Carolyn Wells - A Satire Anthology

I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over:
He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,
And I was likely to recover.

But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm’d the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.

LEST it may more quarrels breed,
I will never hear you read.

By disputing, I will never,
To convince you, once endeavour.

When a paradox you stick to,
I will never contradict you.

When I talk, and you are heedless,
I will show no anger needless.

When your speeches are absurd,
I will ne’er object a word.

When you, furious, argue wrong,
I will grieve, and hold my tongue.

Not a jest or humorous story
Will I ever tell before ye.
To be chidden for explaining,
When you quite mistake the meaning.

Never more will I suppose,
You can taste my verse or prose.

You no more at me shall fret,
While I teach and you forget.

You shall never hear me thunder,
When you blunder on, and blunder.

Show your poverty of spirit,
And in dress place all your merit;
Give yourself ten thousand airs:
That with me shall break no squares.

Never will I give advice,
Till you please to ask me thrice:
Which if you in scorn reject,
’Twill be just as I expect.
Thus we both shall have our ends,
And continue special friends.

A SET of phrases learned by rote;
A passion for a scarlet coat;
When at a play, to laugh or cry,
Yet cannot tell the reason why;
Never to hold her tongue a minute,
While all she prates has nothing in it;
Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit,
And take his nonsense all for wit.
Her learning mounts to read a song,
But half the words pronouncing wrong;
Has every repartee in store
She spoke ten thousand times before;
Can ready compliments supply
On all occasions, cut and dry;
Such hatred to a parson’s gown,
The sight would put her in a swoon;
For conversation well endued,
She calls it witty to be rude;
And, placing raillery in railing,
Will tell aloud your greatest failing;
Nor make a scruple to expose
Your bandy leg or crooked nose;
Can at her morning tea run o’er
The scandal of the day before;
Improving hourly in her skill,
To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.
In choosing lace, a critic nice,
Knows to a groat the lowest price;
Can in her female clubs dispute
What linen best the silk will suit,
What colours each complexion match,
And where with art to place a patch.
If chance a mouse creeps in her sight,
Can finely counterfeit a fright;
So sweetly screams, if it comes near her,
She ravishes all hearts to hear her.
Can dexterously her husband tease,
By taking fits whene’er she please;
By frequent practice learns the trick
At proper seasons to be sick;
Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,
At once creating love and pity.
If Molly happens to be careless,
And but neglects to warm her hair-lace,
She gets a cold as sure as death,
And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;
Admires how modest woman can
Be so robustious, like a man.
In party, furious to her power,
A bitter Whig, or Tory sour,
Her arguments directly tend
Against the side she would defend;
Will prove herself a Tory plain,
From principles the Whigs maintain,
And, to defend the Whiggish cause,
Her topics from the Tories draws.

BEGIN. Who first the catalogue shall grace?
To quality belongs the highest place.
My lord comes forward; forward let him come!
Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room:
He stands for fame on his forefathers’ feet,
By heraldry proved valiant or discreet.
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three descents less wise!
If virtues at his noble hands you crave,
You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.
Men should press forward in fame’s glorious chase;
Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Let high birth triumph! What can be more great?
Nothing – but merit in a low estate.
To virtue’s humblest son let none prefer
Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base,
Slight or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;
The fool or knave, that wears a title, lies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found, at length, that it reduced his rent;
His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on,
A choice collection – what is to be done?
He sells his last, for he the whole will buy;
Sells even his house – nay, wants whereon to lie
So high the generous ardor of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,
Lorenzo signed the bargain – with his mark.
Unlearned men of books assume the care,
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

The booby father craves a booby son,
And by Heaven’s blessing thinks himself undone.

These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,
Though satire couch them with her keenest pen)
Forever will hang out a solemn face,
To put off nonsense with a better grace:
As perlers with some hero’s head make bold —
Illustrious mark! – where pins are to be sold.
What’s the bent brow, or neck in thought reclined?
The body’s wisdom to conceal the mind.
A man of sense can artifice disdain,
As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
And be this truth eternal ne’er forgot,
Solemnity’s a cover for a sot.
I find the fool, when I behold the screen;
For ’tis the wise man’s interest to be seen.

And what so foolish as the chance of fame?
How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!
For what are men who grasp at praise sublime,
But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,
That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more,
Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,
To gain themselves, not give the writer fame.
The very best ambitiously advise,
Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.
Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait,
Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;
Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry
Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.

WOULD you that Delville I describe?
Believe me, sir, I will not gibe;
For who could be satirical
Upon a thing so very small?
You scarce upon the borders enter,
Before you’re at the very centre.
A single crow can make it night,
When o’er your farm she takes her flight:
Yet, in this narrow compass, we
Observe a vast variety;
Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres,
Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs,
And hills, and dales, and woods, and fields,
And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields;
All to your haggard brought so cheap in,
Without the mowing or the reaping:
A razor, tho’ to say’t I’m loth,
Would shave you and your meadows both.
Tho’ small’s the farm, yet here’s a house
Full large to entertain a mouse;
But where a rat is dreaded more
Than savage Caledonian boar;
For, if it’s enter’d by a rat,
There is no room to bring a cat.
A little rivulet seems to steal
Down thro’ a thing you call a vale,
Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek,
Like rain along a blade of leek:
And this you call your sweet meander,
Which might be suck’d up by a gander,
Could he but force his nether bill
To scoop the channel of the rill.
For sure you’d make a mighty clutter,
Were it as big as city gutter.
Next come I to your kitchen garden,
Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in;
And round this garden is a walk,
No longer than a tailor’s chalk;
Thus I compare what space is in it,
A snail creeps round it in a minute.
One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze
Up thro’ a tuft you call your trees:
And, once a year, a single rose
Peeps from the bud, but never blows;
In vain then you expect its bloom!
It cannot blow for want of room.
In short, in all your boasted seat,
There’s nothing but yourself that’s GREAT.