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Ye gods! shall Gibber's son, without rebuke, 116

Swear like a lord, or Itich outwhore a duke?

A favourite's porter with his master vie,

Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?

Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's skill?

Or Japhet pocket, like his grace, a will? 120

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 so may'st thou, illustrious Passeran!

But shall a printer, weary of his life, 125

Learn from their hooks 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: I3O

Let modest Foster, if he will, excel
Ten metropolitans in preaching well;
A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife,
Outdo Landaffin doctrine—yea, in life:
Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame, 185

Do good by stealth, and blush to find ii fame.
Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
'Tis just alike to virtue and to me;
Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king,
She's still the same belov'd, contented thing. HO

Vice is undone if she forgets her birth,
And stoops 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, crowds and courts confess, 145
Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless;
In golden chains the willing world she draws,
And her's the gospel is, and her's the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
And sees pale virtue carted in her stead. 150

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 liveried o'er with foreign gold, 155

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 through the land proclaim,
That not to be corrupted is the shame. 160

In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in power,
'lis avarice all, ambition is no more!
See all our nobles begging to be slaves!
See all our fools aspiring to be knaves!
The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore, 165

Are what ten thousand envy and adore:
All, all look up, with reverential awe,
At crimes that'scape or triumph o'er the law:
While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry—
'Nothing is secret now but villainy.' 170

Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain)
Show there was one who held it in disdain.

F. Tis all a libel—Paxton*, sir, will say.

P. Not yet, my friend ! to morrow, 'faith, it may; 5
And for that very cause I print to-day.
How should I fret to mangle every line
In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine? 5

Vice with such giant strides comes on amain,
Invention strives to be before in vain:
Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong,
Some rising genius sins up to my song.

F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; 10
Ev'n Guthry saves half Newgate by a dash.
Spare then the person, and expose the vice.

P. How, sir! not damn the sharper, but the dicer Come on then, satire! general, unconrin'd, Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind. 15 Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all! Ye tradesmen, vile, in army, court, or hall! Ye reverend atheists.— F. Scandal! name them, who?

P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. • Solicitor of the Treasury.

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Who starv'd a sister, who forswore a debt, 20

I never nam'd; the town's enquiring yet.
The poisoning dame—P. You mean—P.—I don't.—
P. You do.

P. See now I keep the secret, and not you!
The bribing statesman—P. Hold, too high you go.

P. The brib'd elector—P. There you stoop too low.

P. I fain would please you if I knew with what; 2ti
Tell me, which knave is lawful game, which not?
Must great offenders, once escap'd the crown,
Like royal harts, be never more run down?
Admit your law to spare the knight requires, SO

As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires?
Suppose f censure—you know what I mean—
To save a bishop may I name a dean?

F. A dean, sir? no, his fortune is not made;
You hurt a man that's rising in the trade. 35

P. If not the tradesman who setup to-day, Much less the'prentice who to-morrow may. Down, down, proud satire! though a realm be spoil'd, Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild; Or, if a court or country's made a job, 40

Go, drench a pickpocket, and join the mob.

But, sir, I beg you, (for the love of vice !) The matter's weighty, pray consider twice: Have you less pity for the needy cheat, The poor and friendless villain, than the great? 45 Alas! the small discredit of a bribe Scarce hurts the lawyer, but Undoes the scribe. Then better sure it charity becomes To tax directors, who (thank God!) have plums; Still better ministers, or if the thing 50

May pinch ev'n there—why lay it on a king.

P. Stop! sto^!

P. Must satire then nor rise nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.

P. Yes, strike that Wild, I'lljustify the blow.

P. Strike! why the man was hang'd ten years ago: "Who now that obsolete example fears? 56

Ev'u Peter trembles only for his ears?

F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad: You make men desperate, if they once are bad, Else might he take to virtue some years hence— 60 P. As S**k, if he lives, will love the prince. F. Strange spleen to S**k!—P. Do I wrong the man? God knows I praise a courtier where I can. When I confess there is who feels for fame, And melts to goodness, need I Scarborough name? Pleas'd let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove, 66 (Where Kent and Nature vie for Pelham's love) The scene, the master, opening to my view, I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew!

Ev'n in a bishop I can spy desert; 70

Seeker is decent, Rundel has a heart:
Manners with candour arc to Benson giv'n,
To Berkeley every virtue under heav'n.

But does the court a worthy man remove?
That instant, I declare, he has my love; 15

I shun his zenith, court his mild decline;
Thus Somers once and Halifax were mine.
Oft in the clear still mirror of retreat
1 studied Shrewsbury, the wise and great:
Carleton's calm sense and Stanhope's noble flame 86
Compar'd, and knew their generous end the same:
How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!
How shin'd the soul, imconquer'd, in the Tow'r!
How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield, forget,
While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit? 85

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 and his own? 89

Names which I long lmve lov'd, nor lov'd in vain,
Raiik'd with their friends, not number'd with their
And if yet higher the proud list should end, [train;
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, 9S

Point she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory, 0» round a Quaker's beaver cast a glor^.

I never (to my sorrow i declare)
Din'd with the man ofRossormy lord may'r.
Some in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave)
Have still a secret bias to a knave: 101

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. 105

But random praise—the task can ne'er be done;
Kach 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; 110
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? lis

What Richelieu wanted Louis scarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain.
No pow'r the Muse's friendship can command;
No pow'r, when virtue claims it, can withstand.
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line: 120

0 let my country's friends illumine mine!

What are you thinking? F. Faith, the thought's no

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

The way they take is strangely round about. 125

F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow?
P. I only call those knaves who are so now.

Is that too little? come then, I'll comply—

Spirit of Ainall! aid me while I lie:

Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave, 130

And Lyttlcton a dark designing knave;

St. John has ever been a wealthy fool—

But let mo add, Sir Robert's mighty dull,

Has never made a friend in private life,

And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife. 135

But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?

Call Verrcs, Wolsey, any odious name?

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