MAN of TASTE Occasion’d by an EPISTLE Of Mr. P O P E’x On that Subject. By the Author of the Art of Politicks. LONDON: Printed by J. ILright, for Lawton Gilliver at Homer s Head againft St. Dun flans Church in Fleetjireet , 1733 - Price i r. : h ,'d T a AT io VI Alt. 3 '■ 3 J t g i q a 1 H •.) I .-IA \0, * jooicliiv! Jcrlt rtO o. f [ lo. : a A vJ.\ V w \v:‘ • A 0 CV o \\ \C \ : ! (») The Man of Tafte. W Hoeer he be that to a Tajle afpires, Let him read this, and be what he deiires. In men and manners vers’d from life I write, Not what was once but what is now polite. Thofe who of courtly France have made the tour. Can fcarce our Englijh awkwardnefs endure. But honeft men who never were abroad, Like England only, and its Tajle applaud. Strife ftill fublifts, which yields the better gout ; Books or the world, the many or the few. True Tajle to me is by this touchftone known, 1 hat s always bed: that’s neareft to my own. To fhew that my pretenlions are not vain, My Father was a play’r in Drury-lane. ( <* ) Pears and Piftachio-nuts my Mother fold, He a Dramatick-poet, She a Scold. His tragick mufe could Counteffes affright, Her wit in boxes was my Lord’s delight. No mercenary Prieji e’er join’d their hands, Uncramp’d by wedlock’s unpoetick bands. J_,aws my Pindarick parents matter’d not, So I was tragi-comically got. My infant tears a fort of meafure kept, I fqual’d in Diftichs, and in Triplets wept. No youth did I in education wafte, Happy in an Hereditary Tajie. Writing ne’er cramp’d the linews of my thumb, Nor barb’rous birch e’er brulh’d my brawny bum. My guts ne’er buffer’d from a college-cook, My name ne’er enter’d in a buttery-book. Grammar in vain the fons of Prifcian teach, Good Parts are better than Eight Parts of Speech: Since thefe declin’d thofe undeclin d they call, I thank my Stars, that I declin'd ’em all. To Greek or Latin Tongues without pretence, I truft to mother Wit, and father Senfe. Na. Natures my guide, all Sciences I {corn, Pains I abhor, I was a Poet born. Yet is my gout for criticifm fuch, I’ve cot fome French , and know a little Dutch. O Huge commentators grace my learned llielves, Notes upon books out-do the books themfelves. Criticks indeed are valuable men, But hyper-criticks are as good agen. Tho’ Blackmon's works my foul with raptures fill, With notes by Bently they’d be better (till. The Boghoufe-Mifcellany s well delign’d, To eafe the body, and improve the mind. Swift’s whims and jokes for my refentment call, For he difpleafes me, that pleafes all.-' Verfe without rhyme I never could endure, Uncouth in numbers, and in fenfe obfcure. To him as Nature, when he ceas’d to fee, Miltons an univerfal Blank to me. Confirm’d and fettled by the Nations voice, Rhyme is the poet’s pride, and peoples choice. Always upheld by national Support, Of Market, Univerfity, and Court: Thompfon ( 8 ) Thompfon, write blank ; but know that for that reafon, Thefe lines fhall live, when thine are out of feafon. Rhyme binds and beautifies the Poet’s lays As London Ladies owe their lhape to flays. Had Cibbers felf the Carelejs Husband wrote, He for the Laurel ne’er had had my Vote: But for his Epilogues and other Plays He thoroughly deferves the Modern Bays. It pleafes me, that Lope unlaurell’d eoes While Cibber wears the Bays for Playhoufe Profe. So Britain s Monarch once uncover’d fate. While Bradjhaw bully’d in a broad-brimm’d hat. Long live old Curl! he ne’er to publilh fears, Fhe fpeeches, verfes, and laft wills of Peers, How oft has he a publick fpirit lhewn, And pleas’d our ears regardlefs of his own ? But to give Merit due, though CurV s the Fame, Are not his Brother-bookfellers the fame? Can Statutes keep the Britijh Prefs in awe, V hile that fells bell, that’s moft againffc the Law ? Lives of dead Plafrs my leifure hours beguile, And Seffms-Lapers tragedize my ftile. ’Tk ’Tis charming reading in Ophelias life, So oft a Mother, and not once a Wife: She could with juft propriety behave, Alive with Peers, with Monarchs in her grave: Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept, By Prebends bury’d and by Generals kept. T’improve in Morals Mandevil I read, And Tyndal’s Scruples are my fettled Creed. I travell’d early, and I foon faw through Religion all, e’er I was twenty-two. Shame, Pain, or Poverty fhall I endure, When ropes or opium can my eafe procure ? When money’s gone, and I no debts can pay, Self-murder is an honourable way. As Pafaran diredts I’d end my life, And kill myfelf, my daughter, and my wife. Burn but that Bible which the Parfon quotes, And men of fpirit all fliall cut their throats. But not to writings I coniine my pen, I have a tafte for buildings, mufick, men. Young travell’d coxcombs mighty knowledge b’oaft, With fuperficial Smatterings at Moft. C Not ( 1 ° ) Not fo my mind, unfatisfied with hints, Knows more than Budget writes, or Roberts prints. I know the town, all houfes I have feen, From High-Park corner down to Bednal-Green. Sure wretched Wren was taught by bungling 'Jones. To murder mortar, and disfigure Hones! Who in Whitehall can fymmetry difcern ? I reckon Convent-garden Church a Barn. Nor hate I lefs thy vile Cathedral, Paul! The choir’s too big, the cupola’s too fmall: Subftantial walls and heavy roofs I like, ’Tis Vanbrugs ftructures that my fancy ftrike: Such noble ruins ev’ry pile wou’d make, 1 willi they’d tumble for the profpecl’s fake. To lofty Cheljea or to Greenwich Dome, Soldiers and labors all are welcom’d home. Her poor to palaces Britannia brings, St, James's hofpital may ferve for kings. Building fo happily I underffcand, That for one houfe I’d mortgage all my land. Doric/;, Ionic , fhall not there be found, But it fhall coft me threefcore thoufand pound. From ( u ) From out my honeft workmen, I’ll feledl A Brickla.fr, and proclaim him architect ; Fir ft bid him build me a ftupendous Dome, Which having fnijh’d, we fet out for Rom ; Take a weeks view of Venice and the Brent , Stare round, fee nothing, and come home content. Fll have my Villa too, a fweet abode, It’s lituation fliall be London road: Rots o’er the door I’ll place like Cit’s balconies, Which * Bently calls the Gardens of Adonis. Fll have my Gardens in the fafhion too, For what is beautiful that is not new ? Fair four-legg’d temples, theatres that vye, With all the angles of a Chriftmas- pye. Does it not merit the beholder’s praife, What’s high to link ? and what is low to raife ? Slopes Avail afcend where once a green-houfe ftood, And in my horfe-pond I will plant a wood. Liet nufers dread the hoarded gold to wafte, Expence and alteration Ihew a Tajle. In curious paintings I’m exceeding nice, And know their feveral beauties by their Brice. Auctions Bently’s Milton, Book 9. Ver. 439. ( 12 , ) Auctions and Sales I conftantly attend, Bat chafe my pictures by a skilful friend. Originals and copies much the fame, The pibkire s value is the painter's name. My tafte in Sculpture from my choice is feen, I buy no ftatues that are not obfeene, In fpite of Addifon and ancient Rome, Sir Cloudejly Shovel’s is my fliv rite tomb. How oft have I with admiration ftood, To view fome City-magiftrate in wood ? I gaze with pleafure on a Lord May’r’s head, Call with propriety in gilded lead. Oh could I view through London as I pafs. Some broad Sir Balaam in Corinthian brafs High on a pedeftal, ye Freemen, place His magiftenal Paunch and griping Face • Letter'd and Gilt , let him adorn Cheap fide. And grant the Tradefman, what a Kings deny’d. Old Coins and Medals I colled!, Ms true, Sir Andrew has ’em, and I’ll have ’em too. But among friends if I the truth might fpeak. ! like the modern, and defpife th’ antique. Tho Iho’ in the draw’rs of my japan Bureau , l o Lady Gripeall I the Cafars fhew, Tis equal to her Lady fh ip or me, A copper Otho, or a Scotch Baubee. Without Italian , or without an ear, To Bononcims muhck I adhere : JMulick has charms to footh a favage bead And therefore proper at a Sheriffs feaff. My foul has oft a fecret pleafure found, In the harmonious Bagpipe’s lofty found. Bagpipes for mien, lhriil Germm^lutes- for boys, Fm Engli/h born, and love a grumbling noife The Stage fliould yield the folemn Organ’s not Anu Sciiptuie tiemble in the Eunuchs throat. I ,et Senefmo ling, what David writ, And Hallelujahs charm the pious pit. Eager in throngs the town to Hefier came, And Oratorio was a lucky name. Thou, Rieeideggre! the Englifh tafte has found, And rul’ft tine mob of quality with found, in Lent, if Mafquerades difpleafe the town, Call ’em RidottoS, and they Hill D go down: O ( 14 ) Go on, Prince Phjz! to pleafe the Britifh nation, Call thy next Mafquerade a Convocation. Bears, Lyons, Wolves, and Elephants I breed, And Philofophical Tranfactions read. Next Lodge I’ll be Free-Majon , nothing lefs, Unlefs I happen to be F. R. S. I have a Palate , and (as vet) two Ears, Fit company for Porters , or for Peers. Of ev’ry ufeful knowledge I’ve a lhare, But my top talent is a bill of fare. Sir Loins and rumps of beef offend my eyes, Pleas’d with frogs fricaffeed, and coxcomb-pies. Diflies I chufe though little, yet genteel, Snails the firft courfe, and Peepers crown the meal. Pigs heads with hair on, much my fancy pleafe, 1 [ love young colly-flow’rs if ftew’d in cheefe, } And give ten guineas for a pint of peas. \ No fading fervants to my table come, My Grace is Silence, and my waiter Dumb. Queer Country-puts extol Queen Refs’ s reign, And of loft hofpitality complain. Say Say thou that do’B thy father’s table praife, Was there Mahogena in former days? Oh! could a Britilli Barony be fold! I would bright honour buy with dazling gold. Could I the privilege of ‘Peer procure, The rich I’d bully, and opprefs the poor. To give is wrong, but it is wronger Bill, On any terms to pay a tradefman’s bill. I’d make the infolent Mechanicks Bay, And keep my ready money all for play. I’d try if any pleafure could be found, In toffing-up for twenty thoufand pound. Had I whole Counties, I to White' s would go, And fet lands, woods, and rivers, at a throw. But fhould I meet with an unlucky run, And at a throw be glorioufly undone; My debts of honour I’d difcharge the find, I .et all my lawful creditors be curB : My Title would preferve me from arreB, And feiling hired horfes is a jeB. I’d walk the mornings with an oaken flick, With gloves and hat, like my own footman, Dick. ( 10 ) A footman I wou’d be, in outward fliow, in fenfe, and education, truly Jo. As for my head , it fhould ambiguous wear At once a periwig, and its own hair. My hair i d powder in the women’s way, And drejs , and talk of drejfing, more than they. I’ll pleafe the maids of honour, if 1 can; Without black-'velvet-britches, what is man? I will my skill in button-holes difplay, And brag- how oft I fmft me ev’ry day. Shall I wear cloaths, in awkward England made? And fweat in cloth, to help the woollen trade? In French embroid’ry and in Flanders lace I’ll fpend the income of a treafurer’s place. Deaids bill for baubles fhall to thoufands mount, And I’d out-di’mond ev’n the Dilmond Count. 1 would convince the world by taudry cloa’s, i hat Belles are lefs effeminate than beaux, And Doctor Lamb fhould pare my Lord (hi p’s toes. To boon companions 1 my time would give, With players, pimps, and paralites I’d live. I would C 17 ) I would with Jockeys from Newmarket dine, And to Rough-riders give my choiceft wine. I would carefs fome Stableman of note, And imitate his language, and his coat. My ev’nings all I would with (harpers fpefid, And make the Thief-catcher my bofom friend. In Fig the Prize-fighter by day delight, And fup with Colly Cibber evry night. Should I perchance be falhionably ill, I’d fend for Mifaubin, and take his pill. 1 iliould abhor, though in the utmoft need, Arbuthnot , Hollins , IVigan , Lee, or Ahead: But if I found that I grew worfe and worfe. I’d turn off Mijaubin and take a Nurfe. Plow oft, when eminent phylicians fail, Do good old womens remedies prevail ? Vi hen beauty’s gone, and Chloe’s ftruck with years, Eyes flie can couch, or lhe can fyringe ears. Of Graduates I diflike the learned rout, And chufe a female Doclor for the gout. Thus would I live, with no dull pedants curs’d, Sure, of all blockheads, Scholars are the worfb E Back ( 18 ) Back to your JJniverfitys , ye fools, And dangle Arguments on firings in fchools: Thofe fchools which JJniverfitys they call, ’Twere well for England were there none at all. With eafe that lofs the nation might fuftain, Supply’d by Goodmans fields and Drury-lane. Oxford and Cambridge are not worth one farthing, Compar’d to Haymarket , and Convent-garden : Quit thofe, ye Britifh Youth, and follow thefe, Turn players all, and take your ’Squires degrees. Boall not your incomes now, as heretofore, Ye book-learn’d Seats ! the Theatres have more: Ye lliff-rump’d heads of Colleges be dumb, A fmging Eunuch gets a larger Sum. Have fome of you three hundred by the Year, Booth , Rich, and Cibber , twice three thoufand clear. Should Oxford to her filler Cambridge join A Year’s Rack-rent , and Arbitrary fine : Thence not one winter’s charge would be defray d, For Playhoufe, Opera, Ball, and Mafquerade. Glad 1 congratulate the judging Age, The players are the world, the world the ilage. I am 1 am a Politician too, and hate Of any party, minifters of Hate: I’m for an Act, that he, who fev’n whole Years Has ferv’d his King and Country, lofe his ears. Thus from my birth I’m qualified you find. To give the laws of Tajie to humane kind. Mine are the gallant Schemes of PolitelTe, For books, and buildings, politicks, and drefs. This is True Tajie, and whofo likes it not. Is blockhead, coxcomb, puppy, fool, and fot. BOOKS printed for Lawton Gilliver at HomerV Head b-ver-againji St. DumtanV Church in Fleetftreet. O F Falfe Tafle. An Epiftie to the Bv Mr. Pqph, j he Dunciad: A New Edition with grams. Earl oh Burlino-ton. & iome additional Epli- A ColleEHon of Pieces in Prole and Verfe ; ocCafioned by the Dunciad. Dedicated to the Earl of Middlefex, by 'Richard Sa¬ vage, Efq; An EJay on Satyre ; particularly the Dunciad. Bv Walter Hart , A. M. 1 The Art of Politicks : In Imitation of Horace’s Art of Poetry. Hatlequin-Horace: Or, the Art of Modern Poetry. Two Epifles to Mr. Pope, concerning the Authors of the Age. By Dr. Young. Imperium Pelagi : A Naval Lyrick in Imitation of Pindar. Athelwold: A Tragedy. By Aaron Hill, Efq; An Epiftle from a young Gentleman at Rome to Mr. Pope. The Progrefs of Love, 8° Stowe : The Gardens of Lord Gohham, 8 ° I he Works of the Right Honourable the Lord Lanfdowiee. M. Hieronimi Vida; Opera Omnia Poetica, quibus nunc nri- mum adjiciuntur Dialog! de Rei-publicte Dignitate cx RecenfiJne. R. Ruflel, A. M. 2 Toms 12 0 anakpe'ontos thi'ot me'ah: Anacreontis Teii Carmina acu- rate Edita cum Notis perpetuis 2c Verfione Latina Numeris Ele- giacis Paraphraftice expreffa. Accedunt ejufdem, ut perhibcntur, fragmenta; & Poetrite Sapphus qute Superfunt.