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

I think

your friends are out, and would be in. P. If merely to come in, sir, they go out, The way they take is strangely round about. 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 Arnall!7 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 foolBut 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, Oh, 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 9 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

9 They were broken one day while Lords Bathurst and Bolingbroke were dining with him at Twickenham.

Of honour bind me not to maul his tools;
Sure if they cannot cut, it may be said
His saws are toothless, and his hatchet's 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 general 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, sir! for God's sake; where's th' affront to you?

Against your worship when had S**k1 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]3
To W**le guilty of some venial sin,
What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?

The priest whose flattery bedropp'd 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 came; Whoever borrow'd could not be to blame,

1 Sherlock.

2 Judge Page: see note 9 p. 23.

3 A line in an Epistle to Sir Robert Walpole by Lord Melcombe.

• Walpole.

5 Dr. Alured Clarke, who wrote a panegyric on Queen Caroline.

9

• Lord Hervey, who used to paint himself: see note p. 13.

Since 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 the 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 flattery mine; And all your courtly civet-cats can vent, Perfume to you, to me is excrement. But hear me further-Japhet,7 'tis agreed, Writ not, and Chartres 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, Because the deed he forg'd was not my own? Must never patriot then declaim at gin Unless, good man! he has been fairly in; No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse Without a staring reason on his brows? And each blasphemer quite escape the rod, Because the insult's not on man but God?

Ask you what provocation I have had? The strong antipathy of good to bad.

yours.

When truth or virtue an affront endures,
Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be
Mine, as a foe profess'd 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. You're strangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no slave;

So impudent, I own myself no knave;
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud 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 denied,
The muse may give thee, but the gods must guide;
Reverent 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, slumbering in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings,
All 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 cause, A monarch's sword when mad vainglory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.

Not so when diadem'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 8 casts into the grave;
Far other stars than *** and ***9 wear,
And may descend to Mordington from Stair;
(Such as on Hough's1 unsullied 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 conferr'd by kings;
Let flattery sickening see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
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 cause which made your fathers shine, Fall by the votes of their degenerate line.

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

4 p. 50.

8 See note
Bishop of Worcester.

9 Kent and Grafton.