter; straight, if you complainOf cold, the weather-glass is sunk again:Then he'll call for his frieze campaign, and swear'Tis beyond eighty, he's in Greenland here.Thus he shifts scenes, and oftener in a dayCan change his face than actors at a play;There's nought so mean can 'scape the flattering sot,Not his lord's snuff-box, nor his powder-spot;If he but spit, or pick his teeth, he'll cry,’How everything becomes you! let me die,Your lordship does it most judiciously!'And swear 'tis fashionable if he sneeze,Extremely taking, and it needs must please.’Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing freeFrom the hot satyr's rampant lechery;Nor wife, nor virgin-daughter can escape,Scarce thou thyself or son avoid a rape;All must go pad-locked; if nought else there be,Suspect thy very stables' chastity.By this the vermin into secrets creep,Thus families in awe they strive to keep.

What living for an Englishman is there,Where such as these get head, and domineer,Whose use and custom 'tis, never to shareA friend, but love to reign without dispute,Without a rival, full and absolute?Soon as the insect gets his honour's ear,And flyblows some of's pois'nous malice there,Straight I'm turned off, kicked out of doors, discarded,And all my former service disregarded.’But leaving these messieurs, for fear that IBe thought of the silk-weaver's mutiny,From the loathed subject let us hasten on,To mention other grievances in town:And further, what respect at all is hadOf poor men here? and how's their service paid,Though they be ne'er so diligent to wait,To sneak, and dance attendance on the great?No mark of favour is to be obtainedBy one that sues, and brings an empty hand;And all his merit is but made a sport,Unless he glut some cormorant at court.'Tis now a common thing, and usual here,To see the son of some rich usurerTake place of nobles, keep his first-rate whore,And, for a vaulting bout or two, give moreThan a guard-captain's pay; meanwhile the breedOf peers, reduced to poverty and need,Are fain to trudge to the Bankside, and thereTake up with porters' leavings, suburb ware,There spend that blood, which their great ancestorSo nobly shed at Cressy heretofore,At brothel-fights, in some foul common-sewer.’Produce an evidence, though just he be,As righteous Job, or Abraham, or heWhom Heaven, when whole nature shipwrecked wasThought worth the saving, of all human race;

Or t'other, who the flaming deluge 'scaped,When Sodom's lechers angels would have raped;How rich he is?' must the first question be;Next for his manners and integrity:They'll ask, 'What equipage he keeps, and whatHe's reckoned worth in money and estate,Whether for shrieve he has been known to fine,And with how many dishes he does dine?'For look what cash a person has in store,Just so much credit has he, and no more.Should I upon a thousand Bibles swear,And call each saint throughout the calendarTo vouch my oath, it wont be taken here;The poor slight heaven and thunderbolts, they think,And heaven itself does at such trifles wink.'Besides, what store of gibing scoffs are thrownOn one that's poor and meanly clad in town;Of his apparel seem but overworn,His stocking out at heel, or breeches torn,One takes occasion his ripped shoe to flout,And swears 't has been at prison-gates hung out;Another shrewdly jeers his coarse cravat,Because himself wears point; a third his hat,And most unmercifully shows his wit,If it be old, or does not cock aright,Nothing in poverty so ill is borne,As its exposing men to grinning scorn,To be by tawdry coxcombs jeered upon,And made the jesting stock of each buffoon.Turn out there, friend!' cries one at church, 'the pewIs not for such mean scoundrel curs as you;'Tis for your betters kept;' belike some sotThat knew no father, was on bulks begot,But now is raised to an estate and pride,By having the kind proverb on his side;Let Gripe and Cheatwell take their places there,And Dash, the scrivener's gaudy sparkish heir,

That wears three ruined orphans on his back;Meanwhile, you in the alley stand, and sneak:And you therewith must rest contented, sinceAlmighty wealth does put such difference.What citizen a son-in-law will take,Bred ne'er so well, that can't a jointure make?What man of sense, that's poor, e'er summoned isAmongst the common council to advise?At vestry-consults when does he appear,For choosing of some parish officer,Or making leather buckets for the choir?''Tis hard for any man to rise, that feelsHis virtue clogged with poverty at heels;But harder 'tis by much in London, whereA sorry lodging, coarse and slender fare,Fire, water, breathing, everything is dear;Yet such as these an earthen dish disdain,With which their ancestors, in Edgar's reign,Were served, and thought it no disgrace to dine,Though they were rich, had store of leather coin.Low as their fortune is, yet they despiseA man that walks the streets in homely frieze;To speak the truth, great part of England now,In their own cloth will scarce vouchsafe to go;Only, the statute's penalty to save,Some few perhaps wear woollen in the grave.

Here all go daily dressed, although it beAbove their means, their rank, and quality;The most in borrowed gallantry are clad,For which the tradesmen's books are still unpaid;This fault is common in the meaner sort,That they must needs affect to bear the portOf gentlemen, though they want income for't.’Sir, to be short, in this expensive townThere's nothing without money to be done;What will you give to be admitted there,And brought to speech of some court minister?What will you give to have the quarter-face,The squint and nodding go-by of his Grace?His porter, groom, and steward must have fees,And you may see the Tombs, and Tower for less.Hard fate of suitors! who must pay, and prayTo livery-slaves, yet oft go scorned away.'Whoe'er at Barnet, or St. Albans, fearsTo have his lodging drop about his ears,Unless a sudden hurricane befal.Or such a wind as blew old Noll to hell?Here we build slight, what scarce outlasts the lease,Without the help of props and buttresses;And houses now-a-days as much requireTo be ensured from falling, as from fire.There, buildings are substantial, though less neat,And kept with care both wind and water tight;There, you in safe security are blessed,And nought, but conscience, to disturb your rest.'I am for living where no fires affright,No bells rung backward break my sleep at night;

I scarce lie down, and draw my curtains here,But straight I'm roused by the next house on fire;Pale, and half dead with fear, myself I raise,And find my room all over in a blaze;By this 't has seized on the third stairs, and ICan now discern no other remedy,But leaping out at window to get free;For if the mischief from the cellar came,Be sure the garret is the last takes flame.'The moveables of Pordage were a bedFor him and 's wife, a basin by its side,A looking-glass upon the cupboard's head,A comb-case, candlestick, and pewter spoonFor want of plate, a desk to write upon;A box without a lid served to containFew authors, which made up his Vatican;And there his own immortal works were laid,On which the barbarous mice for hunger preyed;Pordage had nothing, all the world does know,And yet should he have lost this nothing too,No one the wretched bard would have suppliedWith lodging, house-room, or a crust of bread.'But if the fire burn down some great man's house,All straight are interested in the loss;The court is straight in mourning sure enough,The act, commencement, and the term put off;Then we mischances of the town lament,And fasts are kept, like judgments to prevent.Out comes a brief immediately, with speedTo gather charity as far as Tweed.

Nay, while 'tis burning, some will send him inTimber, and stone to build his house again;Others choice furniture; some rare pieceOf Rubens, or Vandyke presented is;There a rich suit of Mortlack tapestry,A bed of damask or embroidery;One gives a fine scrutoire, or cabinet,Another a huge massy dish of plate,Or bag of gold: thus he at length gets moreBy kind misfortune than he had before;And all suspect it for a laid design,As if he did himself the fire begin.Could you but be advised to leave the town,And from dear plays, and drinking friends be drawn,A handsome dwelling might be had in Kent,Surrey, or Essex, at a cheaper rentThan what you're forced to give for one half yearTo lie, like lumber, in a garret here.A garden there, and well, that needs no rope,Engine, or pains to crane its waters up;Water is there through Nature's pipes conveyed,For which no custom or excise is paid.Had I the smallest spot of ground, which scarceWould summer half a dozen grasshoppers,Not larger than my grave, though hence remoteFar as St. Michael's Mount, I would go to't,Dwell there content, and thank the Fates to boot.’Here want of rest a-nights more people killsThan all the college, and the weekly bills;Where none have privilege to sleep, but thoseWhose purses can compound for their repose.In vain I go to bed, or close my eyes,Methinks the place the middle region is,Where I lie down in storms, in thunder rise;The restless bells such din in steeples keep,That scarce the dead can in their churchyards sleep;Huzzas of drunkards, bellmen's midnight rhymes,The noise of shops, with hawker's early screams,

Besides the brawls of coachmen, when they meet,And stop in turnings of a narrow street,Such a loud medley of confusion make,As drowsy Archer on the bench would wake.'If you walk out in business ne'er so great,Ten thousand stops you must expect to meet;Thick crowds in every place you must charge through,And storm your passage wheresoe'er you go;While tides of followers behind you throng,And, pressing on your heels, shove you along;One with a board, or rafter, hits your head,Another with his elbow bores your side;Some tread upon your corns, perhaps in sport,Meanwhile your legs are cased all o'er with dirt;Here, you the march of a slow funeral wait,Advancing to the church with solemn state;There, a sedan and lacquies stop your way,That bears some punk of honour to the play;Now, you some mighty piece of timber meet,Which tottering threatens ruin to the street;Next, a huge Portland stone, for building Paul's,Itself almost a rock, on carriage rolls;Which, if it fall, would cause a massacre,And serve at once to murder, and inter.'If what I've said can't from the town affright,Consider other dangers of the night:When brickbats are from upper stories thrown,And empty chamber-pots come pouring downFrom garret windows; you have cause to blessThe gentle stars, if you come off with piss;So many fates attend, a man had need,Ne'er walk without a surgeon by his side;And he can hardly now discreet be thought,That does not make his will ere he go out.

'If this you 'scape, twenty to one you meetSome of the drunken scourers of the street,Flushed with success of warlike deeds performed,Of constables subdued, and brothels stormed,These, if a quarrel or a fray be missed,Are ill at ease a-nights, and want their rest;For mischief is a lechery to some,And serves to make them sleep like laudanum.Yet heated, as they are, with youth and wine,If they discern a train of flambeaux shine,If a great man with his gilt coach appear,And a strong guard of footboys in the rear,The rascals sneak and shrink their heads for fear.Poor me, who use no light to walk about,Save what the parish, or the skies hang out,They value not; 'tis worth your while to hearThe scuffle, if that be a scuffle, whereAnother gives the blows I only bear;He bids me stand; of force I must give way,For 'twere a senseless thing to disobey,And struggle here, where I'd as good opposeMyself to Preston and his mastiffs loose.’Who's there?' he cries, and takes you by the throat;’Dog! are you dumb? Speak quickly, else my footShall march about your buttocks; whence d'ye come?From what bulk-ridden strumpet reeking home?Saving your reverend pimpship, where d'ye ply?How may one have a job of lechery?'If you say anything, or hold your peace,And silently go off, 'tis all a case;Still he lays on; nay well, if you 'scape so;Perhaps he'll clap an action on you tooOf battery, nor need he fear to meetA jury to his turn, shall do him right,And bring him in large damage for a shoeWorn out, besides the pains in kicking you.

A poor man must expect nought of redress,But patience; his best course in such a caseIs to be thankful for the drubs, and begThat they would mercifully spare one leg,Or arm unbroke, and let him go awayWith teeth enough to eat his meat next day.'Nor is this all which you have cause to fear;Oft we encounter midnight padders here,When the exchanges and the shops are close,And the rich tradesman in his counting-houseTo view the profits of the day withdraws.Hither in flocks from Shooter's Hill they come,To seek their prize and booty nearer home:’Your purse!' they cry; 'tis madness to resist,Or strive, with a cocked pistol at your breast.And these each day so strong and numerous grow,The town can scarce afford them jail-room now.Happy the times of the old Heptarchy,Ere London knew so much of villany;Then fatal carts through Holborn seldom went,And Tyburn with few pilgrims was content;A less, and single prison then would do,And served the City and the County too.'These are the reasons, sir, which drive me hence,To which I might add more, would time dispenseTo hold you longer; but the sun draws low,The coach is hard at hand, and I must go;Therefore, dear sir, farewell; and when the townFrom better company can spare you down,To make the country with your presence blessed,Then visit your old friend amongst the rest;There I'll find leisure to unlade my mindOf what remarks I now must leave behind;The fruits of dear experience, which, with theseImproved, will serve for hints and notices;And when you write again, may be of useTo furnish satire for your daring muse.'