Then might I fing, without the least offence,
And all I fung fhould be the Nation's Sense;
Or teach the melancholy Mufe to mourn,
Hang the fad Verfe on CAROLINA's Urn,
And hail her paffage to the Realms of Reft,
All parts perform'd, and all her children bleft!
So-Satire is no more-I feel it die-
No Gazetteer more innocent than I----
And let, a GoD's-name, ev'ry Fool and Knave
Be grac'd tho' Life, and flatter'd in his Grave.
F. Why fo if Satire knows its Time and Place,
You still may lash the greatest---in Disgrace :
For Merit will by turns forfake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all Satire in all Changes fpare
Immortal S- -k and grave De-re.
Silent and foft, as Saints remove to Heav'n,
All Tyes diffolv'd, and ev'ry Sin forgiv❜n,
These may fome gentle ministerial Wing
Receive, and place for ever near a King!
There, where no Paffion, Pride, or Shame transport,
Lull'd with the fweet Nepenthe of a Court;
There, where no Father's, Brother's Friend's difgrace
Once break their rest, or stir them from their Place:
But paft the Senfe of human Miseries,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;
No check is known to blush, no heart to throb,
Save when they lose a Question, or a Job.
P. Good Heav'n forbid, that I fhould blast their glory, Who know how like Whig Ministers to Tory.
And when three Sov'reigns dy'd, could scarce be vext,
Confid'ring what a gracious Prince was next.
Have I, in filent wonder, feen fuch things
As Pride in Slaves, and Avarice in Kings;
And at a Peer, or Peerefs, fhall I fret,
Who ftarves a Sifter, or forfwears a Debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
But fhall the Dignity of Vice be loft?
Ye Gods! fhall Cibber's Son, without rebuke,
Swear like a Lord, or Rich out-whore a Duke?
A Fav'rite's Porter with his Master vie,
Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?
Shall Ward draw Contracts with a Statesman's fkill? Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a Will?
Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things)
To pay their Debts, or keep their Faith, like Kings? If Blount dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man, And fo may'ft thou, illuftrious Pafferan!
But shall a Printer weary of his life,
Learn, from their Books, to hang himself and Wife?
This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear;
Vice thus abus'd, demands a nation's care:
This calls the Church to deprecate our Sin,
And hurls the Thunder of the Laws on Gin.
Let modest FOSTER, if he will, excell
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's Wife,
Out-do Landaffe in Doctrine,-yea in Life:
Let Humble ALLEN, with an aukward Shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame.
Virtue may chufe the high or low Degree,
'Tis juft alike to Virtue, and to me;
Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King,
She's still the fame, belov'd, contented thing.
Vice is undone, if the forgets her Birth,
And ftoops from angels to the Dregs of Earth:
But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a Whore;
Let Greatness own her, and she's mean no more,
Her Birth, her Beauty, Crouds and Courts confefs,
Chaste Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless;
In golden Chains the willing world fhe draws,
And hers the Gospel is, and hers the Laws,
Mounts the Tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
And fees pale virtue carted in her stead.
Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal Car,
Old England's Genius, rough with many a Scar,
Dragg'd in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
His Flag inverted trails along the ground!
Our Youth, all livry'd o'er with foreign Gold,
Before her dance: behind her, crawl the Old!
See thronging Millions to the Pagod run,
And offer Country, Parent, Wife, or Son!
Hear her black Trumpet thro' the Land proclaim,
That NOT TO BE CORRUPTED IS THE SHAME.
In Soldier, Churchman, Patriot, Man in Pow'r
'Tis Av'rice all, Ambition is no more!
See all our nobles begging to be Slaves!
See all our Fools afpiring to be Knaves!
The wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore
Are what ten thousand envy and adore :
All, all look up, with reverential Awe,
At crimes that 'fcape, or triumph o'er the Law:
While truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry
"Nothing is facred now but Villainy,"
Yet may this Verfe (if fuch a Verse remain)
Show there was one who held it in difdain.
IS all a Libel-Paxton (Sir) will fay.
P. Not yet, my Friend! to-morrow 'faith
it may;
And for that very cause I print to-day.
How should I fret to mangle ev'ry line,
In rev'rence to the Sins of Thirty nine!
Vice with fuch Giant ftrides comes on amain,
Invention strives to be before in vain;
Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong,
Some rifing Genius fins up to my Song.
F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash;
Ev'n Guthry faves half Newgate by a Dash.
Spare then the Perfon, and expofe the Vice.
P. How, Sir! Not damn the Sharper, but the Dice? Come on then, Satire! gen'ral, unconfin'd,
Spread thy broad wing, and fouce on all the kind.
Ye Statesmen, Priests, of one Religion all!
Ye Tradefmen, vile, in Army, Court or Hall!
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