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To laws they know not; beings lodg'd in seats
Of well-adapted joys, in different domes
Of this imperial palace for thy sons;
Of this proud, populous, well-policied,
Though boundless habitation, plann'd by thee:
Whose several clans their several climates suit;
And transposition, doubtless, would destroy.
Or, Oh! indulge, immortal King, indulge
A title less august indeed, but more
Endearing; ah! how sweet in human ears,
Sweet in our ears, and triumph in our hearts!
Father of immortality to man!

A theme that lately set my soul on fire-
And thou the next! yet equal! thou, by whom
That blessing was convey'd; far more! was bought:
Ineffable the price! by whom all worlds
Were made; and one redeem'd! illustrious light
From light illustrious! Thou, whose regal power,
Finite in time, but infinite in space,
On more than adamantine basis fix'd,
O'er more, far more, than diadems and thrones,
Inviolably reigns; the dread of gods!

And Oh! the friend of man! beneath whose foot,
And by the mandate of whose awful nod,
All regions, revolutions, fortunes, fates,
Of high, of low, of mind, and matter, roll
Through the short channels of expiring time,
Or shoreless ocean of eternity,
Calm, or tempestuous (as thy spirit breathes),
In absolute subjection!-And, O thou
The glorious third! distinct, not separate!
Beaming from both! with both incorporate;
And (strange to tell!) incorporate with dust!
By condescension, as thy glory, great,
Enshrin'd in man! of human hearts, if pure,
Divine inhabitant! the tie divine

-Of Heaven with distant Earth! by whom I trust,
(If not inspir'd) uncensur'd this address
To thec, to them-to whom!-Mysterious power!
Reveal'd-yet unreveal'd! darkness in light!
Number in unity! our joy! our dread!
The triple bolt that lays all wrong in ruin!
That animates all right, the triple sun!
Sun of the soul! her never-setting sun!
Triune, unutterable, unconceiv'd,
Absconding, yet demonstrable, great God!
Greater than greatest! Better than the best!
Kinder than kindest! with soft pity's eye,
Or (stronger still to speak it) with thine own,
From thy bright home, from that high firmament,
Where thou, from all eternity, hast dwelt;
Beyond archangel's unassisted ken;
From far above what mortals highest call;
From elevation's pinnacle; look down,
Through-What? confounding interval! through


And more than laboring fancy can conceive;
Through radiant ranks of essences unknown;
Through hierarchies from hierarchies detach'd
Round various banners of omnipotence,
With endless change of rapturous duties fir'd;
Through wondrous beings interposing swarms,
All clustering at the call, to dwell in thee;
Through this wide waste of worlds! this vista vast,
All sanded o'er with suns; suns turn'd to night
Before thy feeblest beam-Look down-down-

Nights the Sixth and Seventh. 78

On a poor breathing particle in dust,
Or, lower, an immortal in his crimes.
His crimes forgive! forgive his virtues, too!
Those smaller faults, half-converts to the right.
Nor let me close these eyes, which never more
May see the Sun (though night's descending scale
Now weighs up morn), unpitied, and unblest!
In thy displeasure dwells eternal pain;
Pain, our aversion; pain, which strikes me now;
And, since all pain is terrible to man.
Though transient, terrible; at thy good hour,
Gently, ah gently, lay me in my bed,
My clay-cold bed! by nature now, so near;
By nature, near; still nearer by disease!
Till then, be this, an emblem of my grave:
Let it out-preach the preacher; every night
Let it out-cry the boy at Philip's ear;

That tongue of death! that herald of the tomb!
And when (the shelter of thy wing implor'd)
My senses, sooth'd, shall sink in soft repose,
O sink this truth still deeper in my soul,
Suggested by my pillow, sign'd by fate,
First, in fate's volume, at the page of man-
Man's sickly soul, though turn'd and toss'd for


From side to side, can rest on nought but thee:
Here, in full trust; hereafter, in full joy;
On thee, the promis'd, sure, eternal down
Of spirits, toil'd in travel through this vale.
Nor of that pillow shall my soul despond;
For-Love almighty! Love almighty! (sing,
Exult, creation!) Love almighty, reigns!
That death of death! that cordial of despair!
And loud eternity's triumphant song!

"Of whom, no more:-For, O thou Patron


Thou God and mortal! Thence more God to man!
Man's theme eternal! man's eternal theme!
Thou canst not 'scape uninjur'd from our praise.
Uninjur'd from our praise can he escape,
Who, disembosom'd from the Father, bows
The Heaven of Heavens, to kiss the distant Earth!
Breathes out in agonies a sinless soul!
Against the cross, Death's iron sceptre breaks!
From famish'd ruin plucks her human prey!
Throws wide the gates celestial to his foes!
Their gratitude, for such a boundless debt,
Deputes their suffering brothers to receive!
And, if deep human guilt in payment fails;
As deeper guilt prohibits our despair!
Enjoins it, as our duty, to rejoice!
And (to close all) omnipotently kind,
Takes his delight among the sons of men."+

What words are these-And did they come from


And were they spoke to man? to guilty man?
What are all mysteries to love like this?
The songs of angels, all the melodies
Of choral gods, are wafted in the sound;
Heal and exhilarate the broken heart;
Though plung'd, before, in horrors dark as night.
Rich prelibation of consummate joy!
Nor wait we dissolution to be blest.

This final effort of the moral Muse,
How justly titled !‡ nor for me alone :
For all that read; what spirit of support,
What heights of Consolation, crown my song!

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Then, farewell night! of darkness, now, no


Joy breaks; shines; triumphs; 'tis eternal day.
Shall that which rises out of nought complain
Of a few evils, paid with endless joys?
My soul! henceforth, in sweetest union, join
The two suppor's of human happiness,
Which some, erroneous, think can never meet;
True taste of life, and constant thought of death!
The thought of death, sole victor of its dread!
Hope, be thy joy; and probity, thy skill;
Thy patron he, whose diadem has dropp'd
Yon gems of Heaven; eternity, thy prize:
And leave the racers of the world their own,
Their feather, and their froth, for endless toils:
They part with all for that which is not bread;
They mortify, they starve, on wealth, fame, power;
And laugh to scorn the fools that aim at more.
How must a spirit, late escap'd from Earth,
Suppose Philander's, Lucia's, or Narcissa's,
The truth of things new-blazing in its eye,
Look back, astonish'd, on the ways of men,
Whose lives' whole drift is to forget their graves!
And when our present privilege is past,
To scourge us with due sense of its abuse,
The same astonishment will seize us all.
What then must pain us, would preserve us now.
Lorenzo! 'tis not yet too late; Lorenzo!
Seize wisdom, ere 'tis torment to be wise;
That is, seize wisdom, ere she seizes thee.
For what, my small philosopher, is Hell?
'Tis nothing but full knowledge of the truth,
When truth, resisted long, is sworn our foe:
And calls eternity to do her right.

Thus, darkness aiding intellectual light,
And sacred silence whispering truths divine,
And truths divine converting pain to peace,
My song the midnight raven has outwing'd,
And shot, ambitious of unbounded scenes,
Beyond the flaming limits of the world,
Her gloomy flight. But what avails the flight
Of fancy, when our hearts remain below?
Virtue abounds in flatteries and foes;

"Tis pride to praise her; penance to perform.

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My verse is Satire; Dorset, lend your ear,
And patronize a Muse you cannot fear.
To poets sacred is a Dorset's name;

Their wonted passport through the gates of Fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays:
The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see,
And gives applause to Blackmore, or to me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue:
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.

Instructive Satire, true to virtue's cause!
Thou shining supplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our silence, and demand our rage;
When purchas'd follies, from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the Law shows her teeth, but dares not bite
And South-sea treasures are not brought to light;
When churchmen Scripture for the classics quit,
Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
When dying sinners, to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;
To chafe our spleen, when themes like these increase,
Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?
Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right,

To more than words, to more than worth of And dedication wash an Æthiop white,


Lorenzo! rise, at this auspicious hour;

An hour, when Heaven's most intimate with man;
When, like a falling star, the ray divine
Glides swift into the bosom of the just;
And just are all, determin'd to reclaim;
Which sets that title high within thy reach.
Awake, then: thy Philander calls: awake!
Thou, who shalt wake, when the creation sleeps;
When, like a taper, all these suns expire;
When Time, like him of Gaza in his wrath,
Plucking the pillars that support the world,
In Nature's ample ruins lies entomb'd;
And midnight, universal midnight! reigns.

Set up each senseless wretch for nature's boast,
On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post?
Shall funeral eloquence her colors spread,
And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,
And satirize with nothing-but their praise?

Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train
Nor hears that virtue, which he loves, complain?
Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead,
And guilt's chief foe, in Addison, is fled;
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won,
Sits smiling at the goal, while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking still
Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.
Doubly distrest, what author shall we find,
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,
The courtly Roman's shining path to tread,
And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?
Will no superior genius snatch the quill,
And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Though vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise
What will not men attempt for sacred praise?

* Horace.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows, in every heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.

O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells;
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells:
"Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades.
Here, to Steele's humor makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.

What is not proud? the pimp is proud to see
So many like himself in high degree:
The whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish virtue, and the marriage-bed;
And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims born
To slaughter, glories in his gilded horn.

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
And come back much more guilty than they went:
One way they look, another way they steer,
Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;
And when their sins they set sincerely down,
They'll find that their religion has been one.

Others with wistful eyes on glory look,
When they have got their picture towards a book:
Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign,

Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.
If at his title T- had dropp'd his quill,

might have pass'd for a great genius still.
But Talas! (excuse him if you can)
Is now a scribbler, who was once a man.
Imperious, some a classic fame demand,
For heaping up, with a laborious hand,
A wagon-load of meanings for one word,
While A's depos'd, and B with pomp restor'd.

Some, for renown, on scraps of learning dote,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
To patchwork learn'd quotations are allied;
Both strive to make our poverty our pride.

On glass how witty is a noble peer! Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?

Polite diseases make some idiots vain;
Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see;
And (stranger still!) of blockheads' flattery;
Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean,
By spitting on your face, to make it clean.

Nor is 't enough all hearts are swoln with pride,
Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide.
What can she not perform? The love of Fame
Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blame :
Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep:
And (stronger still!) made Alexander weep.
Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed,

Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools.
Satire! had I thy Dorset's force divine,
A knave or fool should perish in each line;
Though for the first all Westminster should plead,
And for the last all Gresham intercede.

Begin. Who first the catalogue shall grace?
To quality belongs the highest place.
My lord comes forward; forward let him come!
Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room:
He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet,
By heraldry, prov'd valiant or discreet:
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three descents less wise!
If virtues at his noble hands you crave,
You bid him raise his father's from the grave.
Men should press forward in Fame's glorious chase;
Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Let high-birth triumph! What can be more great?
Nothing-but merit in a low estate.

To virtue's humblest son let none prefer
Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high, or base,
Slight, or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;
The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lies.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.
Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine.

Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own
We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone.
Mean sons of earth, who on a South-sea tide
Of full success, swam into wealth and pride,
Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate,
And beg to be descended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar,
They light a torch to show their shame the more.
Those governments which curb not evils, cause
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;
But builds himself a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immense estate!
In cost and grandeur, Chandos he'll outdo;
And Burlington, thy taste is not so true.
The pile is finish'd; every toil is past;
And full perfection is arriv'd at last;
When lo! my lord to some small corner runs,
And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay
Provides a home from which to run away.
In Britain, what is many a lordly seat,
But a discharge in full for an estate?

In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame;
Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame :
Not Fountaine's self more Parian charms has known,

Though her lov'd lord has four half months been dead. Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.

This passion with a pimple have I seen
Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen.
By this inspir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!)
Some lords have learn'd to spell, and some to knot.
It makes Globose a speaker in the house;
He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.
It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.

Sick with the Love of Fame, what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin?
My growing subject seems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run..

The bailiffs come (rude men, profanely bold!)
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
"No, sirs," he cries, "I'll sooner rot in jail :
Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail?"
Such heads might make their very bustos laugh:
His daughter starves; but Cleopatra's safe.*
Men, overloaded with a large estate,
May spill their treasure in a nice conceit:
The rich may be polite: but, oh! 'tis sad
To say you're curious, when we swear you're mai?

A famous statue.

By your revenue measure your expense;
And to your funds and acres join your sense.
No man is bless'd by accident or guess;
True wisdom is the price of happiness:
Yet few without long discipline are sage;
And our youth only lays up sighs for age.
But how, my Muse, canst thou resist so long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,
Thy most inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for satire ;-it abounds in lords.
"What lords are those saluting with a grin?"
One is just out, and one as lately in.
"How comes it then to pass, we see preside
On both their brows an equal share of pride?"
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all,
Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.
As in its home it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their hands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:
Some lords it bids resign; and turns their wands,
Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.
These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast,
With pride inverted, of their honors lost.
But against reason sure 'tis equal sin,

The boast of merely being out, or in.

Say, dear Hippolytus, (whose drink is ale,
Whose erudition is a Christmas tale,
Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back,)
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praise? Let Ringwood's fame alone;
Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gypsy you commit,
And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;
When you the dullest of dull things have said,
And then ask pardon for the jest you made.

Here breathe, my Muse! and then thy task renew.
Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates;
Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;
Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind;
Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer grave lords to Scrope discreetly bend;
And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.
Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,
At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass,
And sweetly whistles as the waters pass?
Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages witout winding-up?

What numbers here, through odd ambition, strive Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame ?

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What numbers, here, would into fame advance,
Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance;
The tavern! park! assembly! mask! and play!
Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town!
Call it diversion, and the pill goes down.
Fools grin on fools, and, stoic-like, support,
Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.
Courts can give nothing to the wise and good,
But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude.
High stations tumult, but not bliss, create:
None think the great unhappy, but the great:
Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a sting,
Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.
I envy none their pageantry and show;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;
No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there:
There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest;
The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest;
On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
But some, untaught, o'erhear the whispering rill,
In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still :
Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native soil, the drawing-room.

The squire is proud to see his coursers strain,
Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.

A famous tailor

Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme:
Nor would these heroes of the task be glad,
For who can write so fast as men run mad?


My Muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end;
Though toils and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and gods make other poems fine;
Plain Satire calls for sense in every line:
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose!
All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.
When such the foe, a war eternal wage;
"T'is most ill-nature to repress thy rage:
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.

So weak are human-kind by Nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty Vanity! to thee they owe
Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the Sun, all colors dost contain,
Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain.
For every soul finds reason to be proud,
Though hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.
Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
Hippolytus* demands the sylvan crown;
But Florio's fame, the product of a shower,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower!
Why teems the Earth? Why melt the vernal skies?
Why shines the Sun? To make Paul Diackt rise.
From morn to night has Florio gazing stood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good:
What shape! What hue! Was ever nymph so fair?
He dotes! he dies! he too is rooted there.
O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy,
Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.

In fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;
The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate,
OC! and be kind, ere 'tis too late.

*This refers to the first Satire.
†The name of a tulip.

Nor are those enemies I mention'd, all; Beware, O florist, thy ambition's fall.

A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame;
A Quaker serv'd him, Adam was his name;
To one lov'd tulip oft the master went,
Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent ;
But came, and miss'd it, one ill-fated hour:
He rag'd! he roar'd! "What demon cropt my

Serene, quoth Adam, "Lo! 'twas crush'd by me;
Fall'n is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy knee."
But all men want amusement; and what crime
In such a Paradise to fool their time?
None: but why proud of this? To fame they soar:
We grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more.
We smile at florists, we despise their joy,
And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy:
But are those wiser whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?

Who, with the charms of his own genius smit,
Conceives all virtues are compris'd in wit!
But time his fervent petulance may cool;
For though he is a wit, he is no fool.
In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his sense;
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.
He spares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like doom's-day, all the faults of all mankind.

What though wit tickles? tickling is unsafe,
If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Parts may be prais'd, good-nature is ador'd;
Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword;
And never on the weak; or you'll appear
As there no hero, no great genius here.
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set:
Their want of edge from their offence is seen;

What's he who sighs for wealth, or fame, or power? Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
Another Florio doting on a flower!

A short-liv'd flower; and which has often sprung
From sordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?
The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit.
Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,
And Epictetus is a perfect beau.
How fit for thee, bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That science should be purchas'd by the yard;
And Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, sent home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to some peculiar end design'd,
Study's the specious trifling of the mind;
Or is at best a secondary aim,

A chase for sport alone, and not for game.
If so, sure they who the mere volume prize,
But love the thicket where the quarry lies.
On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduc'd his rent;

The fame men give is for the joy they find;
Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind.
Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himself a wit,
To pay my compliment, what place so fit?
His most facetious letters* came to hand,
Which my First Satire sweetly reprimand:
If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
Say, Marcus, which art thou, a fool, or knave?
For all but such with caution I forbore;
That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before:
I know thee now, both what thou art, and who;
No mask so good, but Marcus must shine through:
False names are vain, thy lines their author tell;
Thy best concealment had been writing well:
But thou a brave neglect of fame hast shown,
Of others' fame, great genius! and thy own.
Write on unheeded; and this maxim know,
The man who pardons, disappoints his foe.

In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull
Their peevish reason; vain of being dull;
When some home joke has stung their solemn souls,

His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on, In vengeance they determine-to be fools;

A choice collection! what is to be done?
He sells his last; for he the whole will buy;
Sells e'en his house; nay, wants whereon to lie :

So high the generous ardor of the man

For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.

Through spleen, that little Nature gave, make less,
Quite zealous in the ways of heaviness;

To lumps inanimate a fondness take;
And disinherit sons that are awake.
These, when their utmost venom they would spit,

When terms were drawn, and brought him by the Most barbarously tell you-“ He's a wit.”


Lorenzo sign'd the bargain-with his mark.
Unlearned men of books assume the care,
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
Not in his authors' liveries alone

Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown:
Editions various, at high prices bought,

Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;
And to this cost another must succeed,
To pay a sage, who says that he can read;
Who titles knows, and indexes has seen;
But leaves to Chesterfield what lies between ;
Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense,
And humbly is contented with their sense.

O Stanhope, whose accomplishments make good
The promise of a long-illustrious blood,
In arts and manners eminently grac'd,
The strictest honor! and the finest taste!
Accept this verse; if Satire can agree
With so consummate an humanity.

By your example would Hilario mend,
How would it grace the talents of my friend;

Poor negroes, thus to show their burning spite
To cacodemons, say, they're devilish white.

Lampridius, from the bottom of his breast,
Sighs o'er one child; but triumphs in the rest.
How just his grief! one carries in his head
A less proportion of the father's lead;
And is in danger, without special grace,
To rise above a justice of the peace.

The dung-hill breed of men a diamond scorn,
And feel a passion for a grain of corn;
Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white,
Who with much pains, exerting all his sense,
Can range aright his shillings, pounds, and pence.
The booby father craves a booby son;
And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
Wants of all kinds are made to fame a plea;
One learns to lisp; another, nol to see:
Miss D, tottering, catches at your hand:
Was every thing so pretty born to stand?

*Letters sent to the author, signed Marcus.

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