Fortune-Hunter, The – Canto 3 by William Somervile

CANTO III.

As there is something in a face,
An air, and a peculiar grace,
Which boldest painters cannot trace,
That more than feature, shape, or hair,
Distinguishes the happy fair,
Strikes every eye, and makes her known
A ruling toast through all the town;
So in each action ’tis success
That gives it all its comeliness,
Guards it from censure and from blame,
Brightens and burnishes our frame.
For what is virtue, courage, wit,
In all men but a lucky hit?
But, vice versu , where this fails,
The wisest conduct nought avails.
The man of merit soon shall find
The world to prosperous knaves inclin’d,
Himself the last of all mankind.
Too true poor Frank this thesis found,
Bankrupt, despoil’d, and run aground,
In durance vile detain’d and lost,
And all his mighty projects crost;
With grief and shame at once opprest,
Tears swell his eyes, and sighs his breast:
A poor, forlorn, abandon’d rake,
Where shall he turn? what measures take?
Betray’d, deceiv’d, and ruin’d quite
By his own greedy appetite,
He mourns his fatal lust of pelf,
And curses Fortune and himself;
In limbo pent, would fain get free,
Importunate for liberty
So when the watchful hungry mouse,
At midnight prowling round the house,
Winds in a corner toasted cheese,
Glad the luxurious prey to seize,
With whiskers curl’d, and round black eyes,
He meditates the luscious prize,
Till caught, trepann’d, laments too late
The rigorous decrees of fate;
Restless his freedom to regain,
He bites the wire, and climbs in vain.
The wretched captive, thus distrest,
His busy thoughts allow no rest;
Fond on each project to depend,
Kind Hope his only faithful friend;
Odd whimsies floating in his brain,
He plots, contrives, but all in vain;
Approves, rejects, and thinks again.
As when the shipwreck’d wretch is tost
From wave to wave, and almost lost,
Beat by the billows from the shore,
Returns half drown’d, and hugs once more
The friendly plank he grasp’d before;
So Frank, when all expedients fail,
To save his carcass from a jail,
Ate up with vermin and with care,
And almost sinking in despair,
Resolves once more to make his court
To his old aunt, his last resort;
Takes pen in hand, now writes, now tears,
Then blots his paper with his tears,
Ransacks his troubled soul, to raise
Each tender sentiment and phrase;
And every lame excuse supplies
With artful colouring and disguise;
Kind to himself, lays all the blame
On Fortune, that capricious dame:
In short, informs her all was lost,
And sends it by the penny-post.
Soon as the ancient nymph had read
The fatal scroll, she took her bed,
Cold palsies seize her trembling head;
She groans, she sighs, she sobs, she smears
Her spectacles and beard with tears;
Her nose, that wont to sympathise
With all the’ o’erflowing of her eyes,
Adown in pearly drops distils,
The’ united stream each chasm fills.
Geneva now nor Nantz will do,
Her toothless gums their hold let go;
And on the ground, O fatal stroke!
The short coival pipe is broke;
With vapours chok’d, entranc’d she lies,
Belches, and prays, and f — ts, and dies;
But sleep, that kind restorative,
Recall’d her soul, and bade her live.
With cooler thoughts the case she weigh’d,
And brought her reason to her aid.
Away she hobbles, and with speed
Resolves to see the captive freed;
Wipe off this stain and foul disgrace,
And vindicate her ancient race.
With her a sage director comes,
More weighty than a brace of plums,
A good man in the city cant,
Where cash, not morals, makes the saint.
To’ improve a genius so polite,
The clumsy thing was dubb’d a knight;
Fortune’s chief confident and friend,
Grown fat by many a dividend;
And still her favour he retains
By want of merit and of brains;
On her top spoke sublime he sits,
The jest and theme of sneering wits;
For fools in Fortune’s pillory plac’d,
Are mounted to be more disgrac’d.
This rich old hunks, as Woodcock wise,
Was call’d the younker to advise.
” Young man,” said he, ” refrain from tears.
While joyful tidings bless thine ears.
Up, and be doing, boy! and try
To conquer fate by industry,
For know that all of mortal race
Are born to losses and disgrace:
Ev’n I broke twice: I, heretofore
A tailor despicably poor,
In every hole for shelter crept,
On the same bulk, botch’d, lous’d, and slept,
With scarce one penny to prepare
A friendly halter in despair;
My credit like my garment torn,
Threadbare, and ragged, overworn;
But soon I patch’d it up again;
These busy hands, this working brain,
Ne’er ceas’d from labour, pain, and sweat,
Till Fortune smil’d, and I was great.
Now at each pompous city feast
Who but Sir Tristram? every guest
Respectful bows: in each debate
My nod must give the sentence weight:
On me prime ministers attend,
And — — and Aislabie’s my friend:
In embryo each bold project lies
Till my consenting purse supplies.
This hand — nay do not think me vain,
Soften’d the Swede, and humbled Spain.
To me the fair, whom all adore,
Address their pray’rs, and own my pow’r:
When the poor toast, by break of day,
Has punted all her gold away,
Undress’d, and in her native charms,
She flies to these indulgent arms,
She curls each dimple in her face
To win the good Sir Tristram’s grace;
Offers her brilliants with a smile
That might an anchoret beguile;
And when my potent aid is lent,
Away the dear one wheels content.
He that can money get, my boy!
Shall every other good enjoy:
Be rich, and every boon receive
That man can wish or Heav’n can give.
Now to the means, dear youth! attend,
By which thy sorrows soon shall end:
Thy good old aunt resolves to bail
Her hopeful godson out of jail;
But what is freedom to the poor?
The man who begs from door to door
Is free; in lazy wretchedness
He lives, till Heav’n his substance bless;
But having learn’d to cog and chouse,
To cut a purse, or break a house,
Then soon he mends his old apparel,
Eats boil’d and roast, and taps his barrel;
Drinks double bub with all his might,
And hugs his doxy every night:
Thy sprightly genius ne’er shall lie
Depress’d by want and penury;
Go, with a prosperous merry gale,
To the South-Seas adventurous sail;
Fat plenty dwells on those rich shores,
Abundance opens all her stores;
Ingots and pearls for beads are sold,
And rivers glide on sands of gold:
Profit and Pleasure, hand in hand,
Smile on the fields, and bless the land;
The swains unlabour’d harvests reap,
Fountains run wine, and whores are cheap.
Fortune is always true and kind,
Nor veers, as here, with every wind;
Not, as in these penurious isles,
Retails her blessings and her smiles,
But deals by wholesale with her friends,
And gluts them with her dividends.
Then haste, set sail, the ship’s unmoor’d,
And waits to take thee now on board.”
The youth, o’erjoy’d, this project hears,
From his flock-bed his head he rears,
And waters all his rags with tears.
In short, he took his friend’s advice,
Pack’d up his baggage in a trice;
Dancing for joy, on board he flew,
With all Potosi in his view.

—————

The End

And that’s the End of the Poem

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