Vulgar words in Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Volume 3 (Page 1)
This book at a glance
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John Lord Gower ROBERT CRAWFORD The Bush aboon Traquair THOMAS TICKELL To the Earl of Warwick, on the death of Mr Addison JAMES HAMMOND Elegy XIII SEWELL, VANBRUGH, &c. RICHARD SAVAGE The Bastard THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER An American Love Ode JONATHAN SWIFT Baucis and Philemon On Poetry On the Death of Dr Swift A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the Legion-Club,1736 ISAAC WATTS Few Happy Matches The Sluggard The Rose A Cradle Hymn Breathing toward the Heavenly Country To the Rev.
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His 'Bastard,' indeed, displays considerable powers, stung by a consciousness of wrong into convulsive action; but his other works are nearly worthless, and his life was that of a proud, passionate, selfish, and infatuated fool, unredeemed by scarcely one trait of genuine excellence in character.
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THE BASTARD.
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In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran, The Muse exulting, thus her lay began: 'Blest be the Bastard's birth!
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He, kindling from within, requires no flame; He glories in a Bastard's glowing name.
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'Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot; Conceived in rapture, and with fire begot!
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He was not merely, as many are, disgusted with the selfish and malignant elements which are mingled in man's nature and character, and disposed to trace them to any cause save a Divine will, but he believed man to be, as a whole, the work and child of the devil; and he told the imaginary creator and creature to their face, what he thought the truth,--'The devil is an ass.'
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Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; Not bastard of a pedlar Scot; Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, The spawn of Bridewell or the stews; Not infants dropped, the spurious pledges Of gipsies littering under hedges, Are so disqualified by fate To rise in church, or law, or state, As he whom Phoebus in his ire Hath blasted with poetic fire.
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The hawker shows you one in print, As fresh as farthings from a mint: The product of your toil and sweating, A bastard of your own begetting.
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But if you blab, you are undone: Consider what a risk you run: You lose your credit all at once; The town will mark you for a dunce; The vilest doggrel Grub Street sends Will pass for yours with foes and friends; And you must bear the whole disgrace, Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.
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Thus every poet in his kind Is bit by him that comes behind: Who, though too little to be seen, Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; Call dunces fools and sons of whores, Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; Extol the Greek and Roman masters, And curse our modern poetasters; Complain, as many an ancient bard did, How genius is no more rewarded; How wrong a taste prevails among us; How much our ancestors out-sung us; Can personate an awkward scorn For those who are not poets born; And all their brother-dunces lash, Who crowd the press with hourly trash.
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Let Sir Tom[1] that rampant ass, Stuff his guts with flax and grass; But, before the priest he fleeces, Tear the Bible all to pieces: At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, Footman, traitor, vile seducer, Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, Lay thy privilege aside, Sprung from Papist regicide; Fall a-working like a mole, Raise the dirt about your hole.
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Honest keeper, drive him further, In his looks are hell and murther; See the scowling visage drop, Just as when he murdered T----p. Keeper, show me where to fix On the puppy pair of Dicks; By their lantern jaws and leathern, You might swear they both are brethren: Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player, Old acquaintance, are you there?
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Dear companions, hug and kiss, Toast Old Glorious in your piss: Tie them, keeper, in a tether, Let them starve and stink together; Both are apt to be unruly, Lash them daily, lash them duly; Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them.
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45 Act simply, as occasion asks; Put mellow wine in seasoned casks; Till not with ass and bull: Remember thy baptismal bond; Keep from commixtures foul and fond, Nor work thy flax with wool.
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[30] 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide.
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Nor rest we here, but, at our magic call, Monkeys shall climb our trees, and lizards crawl; Huge dogs of Tibet bark in yonder grove, Here parrots prate, there cats make cruel love; In some fair island will we turn to grass (With the queen's leave) her elephant and ass.
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The Bastard SAVAGE, iii.