Beneath this load what abject numbers groan,
Th' entangled Slaves to folly not their own!
Meanly by fashionable fear opprefs'd,
We feek our Virtues in each other's breaft;
Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign Vice,
Another's weakness, int'reft, or caprice.
Each Fool to low Ambition, poorly great,
That pines in fplendid wretchedness of state, 70
Tir'd in the treach'rous Chace, would nobly yield,
And, but for fhame, like SYLLA, quit the field:
The demon Shame paints ftrong the ridicule,
And whispers close, "The World will call you
"Fool."
Behold yon Wretch, by impious fashion driv'n, Believes and trembles while he fcoffs at Heav'n. 76 By weakness ftrong, and bold through fear alone, He dreads the fneer by fhallow Coxcombs thrown; Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod;
To Man a Coward, and a Brave to God.
VER. 80. To Man a Coward, etc.]
"Vois tu ce Libertin en public intrepide,
"Qui preche contre un Dieu que dans fon Ame il croit?
"I iroit embraffer la Verité, qu'il voit;
"Mais de fes faux Amis il craint la Raillerie,
“Et ne brave ainfi Dieu que par Poltronnerie."
Faith, Justice, Heav'n itself now quit their hold,
When to false Fame the captiv'd heart is fold:
Hence, blind to truth, relentless Cato dy'd;
Nought could fubdue his Virtue, but his Pride.,
Hence chafte Lucretia's Innocence betray'd
Fell by that Honour which was meant its aid.
Thus Virtue finks beneath unnumber'd woes,
When Paffions, born her friends, revolt her foes.
Hence SATIRE's pow'r: 'tis her corrective part,
To calm the wild diforders of the heart.
She points the arduous height where Glory lies,
And teaches mad Ambition to be wife:
In the dark bosom wakes the fair defire,
Draws good from ill, a brighter flame from fire;
Strips black Oppreffion of her gay disguise, 95
And bids the Hag in native horror rife;
Strikes tow'ring Pride, and lawless Rapine dead,
And plants the wreath on Virtue's awful head.
Nor boafts the Mufe a vain imagin'd pow'r,
Tho' oft fhe mourn thofe ills fhe cannot cure. 100
The Worthy court her, and the Worthless fear :
Who fhun her piercing eye, that eye revere.
Her awful voice the Vain and Vile obey,
And ev'ry foe to Wisdom feels her fway.
Smarts, Pedants, as fhe fmiles, no more are vain;
Defponding Fops refign the clouded cane:
Hush'd at her voice, pert Folly's felf is ftill,
And Dulness wonders while fhe drops her quill.
Like the arm'd BEE, with art moft fubtly true,
From pois'nous Vice fhe draws a healing dew: 110
Weak are the ties that civil arts can find,
To quell the ferment of the tainted mind:
Cunning evades, fecurely wrapt in wiles;
And Force ftrong finew'd rends th' unequal toils:
The ftream of Vice impetuous drives along, 115
Too deep for Folicy, for Pow'r too ftrong,
Ev'n fair Religion, Native of the flies,
Scorn'd by the Crowd, fecks refuge with the Wife;
The Crowd with laughter fpurns her awful train,
And Mercy courts, and Juftice frowns in vain. 120
But SATIRL's fhaft can pierce the harden'd breaft:
She plays a ruling paffion on the reft:
Undaunted forms the batt'ry of his pride,
Andawes the Brave that Earth and Heav'n defy'd.
VER 110. From pois'nous Vice, etc.] Alluding to thefe lines of Mr. Pope;
"In the nice Bee what Art fo fubtly true
"From pois'nous Herbs extracts a healing Dew?"
When fell Corruption, by her vaffals crown'd, 125
Derides fall'n Justice proftrate on the ground;
Swift to redress an injur'd People's groan,
Bold SATIRE shakes the Tyrant on her throne;
Pow'rful as Death, defies the fordid train,
And Slaves and Sycophants furround in vain. 130
But with the friends of Vice, the foes of SATIRE, All truth is Spleen; all juft reproof, Ill-nature.
Well may they dread the Muse's fatal skill; Well may they tremble,when she draws her quill: Her magic quill, that, like ITHURIEL's spear, 135 Reveals the cloven hoof, or lengthen'd ear: Bids Vice and Folly take their natʼral shapes, Turns Ducheffes to ftrumpets, Beaux to apes; Drags the vile Whisp'rer from his dark abode, Till all the Demon starts up from the toad. 140
O fordid maxim, form'd to screen the vile, That true good-nature ftill muft wear a smile! In frowns array'd her beauties ftronger rife, When love of Virtue makes her fcorn of Vice: Where Juftice calls, 'tis Cruelty to save; And 'tis the Law's good-nature hangs the Knave.
Who combats Virtue's foe is Virtue's friend;
Then judge of SATIRE's merit by her end :
To Guilt alone her vengeance ftands confin'd,
The object of her love is all Mankind.
Scarce more the friend of Man, the wife muft own,
Ev'n ALLEN's bounteous hand, than SATIRE'S
frown:
This to chastize, as That to bless, was giv'n;
Alike the faithful Ministers of Heav'n.
Oft in unfeeling hearts the shaft is spent: 155 Tho' ftrong th' example, weak the punishment. They least are pain'd, who merit Satire moft; Folly the Laureat's, Vice was Chartres' boast: Then where's the wrong, to gibbet high the name Of Fools and Knaves already dead to shame? 160 Oft SATIRE acts the faithful Surgeon's part; Gen'rous and kind, tho' painful is her art: With caution bold, fhe only strikes to heal; Tho' folly raves to break the friendly steel. Then fure no fault impartial SATIRE knows, 165 Kind ev'n in Vengeance, kind to Virtue's foes. Whofe is the crime, the fcandal too be theirs ; The Knave and Fool are their own Libellers.
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