In Two Dialogues. Written in 1738.
Fr. Nor twice a twelvemonth you appear in print,
And when it comes, the court see nothing in't:
You grow correct, that once with rapture writ,
And are, besides, too moral for a wit.
Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel
Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal?
'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye
Said Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory ;'
And taught his Romans, in much better metre,
To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter.'
But Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice;
Bubo observes, he lash'd no sort of vice:
Horace would say, Sir Billy serv'd the crown,
Blunt could do business, Higgins knew the town;
In Sappho touch the failings of the sex,
In reverend bishops note some small neglects,
And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing,
Who cropt our ears, and sent them to the king.
His sly, polite, insinuating style
Could pleace at court, and make Augustus smile :
An artful manager, that crept between
His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen.
But 'faith, your very friends will soon be sore:
Patriots there are who wish you'd jest no more-
And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd you a groat,
Go see Sir Robert-
P. See Sir Robert!-hum
And never laugh-for all my life to come?
Seen him I have; but in his happier hour
Of social pleasure, ill-exchang'd for pow'r ;
Seen him, uncumber'd with a venal tribe,
Smile without art, and win without a bribe.
Would he oblige me? let me only find
He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
Come, come, at ail I laugh he laughs, no doubt;
The only difference is---I dare laugh out.
F. Why, yes: with scripture still you may be free;
A horse-laugh, if you please, at honesty;
A joke on Jekyll, or some odd old Whig,
Who never chang'd his principle or wig:
A patriot is a fool in every age,
Whom all lord chamberlains allow the stage:
These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still,
And wear their strange old virtue as they will.
If any ask you, "Who's the man so near
His prince, that writes in verse, and has his ear?"
Why, answer, Lyttleton! and I'll engage
The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage;
But were his verses vile, his whisper base,
You'd quickly find him in lord Fanny's case.
Sejanus, Wolsey, hurt not honest Fleury,
But well may put some statesmen in a fury.
Laugh then at any but at fools or foes;
These you but anger, and you mend not those,
Laugh at your friends, and, if your friends are sore,
So much the better, you may laugh the more.
To vice and folly to confine the jest,
Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest.
Did not the sneer of more impartial men,
At sense and virtue balance all again.
Judicious wits spread wide the ridicule,
And charitably comfort knave and fool.
P. Dear sir, forgive the prejudice of youth;
Adieu distinction, satire, warmth, and truth!
Come, harmless characters that no one hit;
Come, Henley's oratory, Osborn's wit!
The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,
The flowers of Bubo, and the flow of Young!
The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence,
And all the well-whipt cream of courtly sense;
The first was Harvy's, Fox's next, and then
The S***te's, and then Harvy's once again.
O come! that easy Ciceronian style,
So Latin yet so English all the while,
As, though the pride of Middleton and Bland,
All boys may read, and girls may understand!
Then might I sing without the least offence,
And all I sung should be the nation's sense;
Or teach the melancholy muse to mourn,
Hang the sad verse on Carolina's urn,
And hail her passage to the realms of rest,
All parts perform'd and all her children blest!
So---Satire is no more---I feel it die---
No gazetteer more innocent than I---
And let, a God's name! every fool and knave
Be grac'd through life, and flatter'd in his grave.
F. Why so? if satire knows its time and place,
You still may lash the greatest---in disgrace;
For merit will by turns forsake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all satire in all changes spare
Immortal Sherlock, and grave De***re.
Silent and soft, as saints remove to Heav'n,
All ties dissolv'd, and every sin forgiv'n,
These may soine gentle ministerial wing
Receive, and place for ever near a king!
There where no passion, pride, or shame, trans-
port,
Lull'd with the sweet nepenthe of a court;
There where no father's, brother's, friend's disgrace
Once break their rest, or stir them from their place;
But past the sense of human miseries,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes,
No cheek is known to blush, nor heart to throb,
Save when they lose a question or a job.
P. Good heav'n forbid that I should blast their glory,
Who knows how like whig minister to tory,
And when three sovereigns died could scarce be vext,
Considering what a gracious prince was next.
Have I, in silent wonder seen such things
As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings!
And at a peer or peeress shall I fret,
Who starves a sister or forswears a debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
But shall the dignity of vice be lost?
Ye gods! shall Cibber's son without rebuke,
Swear like a lord; or Rich outw-e 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?
It is for Bond or Peter (paltry things)
To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings?
If Blount despatch'd himself, he play'd the man,
And so may'st thou, illustrious Passeran!
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, excel
Ten metropolitans in preaching well;
A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife,
Outdo Landaff in doctrine-yea, in life;
Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it 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, contended thing.
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 w→e;
Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more;
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess,
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.
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,
Before her dance: behind her crawl the old!
See thronging millions to the pagod run,
Aud offer country, parent, wife, or son!
Hear her black trumpet to the land proclaim,
That not to be corrupted is the shame.
In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in pow'r,
'Tis 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 w---e,
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 sacred now but villany.'
Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) Show there was one who held it in disdain.
Fr. 'Tis all a libel---Paxton,* sir, will say.
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 every line,
In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine!
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;
Ev'n Guthrie saves half Newgate by a dash;
Spare then the person, and expose the vice.
P. How, sir! not damn the sharper, but the dice? Come on then, satire! general, unconfin'd, Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind. 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. Who starv'd a sister, who forswhore a debt,
I never nam'd; the town's inquiring yet.
* Solicitor to the Treasury.
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