My business in this state,
Made me a looker-on here in Vienna,
Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble,
Till it o'errun the stew.
"Tis hence you lord it o'er your servile senates;
How low the slaves will stoop to gorge their lusts,
When aptly baited: ev'n the tongues of patriots,
Those sons of clamour, oft relax the nerve
Within the warmth of favour.
Shaks. Mea. for Mea. The impious man, who sells his country's freedom,
Makes all the guilt of tyranny his own.
His are her slaughters, her oppressions his;
Just heav'n! reserve your choicest plagues for him,
And blast the venal wretch.
Corruption is a tree, whose branches are
Of an unmeasurable length; they spread
Ev'ry where; and the dew that drops from thence
Hath infected some chairs and stools of authority.
Beaumont and Fletcher's Honest Man's Fortune.
Justice herself, that sitteth whimpled 'bout
The eyes, doth it not because she will take
No gold, but that she would not be seen blushing
When she takes it; the balances she holds
Are not to weigh the rights of the cause, but
The weight of the bribe: she will put up her
Naked sword, if thou offer her a golden scabbard.
Lilly's Midas.
Ye mark the movements of this nether world,
And bring them to account, crush, crush, those
vipers,
Who, singled out by a community
To guard their rights, shall, for a grasp of air,
Or paltry office, sell 'em to the foe.
Miller's Mahomet.
Unless corruption first deject the pride,
And guardian vigour of the free-born soul,
All crude attempts of violence are vain;
Too firm within, and while at heart untouch'd,
Milton's Paradise Lost. Ne'er yet by force was freedom overcome.
He who tempts, though in vain, at least asperses
The tempted with dishonour foul, suppos'd
Not incorruptible of faith, not proof
Against temptation.
As some of us, in trusts, have made
The one hand with the other trade:
Gain'd vastly by their joint endeavour,
The right a thief, the left receiver;
And what the one, by tricks, forestall'd,
The other, by as sly, retail'd.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 't is not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay;
Those, who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Butler's Hudibras. Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
Churchill's Rosciad.
He that complies against his will,
Is of his own opinion still;
Which he may adhere to, yet disown,
For reasons to himself best known.
In Britain's senate, he a seat obtains,
And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains.
My lady falls to play; so bad her chance,
Butler's Hudibras. He must repair it; takes a bribe from France:
Know what a leading voice is worth.
A seconding, a third, or fourth;
How much a casting voice comes to,
That turns up trumps of ay, or no:
And by adjusting all at th' end,
Share every one his dividend.
Far as the sun his radiant course extends,
Interest, my friend, with sway despotic rules,
Some fight for interest, some for interest pray,
And were not honesty the road to want,
It would not be that slighted thing it is.
The house impeach him, Coningsby harangues,
The court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs:
Wife, son, and daughter, Satan, are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown:
The devil and the king divide the prize,
And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.
Pope's Moral Essays
Ask men's opinion; Scoto, now shall tell,
How trade increases, and the world goes well:
Strike off his pension by the setting sun,
And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.
Pope's Moral Essays
The veriest hermit in the nation
May yield, God knows, to strong temptation.
Gentleman's Osman. Hence, wretched nation! all thy woes arise, Avow'd corruption, licens'd perjuries,
Eternal taxes, treaties for a day,
Servants that rule, and senates that obey.
Who having lost his credit, pawn'd his rent,
Is therefore fit to have a government.
This mournful truth is every where confess'd,
Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd:
But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,
Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold:
When won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd,
The groom retails the favour of his lord.
Dr. Johnson's London.
Here let those reign, whom pensions can incite,
To vote a patriot black, a courtier white,
Explain their country's dear-bought rights away,
And plead for pirates in the face of day;
With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth,
And lend a lie the confidence of truth.
Dr. Johnson's London.
Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd,
Or English honour grew a standing jest.
Dr. Johnson's London.
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats,
And ask no questions but the price of votes.
Dr. Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes.
Talk not of a grant:
What a king ought not, that he cannot give;
And what is more than meet from princes' bounty,
Is plunder, not a grant.
Young's Brothers.
Thieves at home must hang; but he that puts
Into his overgorged and bloated purse,
The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
Cowper's Task.
He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal
To serve his country. Ministerial grace
Deals him out money from the public chest,
Or if that mine be shut, some private purse
Supplies his need with an usurious loan,
To be refunded duly, when his vote,
Well-managed, shall have earn'd its worthy price.
Cowper's Task.
Whoso seeks an audit here
Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,
Wild fowl or ven'son, and his errand speeds.
His milk-white hand, the palm is hardly clean-Upon his country's war-fields and within
But here and there an ugly smutch appears.
Foh! 'Twas a bribe that left it. He has touch'd
Corruption.
Cowper's Task.
To bribe the mob, with brandy, beer, and song,
To put their greasy fists to court addresses,
Full of professions kind, and sweet caresses,
And with a fiddle lead the hogs along.
Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pindar.
E'en grave divines submit to glittering gold!
The best of consciences are bought and sold.
Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pindar.
The shadow of her altars? Feeble heart!
I tell thee that the voice of patriot blood,
Thus pour'd for faith and freedom, hath a tone
Which from the night of ages, from the gulf
Of death shall burst and make its high appeal
Sound unto earth and heaven!
My country! ay, thy sons are proud,
True heirs of freedom's glorious dower;
For never here has knee been bow'd
In homage to a mortal power!
No fearing, no doubting, thy soldier shall know, When here stands his country, and yonder her foe; One look at the bright sun, one prayer to the sky, One glance where our banner floats glorious on high:
Then on, as the young lion bounds on his prey; Let the sword flash on high, fling the scabbard away;
Roll on, like the thunderbolt over the plain !—
We come back in glory, or come not again.
Thomas Gray, Jr.
Thou, O, my country, hast thy foolish ways,
Too apt to purr at every stranger's praise,—
But if the stranger touch thy modes or laws,
Off goes the velvet, and out come the claws!
O. W. Holmes.
None can describe the sweets of country life,
But those blest men that do enjoy and taste them.
Plain husbandmen, tho' far below our pitch
Of fortune plac'd, enjoy a wealth above us:
To whom the earth with true and bounteous justice,
Free from war's cares returns an easy food.
'They breathe the fresh and uncorrupted air,
And by clear brooks enjoy untroubled sleeps.
Their state is fearless and secure, enrich'd
With several blessings, such as greatest kings
Might in true justice envy, and themselves
Would count too happy, if they truly knew them.
May's Agrippina.
The fields did laugh, the flowers did freshly spring,
The trees did bud and early blossoms bore,
And all the quire of birds did sweetly sing,
And told that gardin's pleasures in their caroling.
Spenser's Fairy Queen.
Is nobler than attending for a check,
Richer than doing nothing for a bauble;
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk:
Blest silent groves! O may ye be
For ever mirth's best nursery!
May pure contents
For ever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains,
And peace still slumber by these purling fountains! Which we may every year
Find when we come a fishing here!
Sir W. Raleigh. This is a beautiful life now, privacy,
The sweetness and the benefit of essence:
I see there is no man but may make his paradise,
And it is nothing but his love and dotage
Upon the world's foul joys that keeps him out on 't
Beaumont and Fletcher's Nice Valour,
Under a tuft of shade that on the green
Stood whisp'ring soft, by a fresh fountain side
They sat them down; and after no more toil
Of their sweet gard'ning labour than suffic'd
To recommend cool zephyr, and made ease
More easy, wholesome thirst and appetite
More grateful, to their supper fruits they fell.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
Now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair: now gentle gales,
Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils.
The flow'ry lap Of irriguous valley spread her store, Flow'rs of all hue, and without thorn the rose. Milton's Paradise Lost. A wilderness of sweets: for nature here Wanton'd as in her prime, and play'd at will Her virgin fancies, pouring forth more sweets; Wild above rule or art, enormous bliss.
Milton's Paradise Lost. 'Tis a goodly scene
Yon river, like a silvery snake, lays out
Such gain the cap of him, that makes them fine, His coil, i' th' sunshine lovingly — it breathes
Of freshness in this lap of flowery meadows.
Sir A. Hunt's Julian.
O happy if ye knew your happy state,
Ye rangers of the fields! whom nature's boon
Cheers with her smiles, and ev'ry element
Conspires to bless.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Gray's Church Yard.
O happy plains! remote from war's alarms,
And all the ravages of hostile arms!
And happy shepherds, who, secure from fear,
On open downs preserve your fleecy care!
Whose spacious barns groan with increasing store,
And whirling flails disjoint the cracking floor!
No barbarous soldier, bent on cruel spoil,
Spreads desolation o'er your fertile soil;
No trampling steed lays waste the ripen'd grain;
Nor crackling fires devour the promis'd gain;
No flaming heavens cast their blaze afar,
The dreadful signal of invasive war;
No trumpet's clangour wounds the mother's ear,
And calls the lover from his swooning fair.
Gay's Rural Sports.
What happiness the rural maid attends,
In cheerful labour while each day she spends!
She gratefully receives what heaven has sent,
And, rich in poverty, enjoys content.
(Such happiness, and such unblemish'd fame,
Ne'er glad the bosom of the courtly dame :)
She never feels the spleen's imagin'd pains,
Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins;
She never loses life in thoughtless ease,
Nor on the velvet couch invites disease;
Her home-spun dress in simple neatness lies,
And for no glaring equipage she sighs:
Her reputation, which is all her boast,
In a malicious visit ne'er was lost,
No midnight masquerade her beauty wears,
And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs.
Gay's Rural Sports.
Ye happy fields, unknown to noise and strife,
The kind rewarders of industrious life;
Ye shady woods, where once I us'd to rove,
Alike indulgent to the muse and love;
Ye murmuring streams that in meanders roll,
The sweet composers of the pensive soul,
Farewell! The city calls me from your bowers;
Farewell, amusing thought, and peaceful hours.
Gay's Rural Sports.
Perhaps thy lov'd Lucinda shares thy walk,
With soul to thine attun'd. Then nature all
Wears to the lover's eye a look of love;
And all the tumult of a guilty world,
Toss'd by ungenerous passions, sinks away.
Thomson's Seasons.
Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet
From giddy passion and low-minded pride:
Almost on nature's common bounty fed;
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
Content and careless of to-morrow's fare.
Thomson's Seasons.
Thrice happy he! who on the sunless side
Of a romantic mountain, forest crown'd,
Beneath the whole collected shade reclines:
Or in the gelid caverns, wood-bine wrought,
And fresh bedew'd with ever-spouting streams,
Sits coolly calm; while all the world without,
Unsatisfied and sick, tosses at noon.
Emblem instructive of the virtuous man,
Who keeps his temper'd mind serene and pure,
And every passion aptly harmonis'd,
Amid a jarring world with vice inflam'd.
The lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth;
For in her helpless years depriv'd of all,
Of every stay, save innocence and heaven,
She with her widow'd mother, feeble, old,
And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd
Among the windings of a woody vale;
By solitude and deep surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty conceal'd.
Here too dwells simple truth; plain innocence;
Unsullied beauty; sound unbroken youth,
Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd;
Health ever blooming; unambitious toil;
Calm contemplation; and poetic case.
He when young spring protrudes the bursting gems,
Marks the first bud, and sucks the healthful galo
Into his freshen'd soul; her genial hours
He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows,
And not an opening blossom breathes in vain.
Thomson's Seasons
Be full, ye courts, be great who will;
Search for peace with all your skill;
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor;
In vain you search, she is not there;
In vain you search the domes of care:
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure close ally'd,
Ever by each other's side:
And often by the murm'ring rill,
Hear the thrush, while all is still
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.
Thus is nature's vesture wrought,
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay,
To dispense our cares away.
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Born to no pride, inheriting no strife,
Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious through his age;
No courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
Nor dar'd an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolmen's subtle art,
No language but the language of the heart,
By nature honest, by experience wise,
Healthy by temperance and exercise;
His life, though long, to sickness past unknown,
His death was instant and without a groan.
O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I.
Pope.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind screne,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene,
No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur there.
Young's Love of Fame.
Nature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts,
By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell;
Where the pois'd lark his evening ditty chants,
And health, and peace, and contemplation dwell.
Smollet's Ode to Independence.
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
'The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring
wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
Goldsmith's Deserted Village.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When ev'ry rood of ground maintain❜d its man,
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life requir'd, and gave no more.
His best companions, innocence and health,
And his best wishes, ignorance of wealth.
Goldsmith's Deserted Village.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten trics;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling fagot flies.
God made the country and man made the town;
What wonder then, that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, should most abound
And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?
Cowper's Task.
Scenes must be beautiful which daily view'd
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;
The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown,
And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort,
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause
For such immeasurable woe appears,
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair
Sweet smiles and blooms less transient than her
Cowper's Task.
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds
Exhilarate the spirits, and restore
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some fair-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind.
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