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Ev'n in a bishop I can spy desert;
Seeker is decent, Rundel has a heart;
Manners with candour are to Benson given;
To Berkeley every virtue under heaven.

But does the court a worthy man remove?
That instant, I declare, he has my love:
I shun his zenith, court his mild decline;
Thus Somers once, and Halifax, were mine.
Oft, in the clear, still mirror of retreat,
I study'd Shrewsbury, the wise and great;
Carleton's calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame
Compar'd, and knew their gen'rous end the same:
How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!
How sliin'd the soul, unconquer' d in the Tower!
How can 1 Pulteney, Chesterfield forget,
While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit?
Argyle, the state's whole thunder born to wield.
And shake alike the senate and the field?
Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne,
The master of our passions, ami his own?
Names, which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain,
Raok'd with their friends, not number'd with their

And if yet higher the proud list should end,
Still let me say, no follower, but a friend.

Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays:
I follow virtue; where she shines, I praise;
Points she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a quaker's beaver cast a glory.
I never (to my sorrow I declare)
Din'd with the man of Ross, or my Lord May*r.
Some, in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave)
Have still a secret bias to a knave:
To find an honest man I beat about,
And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.

F. Then why so few commended?

P. Not so fierce; Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse. But random praise—the task can ne'er be done: Each mother asks it for her booby son;


Each widow asks it for the best of men,
For him she weeps, for him she weds again.
Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground:
The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of these days,
To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.
Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend i
What Richelien wanted, Louis scarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain.
No power the muse's friendship can commaud;
No power, when virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line;

0 let my country's friends illumine mine! {sin, —What are you thinking? F. Faith the thought's no

1 think your friends are out, and would be in. P. If merely to come in, sir, they go out,

The way they tske is strangely rouud about.

F. They too may be corrupted, yon'll allow.

P. I only call those knaves who are so now.
Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply—
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie:
Cobham's a coward. Polwarth is a slave.
And Lyttelton a dark, designing knave;
St. John has ever been a wealthy fool-
But let me add, sir Robert's mighty dull,
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife.

But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine,
O all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine?

What! shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, .When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, Or each new-pension'd sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend, Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt. But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt? Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools;

Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said
His saws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.

It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To see 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,
And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the rest:
Which not at present having time to do—
F. Hold,air! forGod'ssake.where'stheaffronitoyour'
Against your worship whrn had S—k writ?
Or P—ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend
[In power a servant, out of power a friend]
To W—le guilty of some venial sin;
What's that you who ne'er was out nor in?

The priest whose flattery bedropt the crown,
How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?
P. Faith, it imports not much from whom it

Whoever borrow'd could not be to blame,
'Smce the whole house did afterwards the same.
Let courtly wits to wits afford supply,
As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly:
If one, through nature's bounty or his lord's,
Has what a frugal, dirty soil affords.
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mess almost as it came in;
The blessed benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;
From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse;
The last full fairly gives it to the house.

F. This filthy simile, this beastly line
Quite turns my stomach——

P. So does flatt'ry mine:
And all your courtly civet-cats can vent,
Perfume to yon, to me is excrement.

But hear me further- -Japhet, 'tis agreed,

Writ not, and Chartrcs scarce could write or read.

In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite:

But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write;

And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown, the deed he forg'd was not my own?

Must never patriot then declaim at gin,

Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?

1No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse,

Without a staring reason on his brows?

And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,

Becanse the insult's not on man, but God?

Ask you what provocation I have had? The strong antipathy of good to bad. When truth or virtue an affront endures, Th' iiffrorit is mine, my friend, and should be yours. Mine, as a foe profest to false pretence, Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense; Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind; And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.

F. Yon're strangely prond.

So impndent, I own myself no knave; >'
So odd, my country's ruin makes -me grave. J
Yes, I am prond : I must be prond to see
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me:
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone.

O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence,
Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
To all but heaven-directed hands deny'd,
The muse may give thee, but the gods must guide:
Rev'ient I touch thee! but with honest zeal;
To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,
To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate slumb'ring in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains.
That counts your beanties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The muse's wing shall brush you all away:

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All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings,
AH that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings;
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press,
Like the last gazette, or the last address.

When black ambition stains a public canse,
A monarch's sword when mad vain-glory draws,
Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar,
Not Boilean turn the feather to a star.

Not so, when, diadefn'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from virtue's shrine,

Her priestess muse forbids the good to die,

And opes the temple of eternity.

There, other trophies deck the truly brave,

Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;

Far other stars than * and ** wear,

And may descend to Mordington from Stair;

(Such as on Hough's unsully'd mitre shine,

Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine)

Let envy howl, while heaven's whole chorus sings,

And bark at honour not conforr'd by kings;

Let flattery sickening see the incense rise,

Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skifs:

Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line,

And makes immortal, verse as mean as mine.

Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth stands 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 canse which made your fathers shine, Fall by the votes of their degen'rate line.

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

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