The Man of Taste

And pleas'd our ears regardless of his own?
But to give Merit due, though Curl's the same?
Are not his Brother-booksellers the same?
Can Statutes keep the British Press in awe,
While that sells best, that's most against the Law?
Lives of dead Play'rs my leisure hours beguile,
And Sessions-Papers tragedize my stile.
'Tis charming reading in Ophelia's life,
So oft a Mother, and not once a Wife:
She could with just 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 settled Creed.
I travell'd early, and I soon saw through
Religion all, e'er I was twenty-two.
Shame, Pain, or Poverty shall I endure,
When ropes or opium can my ease procure?
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay,
Self-murder is an honourable way.
As Pasaran directs I'd end my life,
And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife.
Burn but that Bible which the Parson quotes,
And men of spirit all shall cut their throats.
But not to writings I confine my pen,
I have a taste for buildings, musick, men.
Young travell'd coxcombs mighty knowledge boast,
With superficial Smatterings at Most.
Not so my mind, unsatisfied with hints,
Knows more than Budgel writes, or Roberts prints.
I know the town, all houses I have seen,
From High-Park corner down to Bednal-Green.
Sure wretched Wren was taught by bungling Jones,
To murder mortar, and disfigure stones!
Who in Whitehall can symmetry discern?
I reckon Convent-garden Church a Barn.
Nor hate I less thy vile Cathedral, Paul!
The choir's too big, the cupola's too small:
Substantial walls and heavy roofs I like,
'Tis Vanbrug's structures that my fancy strike:
Such noble ruins ev'ry pile wou'd make,
I wish they'd tumble for the prospect's sake.
To lofty Chelsea or to Greenwich Dome,
Soldiers and sailors all are welcom'd home.
Her poor to palaces Britannia brings,
St. James's hospital may serve for kings.
Building so happily I understand,
That for one house I'd mortgage all my land.
Dorick, Ionick, shall not there be found,
But it shall cost me threescore thousand pound.
From out my honest workmen, I'll select
A Bricklay'r, and proclaim him architect;
First bid him build me a stupendous Dome,
Which having finish'd, we set out for Rome;
Take a weeks view of Venice and the Brent,
Stare round, see nothing, and come home content.
I'll have my Villa too, a sweet abode,
Its situation shall be London road:
Pots o'er the door I'll place like Cits balconies,
Which[4 - Bently's Milton, Book 9. Ver. 439.]Bently calls the Gardens of Adonis.
I'll have my Gardens in the fashion too,
For what is beautiful that is not new?
Fair four-legg'd temples, theatres that vye,
With all the angles of a Christmas-pye.
Does it not merit the beholder's praise,
What's high to sink? and what is low to raise?
Slopes shall ascend where once a green-house stood,
And in my horse-pond I will plant a wood.
Let misers dread the hoarded gold to waste,
Expence and alteration shew a Taste.
In curious paintings I'm exceeding nice,
And know their several beauties by their Price.
Auctions and Sales I constantly attend,
But chuse my pictures by a skilful friend.
Originals and copies much the same,
The picture's value is the painter's name.
My taste in Sculpture from my choice is seen,
I buy no statues that are not obscene.
In spite of Addison and ancient Rome,
Sir Cloudesly Shovel's is my fav'rite tomb.
How oft have I with admiration stood,
To view some City-magistrate in wood?
I gaze with pleasure on a Lord May'r's head,
Cast with propriety in gilded lead.
Oh could I view through London as I pass,
Some broad Sir Balaam in Corinthian brass;
High on a pedestal, ye Freemen, place
His magisterial Paunch and griping Face;
Letter'd and Gilt, let him adorn Cheapside,
And grant the Tradesman, what a King's deny'd.
Old Coins and Medals I collect, 'tis true,
Sir Andrew has 'em, and I'll have 'em too.
But among friends if I the truth might speak,
I like the modern, and despise th' antique.
Tho' in the draw'rs of my japan Bureau,
To Lady Gripeall I the Cæsars shew,
'Tis equal to her Ladyship or me,
A copper Otho, or a Scotch Baubee.
Without Italian, or without an ear,