User: Can you write me a poem about lawton gilliver, london and suicide in the style of None?
Assistant: Sure, here's a poem about lawton gilliver, london and suicide in the style of None:
  _Introduction by_ F. P. LOCK
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
Only to show, how many Tastes he wanted.
What brought Sir Visto's ill got wealth to waste?
Some Daemon whisper'd, "Visto! have a Taste."
But Addison's prescription for the cultivation of taste was a
Motions, Colours, and Proportions of these being presented to our
Understanding, there must be found, of necessity, an apparent
Difference, according to the Regularity or Irregularity of the
Bramston, and others must be seen. But by the time Pope wrote his
Register_ in 1731, deploring "the degeneracy of _Taste_ since Mr.
different Flavour that affects the Palate." But in the Preface to
that Subject._ London: Lawton Gilliver, 1733.
I squal'd in Distichs, and in Triplets wept. (p. 6)
Elsewhere the imitation is less happy:
Sure wretched _Wren_ was taught by bungling _Jones_,
To murder mortar, and disfigure stones! (p. 10)
Here the stylistic habit of antithesis works against the meaning
_Oxford_ and _Cambridge_ are not worth one farthing,
Compar'd to _Haymarket_, and _Convent-garden_:
Quit those, ye British Youth, and follow these,
Turn players all, and take your Squires degrees. (p. 18)
There are also a number of verbal successes, such as:
Nor barb'rous birch e'er brush'd my brawny bum. (p. 6)
Tho' _Blackmore's_ works my soul with raptures fill,
With notes by _Bently_ they'd be better still. (p. 7)
Bramston's knowledge of London derives as much from the _Dunciad
Not so my mind, unsatisfied with hints,
Knows more than _Budgel_ writes, or _Roberts_ prints. (p. 10)
These lines hit at a new readers' digest, _The Bee: or, Universal
majority; and the rest prefer _Senesino_ to _Shakespear_, as the
highest proof of modern politeness." Bramston's Man of Taste is a
recommendation of suicide (p. 9); Heidegger's role as corrupting
Disorders." These men were Italian, Swiss, Italian, and French
respectively. This xenophobia is a remarkably constant feature of
Bramston is a minor poet, but there is no need to apologize for
 Although the imprint on the title page reads "London," this
edition was probably printed in Edinburgh. For a reassessment of
the number and order of editions of _The Man of Taste_, see
summarizes the evidence about publication.
On that Subject.
_By the Author of the_ ART OF POLITICKS.
Whoe'er he be that to a _Taste_ aspires,
Let him read this, and be what he desires.
In men and manners vers'd from life I write,
Not what was once but what is now polite.
Those who of courtly _France_ have made the tour,
Can scarce our _English_ awkwardness endure.
But honest men who never were abroad,
Like _England_ only, and its _Taste_ applaud.
Strife still persists, which yields the better _gout_;
Books or the world, the many or the few.
True _Taste_ to me is by this touchstone known,
That's always best that's nearest to my own.
To shew that my pretensions are not vain,
My Father was a play'r in _Drury-lane_.
Pears and Pistachio-nuts my Mother sold,
He a Dramatick-poet, She a Scold.
His tragick muse could Countesses affright,
Her wit in boxes was my Lord's delight.
No mercenary _Priest_ e'er join'd their hands,
Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetick bands.
_Laws_ my Pindarick parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got.
My infant tears a sort of measure kept,
I squal'd in Distichs, and in Triplets wept.
No youth did in I education waste,
Writing ne'er cramp'd the sinews of my thumb,
Nor barb'rous birch e'er brush'd my brawny bum.
My guts ne'er suffer'd from a college-cook,
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book.
_Grammar_ in vain the sons of _Priscian_ teach,
Good Parts are better than _Eight Parts of Speech_:
Since these declin'd those undeclin'd they call,
I thank my Stars, that I declin'd 'em all.
To _Greek_ or _Latin Tongues_ without pretence,
I trust to mother Wit, and father Sense.
_Nature_'s my guide, all Sciences I scorn,
Pains I abhor, I was a _Poet born_.
Yet is my _gout_ for criticism such,
I've got some _French_, and know a little _Dutch_.
Huge commentators grace my learned shelves,
Notes upon books out-do the books themselves.
Criticks indeed are valuable men,
But hyper-criticks are as good agen.
Tho' _Blackmore_'s works my soul with raptures fill,
With notes by _Bently_ they'd be better still.
The _Boghouse-Miscellany_'s well design'd,
To ease the body, and improve the mind.
_Swift_'s whims and jokes for my resentment call,
For he displeases me, that pleases all.
Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure.
To him as Nature, when he ceas'd to see,
_Milton_'s an _universal Blank_ to me.
Confirm'd and settled by the Nations voice,
Rhyme is the poet's pride, and peoples choice.
Always upheld by national Support,
_Thompson_, write blank; but know that for that reason,
These lines shall live, when thine are out of season.
Rhyme binds and beautifies the Poet's lays,
As _London_ Ladies owe their shape to stays.
Had _Cibber_'s self the _Careless Husband_ wrote,
He for the Laurel ne'er had had my Vote:
But for his Epilogues and other Plays,
He thoroughly deserves the _Modern Bays_.
It pleases me, that _Pope_ unlaurell'd goes,
While _Cibber_ wears the Bays for Playhouse Prose.
So _Britain_'s Monarch once uncover'd fate,
While _Bradshaw_ bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat.
Long live old _Curl!_ he ne'er to publish fears,
The speeches, verses, and last wills of Peers.
How oft has he a publick spirit shewn,
And pleas'd our ears regardless of his own?
But to give Merit due, though _Curl_'s the same?
Are not his Brother-booksellers the same?
Can Statutes keep the _British_ Press in awe,
While that sells best, that's most against the Law?
_Lives_ of dead _Play'rs_ my leisure hours beguile,
And _Sessions-Papers_ tragedize my stile.
'Tis charming reading in _Ophelia_'s life,
So oft a Mother, and not once a Wife:
She could with just propriety behave,
Alive with Peers, with Monarchs in her grave:
Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept,
By Prebends bury'd and by Generals kept.
T'improve in Morals _Mandevil_ I read,
And _Tyndal_'s Scruples are my settled Creed.
I travell'd early, and I soon saw through
Religion all, e'er I was twenty-two.
Shame, Pain, or Poverty shall I endure,
When ropes or opium can my ease procure?
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay,
Self-murder is an honourable way.
As _Pasaran_ directs I'd end my life,
And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife.
Burn but that _Bible_ which the Parson quotes,
And men of spirit all shall cut their throats.
But not to writings I confine my pen,
I have a taste for buildings, musick, men.
Young travell'd coxcombs mighty knowledge boast,
With superficial Smatterings at Most.
Not so my mind, unsatisfied with hints,
Knows more than _Budgel_ writes, or _Roberts_ prints.
I know the town, all houses I have seen,
From _High-Park_ corner down to _Bednal-Green_.
Sure wretched _Wren_ was taught by bungling _Jones_,
To murder mortar, and disfigure stones!
Who in _Whitehall_ can symmetry discern?
I reckon _Convent-garden_ Church a _Barn_.
Nor hate I less thy vile Cathedral, _Paul_!
The choir's too big, the cupola's too small:
Substantial walls and heavy roofs I like,
'Tis _Vanbrug_'s structures that my fancy strike:
Such noble ruins ev'ry pile wou'd make,
I wish they'd tumble for the prospect's sake.
To lofty _Chelsea_ or to _Greenwich_ Dome,
Soldiers and sailors all are welcom'd home.
Her poor to palaces _Britannia_ brings,
St. _James_'s hospital may serve for kings.
Building so happily I understand,
That for one house I'd mortgage all my land.
_Dorick_, _Ionick_, shall not there be found,
But it shall cost me threescore thousand pound.
From out my honest workmen, I'll select
A _Bricklay'r_, and proclaim him architect;
First bid him build me a stupendous Dome,
Which _having finish'd_, we set out for _Rome_;
Take a weeks view of _Venice_ and the _Brent_,
Stare round, see nothing, and come home content.
I'll have my _Villa_ too, a sweet abode,
Its situation shall be _London_ road:
_Pots_ o'er the door I'll place like Cits balconies,
Which _Bently_ calls the _Gardens of Adonis_.
I'll have my Gardens in the fashion too,
For what is beautiful that is not new?
Fair four-legg'd temples, theatres that vye,
With all the angles of a _Christmas_-pye.
Does it not merit the beholder's praise,
What's high to sink? and what is low to raise?
Slopes shall ascend where once a green-house stood,
And in my horse-pond I will plant a wood.
Let misers dread the hoarded gold to waste,
Expence and alteration shew a _Taste_.
In curious paintings I'm exceeding nice,
And know their several beauties by their _Price_.
_Auctions_ and _Sales_ I constantly attend,
But chuse my pictures by a _skilful friend_.
Originals and copies much the same,
The picture's value is the _painter's name_.
My taste in Sculpture from my choice is seen,
I buy no statues that are not obscene.
In spite of _Addison_ and ancient _Rome_,
Sir _Cloudesly Shovel_'s is my fav'rite tomb.
How oft have I with admiration stood,
To view some City-magistrate in wood?
I gaze with pleasure on a Lord May'r's head,
Cast with propriety in gilded lead.
Oh could I view through _London_ as I pass,
Some broad Sir _Balaam_ in _Corinthian_ brass;
High on a pedestal, ye Freemen, place
His magisterial Paunch and griping Face;
_Letter'd and Gilt_, let him adorn _Cheapside_,
And grant the _Tradesman_, what a _King_'s deny'd.
Old Coins and Medals I collect, 'tis true,
Sir _Andrew_ has 'em, and I'll have 'em too.
But among friends if I the truth might speak,
I like the modern, and despise th' antique.
To Lady _Gripeall_ I the _Caesars_ shew,
'Tis equal to her Ladyship or me,
A copper _Otho_, or a _Scotch Baubee_.
Without _Italian_, or without an ear,
To _Bononcini_'s musick I adhere:
Musick has charms to sooth a savage beast,
And therefore proper at a Sheriff's feast.
My soul has oft a secret pleasure found,
In the harmonious Bagpipe's lofty sound.
Bagpipes for men, shrill _German-flutes_ for boys,
I'm _English_ born, and love a grumbling noise.
The Stage should yield the solemn Organ's note,
And Scripture tremble in the Eunuch's throat.
Let _Senesino_ sing, what _David_ writ,
And _Hallelujahs_ charm the pious pit.
Eager in throngs the town to _Hester_ came,
And _Oratorio_ was a lucky name.
Thou, _Heeideggre!_ the _English_ taste has found,
And rul'st the mob of quality with sound.
In _Lent_, if Masquerades displease the town,
Call 'em _Ridotto_'s, and they still go down:
Go on, Prince _Phyz_! to please the British nation,
Call thy next _Masquerade_ a _Convocation_.
Bears, Lyons, Wolves, and Elephants I breed,
And _Philosophical Transactions_ read.
Next Lodge I'll be _Free-Mason_, nothing less,
Unless I happen to be _F.R.S._
I have a _Palate_, and (as yet) _two Ears_,
Fit company for _Porters_, or for _Peers_.
Of ev'ry useful knowledge I've a share,
But my top talent is a bill of fare.
Sir Loins and rumps of beef offend my eyes,
Pleas'd with frogs fricasseed, and coxcomb-pies.
Dishes I chuse though little, yet genteel,
_Snails_ the first course, and _Peepers_ crown the meal.
Pigs heads with hair on, much my fancy please,
I love young colly-flow'rs if stew'd in cheese,
And give ten guineas for a pint of peas.
No tatling servants to my table come,
Queer Country-puts extol Queen _Bess_'s reign,
And of lost hospitality complain.
Say thou that do'st thy father's table praise,
Was there _Mahogena_ in former days?
Oh! could a British Barony be sold!
I would bright honour buy with dazling gold.
Could I the _privilege_ of _Peer_ procure,
The rich I'd bully, and oppress the poor.
To _give_ is wrong, but it is wronger still,
On any terms to _pay_ a tradesman's bill.
I'd make the insolent Mechanicks stay,
And keep my ready money all for _play_.
I'd try if any pleasure could be found,
In _tossing-up_ for twenty thousand pound.
Had I whole Counties, I to _White_'s would go,
And set lands, woods, and rivers, at a throw.
But should I meet with an unlucky run,
And at a throw be gloriously undone;
My _debts of honour_ I'd discharge the first,
Let all my _lawful creditors_ be curst:
My _Title_ would preserve me from arrest,
And seising _hired horses_ is a jest.
I'd walk the mornings with an _oaken stick_,
A footman I wou'd be, in outward show,
In sense, and education, _truly so_.
As for my _head_, it should ambiguous wear
_At once_ a periwig, _and_ its own hair.
My hair I'd powder in the women's way,
And _dress_, and _talk of dressing_, more than they.
I'll please the maids of honour, if I can;
Without black-velvet-britches, what is man?
I will my skill in _button-holes_ display,
And brag how oft I shift me ev'ry day.
Shall I wear cloaths, in _awkward England_ made?
And sweat in cloth, to help the _woollen trade_?
In _French_ embroid'ry and in _Flanders_ lace
I'll spend the income of a treasurer's place.
_Deard_'s bill for baubles shall to thousands mount,
And I'd out-di'mond ev'n the _Di'mond Count_.
I would convince the world by taudry cloa's,
That _Belles_ are less effeminate than beaux,
And Doctor _Lamb_ should pare my Lordship's toes.
To boon companions I my time would give,
With players, pimps, and parasites I'd live.
I would with _Jockeys_ from _Newmarket_ dine,
And to _Rough-riders_ give my choicest wine.
I would caress some _Stableman_ of note,
And imitate his language, and his _coat_.
My ev'nings all I would with _sharpers_ spend,
And make the _Thief-catcher_ my bosom friend.
In _Fig_ the Prize-fighter by day delight,
And sup with _Colly Cibber_ ev'ry night.
Should I perchance be fashionably ill,
I'd send for _Misaubin_, and take his pill.
I should abhor, though in the utmost need,
But if I found that I grew worse and worse,
I'd turn off _Misaubin_ and take a Nurse.
How oft, when eminent physicians fail,
Do good old womens remedies prevail?
When beauty's gone, and _Chloe_'s struck with years,
Eyes she can couch, or she can syringe ears.
Of Graduates I dislike the learned rout,
And chuse a _female Doctor_ for the gout.
Thus would I live, with no dull _pedants_ curs'd,
Sure, of all blockheads, _Scholars_ are the worst.
Back to your _Universitys_, ye fools,
And dangle Arguments on strings in schools:
Those schools which _Universitys_ they call,
'Twere well for _England_ were there none at all.
With ease that loss the nation might sustain,
Supply'd by _Goodman's Fields_ and _Drury-lane_.
_Oxford_ and _Cambridge_ are not worth one farthing,
Compar'd to _Haymarket_, and _Convent-garden_:
Quit those, ye British Youth, and follow these,
Turn players all, and take your 'Squires degrees.
Boast not your incomes now, as heretofore,
Ye book-learn'd Seats! the Theatres have more:
A singing Eunuch gets a larger Sum.
Have some of you three hundred by the Year,
_Booth_, _Rich_, and _Cibber_, twice three thousand clear.
Should _Oxford_ to her sister _Cambridge_ join
A Year's _Rack-rent_, and _Arbitrary fine_:
Thence not one winter's charge would be defray'd,
Glad I congratulate the judging Age,
The players are the world, the world the stage.
I am a Politician too, and hate
Of any party, ministers of state:
I'm for an _Act_, that he, who sev'n whole Years
Has serv'd his _King_ and _Country_, lose his ears.
Thus from my birth I'm qualified you find,
To give the laws of _Taste_ to humane kind.
Mine are the gallant Schemes of Politesse,
For books, and buildings, politicks, and dress.
This is _True Taste_, and whoso likes it not,
Is blockhead, coxcomb, puppy, fool, and sot.
The _Dunciad_: A New Edition with some additional Epigrams.
An _Epistle_ from a young Gentleman at _Rome_ to Mr. _Pope_.
Distraction_ from _A Treatise of Dreams and Visions_ .
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