The Charms of Precedence. A Tale

" SIR, will you please to walk before?"
" —No, pray, Sir—you are next the door."
" —Upon mine honour I'll not stir—"
" Sir, I'm at home; consider, Sir—"
" Excuse me, Sir; I'll not go first."
" Well, if I must be rude, I must—
" But yet I wish I could evade it—
" 'Tis strangely clownish, be persuaded—"

Go forward, Cits! go forward, Squires!
Nor scruple each what each admires.
Life squares not, Friends! with your proceeding,
It flies while you display your breeding;
Such breeding as one's granam preaches,
Or some old dancingmaster teaches.
O for some rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or, at least, half mellow,
To come behind you unawares,
And fairly push you both down stairs!
But Death's at hand—let me advise ye,
Go forward, Friends! or he'll surprise ye.

Besides, how insincere you are!
Do ye not flatter, lie, forswear,
And daily cheat, and weekly pray,
And all for this—to lead the way?

Such is my theme, which means to prove,
That tho' we drink, or game, or love,
As that or this is most in fashion,
Precedence is our ruling passion.

When college-students take degrees,
And pay the beadle's endless fees,
What moves that scientific body,
But the first cutting at a gaudy?
And whence such shoals, in bare conditions,
That starve and languish as physicians,
Content to trudge the streets, and stare at
The fat apothecary's chariot?
But that, in Charlotte's chamber (see
Moliere's Medicin malgre lui)
The leech, howe'er his fortunes vary,
Still walks before th' apothecary.

Flavia in vain has wit and charms,
And all that shines, and all that warms;
In vain all human race adore her,
For—Lady Mary ranks before her.

O Celia! gentle Celia! tell us,
You who are neither vain nor jealous!
The softest breast, the mildest mien!
Would you not feel some little spleen,
Nor bite your lip, nor furl your brow,
If Florimel, your equal now,
Should one day gain precedence of ye?
First serv'd—tho' in a dish of coffee?
Plac'd first, altho' where you are found
You gain the eyes of all around?
Nam'd first, tho' not with half the fame
That waits my charming Celia's name?

Hard fortune! barely to inspire
Our fix'd esteem and fond desire!
Barely, where'er you go, to prove
The source of universal love!—
Yet be content, observing this,
Honour's the offspring of caprice;
And worth, howe'er you have pursu'd it,
Has now no pow'r—but to exclude it:
You'll find your gen'ral reputation
A kind of supplemental station.

Poor Swift, with all his worth, could ne'er,
He tells us, hope to rise a peer;
So, to supply it, wrote for fame,
And well the wit secur'd his aim.
A common patriot has a drift
Not quite so innocent as Swift;
In Britain's cause he rants, he labours;
" He's honest, faith."—Have patience, Neighbours,
For patriots may sometimes deceive,
May beg their friends' reluctant leave
To serve them in a higher sphere,
And drop their virtue to get there.—

As Lucian tells us, in his fashion,
How souls put off each earthly passion,
Ere on Elysium's flow'ry strand
Old Charon suffer'd 'em to land;
So, ere we meet a court's caresses,
No doubt our souls must change their dresses;
And souls there be who, bound that way,
Attire themselves ten times a-day.

If then 'tis rank which all men covet,
And saints alike and sinners love it;
If place, for which our courtiers throng
So thick, that few can get along,
For which such servile toils are seen,
Who's happier than a king?—a queen.

Howe'er men aim at elevation,
'Tis properly a female passion:
Women and beaus, beyond all measure,
Are charm'd with rank's ecstatic pleasure.

Sir, if your drift I rightly scan,
You'd hint a beau were not a man:
Say women then are fond of places;
I wave all disputable cases.
A man, perhaps, would something linger,
Were his lov'd rank to cost—a finger;
Or were an ear or toe the price on't,
He might delib'rate once or twice on't,
Perhaps ask Gataker's advice on't;
And many, as their frame grows old,
Would hardly purchase it with gold.

But women wish Precedence ever;
'Tis their whole life's supreme endeavour;
It fires their youth with jealous rage,
And strongly animates their age:
Perhaps they would not sell outright,
Or maim a limb—that was in sight;
Yet on worse terms they sometimes chuse it,
Nor ev'n in punishments refuse it.

Preeminence in pain! you cry,
All fierce and pregnant with reply:
But lend your patience and your ear,
An argument shall make it clear.
But hold, an argument may fail,
Beside, my title says, A Tale.

Where Avon rolls her winding stream,
Avon! the Muses' fav'rite theme;
Avon! that fills the farmers' purses,
And decks with flow'rs both farms and verses,
She visits many a fertile vale—
Such was the scene of this my Tale;
For 'tis in Ev'sham's Vale, or near it,
That folks with laughter tell and hear it.

The soil, with annual plenty bless'd,
Was by young Corydon possess'd.
His youth alone I lay before ye,
As most material to my story;
For strength and vigour too, he had 'em,
And 'twere not much amiss to add 'em.

Thrice happy lout! whose wide domain
Now green with grass, now gilt with grain,
In russet robes of clover deep,
Or thinly veil'd, and white with sheep;
Now fragrant with the bean's perfume,
Now purpled with the pulse's bloom,
Might well with bright allusion store me,—
But happier bards have been before me!

Amongst the various year's increase
The stripling own'd a field of pease,
Which, when at night he ceas'd his labours,
Were haunted by some female neighbours.
Each morn discover'd to his sight
The shameful havoc of the night;
Traces of this they left behind 'em,
But no instructions where to find 'em.
The devil's works are plain and evil,
But few or none have seen the devil.
Old Noll, indeed, if we may credit
The words of Echard, who has said it,
Contriv'd with Satan how to fool us,
And bargain'd face to face to rule us;
But then Old Noll was one in ten,
And sought him more than other men.
Our shepherd, too, with like attention,
May meet the female fiends we mention.
He rose one morn at break of day,
And near the field in ambush lay;
When, lo! a brace of girls appears,
The third a matron much in years.
Smiling amidst the pease, the sinners
Sate down to cull their future dinners,
And caring little who might own 'em,
Made free as tho' themselves had fown 'em.

'Tis worth a sage's observation
How love can make a jest of passion.
Anger had forc'd the swain from bed,
His early dues to love unpaid!
And Love, a god that keeps a pother,
And will be paid one time or other,
Now banish'd Anger out o' door,
And claim'd the debt withheld before.
If Anger bid our youth revile,
Love form'd his features to a smile;
And knowing well 'twas all grimace
To threaten with a smiling face,
He in few words express'd his mind—
And none would deem them much unkind.

The am'rous youth, for their offence,
Demanded instant recompense;
That recompense from each, which shame
Forbids a bashful Muse to name:
Yet, more this sentence to discover,
'Tis what Bett ** grants her lover,
When he, to make the strumpet willing,
Has spent his fortune—to a shilling.

Each stood a while, as 'twere suspended,
And loath to do what—each intended.

At length, with soft pathetic sighs,
The matron, bent with age, replies:
" 'Tis vain to strive—justice, I know,
" And our ill stars, will have it so—
" But let my tears your wrath assuage,
" And shew some deference for age:
" I from a distant village came,
" Am old, G— knows, and something lame;
" And if we yield, as yield we must,
" Dispatch my crazy body first."

Our shepherd, like the Phrygian swain,
When circled round on Ida's plain
With goddesses, he stood suspended,
And Pallas's grave speech was ended,
Own'd what she ask'd might be his duty,
But paid the compliment to beauty.