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Poem by John Gay
Part I. Fable 40. The Two Monkeys
The learned, full of inward pride, The Fops of outward show deride: The Fop, with learning at defiance, Scoffs at the pedant, and the science: The Don, a formal, solemn strutter, Despises Monsieur's airs and flutter; While Monsieur mocks the formal fool, Who looks, and speaks, and walks by rule. Britain, a medley of the twain, As pert as France, as grave as Spain; In fancy wiser than the rest, Laughs at them both, of both the jest. Is not the poet's chiming close Censured by all the sons of prose? While bards of quick imagination Despise the sleepy prose narration. Men laugh at apes, they men contemn; For what are we, but apes to them? Two monkeys went to Southwark fair, No critics had a sourer air: They forced their way through draggled folks, Who gaped to catch jack-pudding's jokes; Then took their tickets for the show, And got by chance the foremost row. To see their grave, observing face, Provoked a laugh throughout the place. 'Brother,' says Pug, and turned his head, 'The rabble's monstrously ill bred.' Now through the booth loud hisses ran; Nor ended till the show began. The tumbler whirls the flap-flap round, With somersets he shakes the ground; The cord beneath the dancer springs; Aloft in air the vaulter swings; Distorted now, now prone depends, Now through his twisted arms ascends: The crowd, in wonder and delight, With clapping hands applaud the sight. With smiles, quoth Pug, 'If pranks like these The giant apes of reason please, How would they wonder at our arts! They must adore us for our parts. High on the twig I've seen you cling; Play, twist and turn in airy ring: How can those clumsy things, like me, Fly with a bound from tree to tree? But yet, by this applause, we find These emulators of our kind Discern our worth, our parts regard, Who our mean mimics thus reward.' 'Brother,' the grinning mate replies, 'In this I grant that man is wise. While good example they pursue, We must allow some praise is due; But when they strain beyond their guide, I laugh to scorn the mimic pride, For how fantastic is the sight, To meet men always bolt upright, Because we sometimes walk on two! I hate the imitating crew.'
John Gay's other poems:
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