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It anger'd TUR ENNE, once upon à day,

To fee a Footman kick'd that took his pay :

But when he heard th'Affront the Fellow gave,
Knew one a Man of honour, one a Knave;
The prudent Gen'ral turn'd it to a jest,

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And begg'd, he'd take the pains to kick the rest: 155
Which not at present having time to do

F. Hold Sir! for God's-fake, where's th'Affront to you?
Against your worship what has S-k writ?
When did Ty-1 hurt you with his Wit?

Or grant, the Bard whose distich all commend, 160
[In Pow'r a Servant, out of Pow'r a Friend.]
To W-le guilty of fome venial fin ;

"

What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?

The Priest whofe Flattery be-dropt the Crown, How hurt he you? he only stain❜d the Gown. 165 And how did, pray, the florid Youth offend, Whofe Speech you took, and gave it to a Friend?

P. Faith it imports not much from whom it came; Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame, Since the whole Houfe did afterwards the fame. Let Courtly Wits to Wits afford fupply, As Hog to Hog in huts of Weftphaly; If one, thro' Nature's bounty or his Lord's, Has what the frugal, dirty foil affords,

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From him the next receives it, thick or thin,

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As pure a mess almost as it came in ;

The bleffed benefit, not there confin'd,

Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;

From

From tail to mouth, they feed, and they caroufe:
The laft, full fairly gives it to the House.

F. This filthy Simile, this beaftly line

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Quite turns my ftomach -P. So does Flatt'ry mine;
And all your Courtly Civet-Cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is Excrement.

But hear me further-Japhet, 'tis agreed, Writ not, and Chartres fcarce could write or read, In all the Courts of Pindus guiltless quite ;

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But Pens can forge, my Friend, that cannot write.
And must no Egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the Deed he forg'd was not my own?
Muft never Patriot then declaim at Gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous Paftor blame a failing Spouse,
Without a staring Reason on his brows?
And each Blafphemer quite efcape the rod,
Because the infult's not on Man, but God?
Ask you what Provocation I have had ?
The ftrong Antipathy of Good to Bad.
When Truth or Virtue an Affront endures,

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Th' Affront is mine, my friend, and should be
Mine, as a Foe profefs'd to falfe Pretence,

yours.

Who think a Coxcomb's Honour like his Sense;
Mine, as a Friend to ev'ry worthy mind;
And mine as Man, who feel for all mankind.

F. You're ftrangely proud.

P. So proud I am no Slave:

So impudent, I own myself no Knave: ·
So odd, my Country's Ruin makes me grave.

B

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Yes,

Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to fee

Men not afraid of God, afraid of me;

Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne, 210
Yet touch'd and sham'd by Ridicule alone.
O facred Weapon! left for Truth's defence,
Sole dread of Folly, Vice, and Infolence!
To all but Heav'n directed hands deny'd,

The mufe may give thee, but the Gods muft guide:
Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal ;
To rowze the Watchmen of the Publick Weal,
To Virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall,
And goad the Prelate flumb'ring in his Stall.

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Ye tinfel Infects! whom a Court maintains That counts your Beauties only by your Stains, Spin all your Cobwebs o'er the Eye of Day! The Mufe's wing shall brush you all away : All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship fings, All that makes Saints of Queens, and Gods of Kings; All, all but Truth, drops dead-born from the Press, Like the laft Gazette, or the last Address.

When black Ambition ftains a Publick Cause, A Monarch's fword when mad Vain-glory draws, Not Waller's Wreath can hide the Nation's Scar, Nor Boileau turn the† Feather to a Star.

+ See his Ode on Namur; where (to use his own words) il a fait un Aftre de la Plume blanche qui le Roy porte ordinairement a fon Chapeau, & qui eft en effet une efpece de Comete, fatale a nos ennemis.

Nor

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Not fo, when diadem'd with Rays divine,
Touch'd with the Flame that breaks from Virtue's
Her Priestess Muse forbids the Good to dye, [Shrine,
And ope's the Temple of Eternity.

There, other Trophies deck the truly brave,
Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the Grave;
Far other Stars than * and *.*

wear,

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And may defcend to Mor-ton from STAIR :
(Such, as on *HOUGH's unfully'd Mitre shine,
Or beam, good DIGBY! from a Heart like thine)
Let Envy howl while Heav'n's whole Chorus fings,
And bark at Honour not confer'd by Kings;
Let Flatt'ry fickening fee the Incense rise
Sweet to the World, and grateful to the Skies:
Truth guards the Poet, fanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, Verfe as mean as mine.

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Yes, the last Pen for Freedom let me draw, When Truth ftands trembling on the edge of Law: Here, Last of Britons! let your Names be read; Are none, none living? let me praise the Dead, And for that Cause which made your Fathers shine, Fall by the Votes of their degen'rate Line!

F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Essays on Man.

*Dr. Hough Bishop of Worcester.

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