Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride, Let him take care that that which he pursues Is not at once too palpably descried.
Full many an eager gentleman oft rues His haste: impatience is a blundering guide, Amongst a people famous for reflection, Who like to play the fool with circumspection.
But, if you can contrive, get next at supper;
Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:-Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper, The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill Can tender souls relate the rise and fall Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball.
But these precautionary hints can touch Only the common run, who must pursue, And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much Or little overturns; and not the few Or many (for the number's sometimes such)
Whom a good mien, especially if new, Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since.
Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, Before he can escape from so much danger As will environ a conspicuous man. Some Talk about poetry, and 'rack and manger,'
And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;-I wish they knew the life of a young noble.
They are young, but know not youth- it is anticipated;
Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou;
Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated;
Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew;
Both senates see their nightly votes participated Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew;
And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and whored, The family vault receives another lord.
'Where is the world?' cries Young, at eighty- 'Where The world in which a man was born? 'Alas!
Where is the world of eight years past? 'T was there-I look for it- 't is gone, a globe of glass!
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere A silent change dissolves the glittering mass.
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.
Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows.
Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell:
Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those Who bound the bar or senate in their spell?
Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes?
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well?
Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents?
And where- oh, where the devil are the rents?
Where 's Brummel? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled.
Where 's Whitbread? Romilly? Where 's George the Third?
Where is his will? (That 's not so soon unriddled.)
And where is 'Fum' the Fourth, our 'royal bird?'
Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard:
'Caw me, caw thee'- for six months hath been hatching This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching.
Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That?
The Honourable Mistresses and Misses?
Some laid aside like an old Opera hat, Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is An evolution oft performed of late).
Where are the Dublin shouts- and London hisses?
Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were.
Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses?
Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,-Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies Of fashion,- say what streams now fill those channels?
