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With royal favourites in flattery vie, And Oldmizxon and Burnet both outlie.

He spies me out; I whisper, Gracious God! What fin of mine could merit such a rod? That all the shot of dulness now must be From this thy blunderbuss discharg'd on me! Permit (he cries) no stranger to your fame To crave your sentiment, if -'s your name. What speech esteem you most? " The king's," faid 1.

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But the best words?-O Sir, the dictionary."
You mifs my aim! I mean the most acute
And perfect speaker?" Onflow, past dispute."
But, Sir, of writers?
Swift, for closer style,
"But Hoadly for a period of a mile."
Why yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pass:
Good common linguists, and so Panurge was;
Nay troth th' apostles (though perhaps too rough)
Had once a pretty gift of tongues enough :
Yet these were all poor gentlemen! I dare
Affirm, 'twas travel made them what they were.

Thus, others talents having nicely shown,

He came by fure transition to his own :
'Till I cry'd out, You prove yourself so able,
Pity! you was not Druggerman at Babel;
For had they found a linguist half so good,
I make no question but the tower had stood.

"Obliging Sir! for courts you fure were made: Why then for ever bury'd in the shade?

"Spirits like you, should fee and should be seen,

"

The king would smile on you at least the

" queen."

Ah, gentle Sir! you courtiers so cajole us-
But Tully has it, "Nunquam minus solus."
And as for courts, forgive me, if I fay

No lefsons now are taught the Spartan way:
Though in his pictures lust be full display'd,
Few are the converts Aretine has made;
And though the court show vice exceeding clear,
None should, by my advice, learn virtue there.

At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes, Squeaks like a high stretch'd lutestring, andreplies: "Oh, 'tis the sweetest of all earthly things "To gaze on princes, and to talk of kings!" Then, happy man who shows the tombs! said I, He dwells amidst the royal family; He every day from king to king can walk, Of all Harries, all our Edwards talk; And get, by speaking truth of monarchs dead, What few can of the living, ease and bread. "Lord, Sir, a mere mechanic! strangely low, "And coarse of phrafe,-your English all are fo. "How elegant your Frenchman!" Mine, d'ye

mean?

I have but one; I hope the fellow's clean,
"Oh! Sir, politely fo! nay, let me die,
" Your only wearing is your paduafoy."
Not, Sir, my only, I have better ftill,
And this you fee is but my dishabille-
Wild to get loose, his patience I provoke,
Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke.
But as coarse iron, sharpen'd, mangles more,
And itch most hurts when anger'd to a fore;
So when you plague a fool, 'tis still the curfe,
You only make the matter worse and worse.

He past it o'er; affects an easy smile At all my peevisiness, and turns his style. He asks, "What news?" I tell him of new play, New eunuchs, harlequins, and operas. He hears, and as a still with simples in it, Between each drop it gives, stays half a minute, Loth to enrich me with too quick replies, By little, and by little, drops his lies. [shows, Mere household trash: of birthnights, balls, and More than ten Hollinsheds, or Halls, or Stows. When the queen frown'd, or smil'd, he knows; and

what

A fubtle minister may make of that:
Who fins with whom: who got his pension rug,
Or quicken'd a reversion by a drug :

Whose place is quarter'd out, three parts in four,
And whether to a bishop, or a whore :
Who, having loft his credit, pawn'd his rent,
Is therefore fit to have a government :
Who, in the secret, deals in stocks secure,
And cheats th' unknowing widow and the poor:
Who makes a trust of charity a job,
And gets an act of parliament to rob :
Why turnpikes rife, and now no cit nor clown
Can gratis fee the country, or the town :
Shortly no lad shall chuck, or lady vole,
But some excifing courtier will have toll.
He tells what strumpet places sells for life,
What 'squire his lands, what citizen his wife :
At last (which proves him wiser still than all)
What lady's face is not a whited wall.

As one of Woodward's patients, fick, and fore,
I puke, I nauseate,-yet he thrusts in more:
Trims Europe's balance, tops the statesman's part,
And talks gazettes and postboys o'er by heart.
Like a big wife at fight of lothsome meat
Ready to cast, I yawn, 1 sigh, and sweat.
Then as a licensed spy, whom nothing can
Silence or hurt, he libels every man;
Swears every place entail'd for years to come,
In fure fucceffion to the day of doom:
He names the price for every office paid,
And fays our wars thrive ill, because delay'd;
Nay hints, 'tis by connivance of the court,
That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's still a port.
Not more amazement feiz'd on Circe's guests,
To see themselves fall headlong into beasts,
Than mine to find a subject stay'd and wife
Already half turn'd traitor by surprise.
I felt th' infection slide from him to me;
As in the pox, fome give it to get free;
And quick to fwallow me, methought I faw
Qne of our giant statues ope its jaw.

In that nice moment, as another Lye Stood just a-tilt, the minifter came by. To him he flies, and bows, and bows again, Then, close as Umbra, joins the dirty train. Not Fannius' felf more impudently near, When half his nose is in his prince's ear. I quak'd at heart; and, ftill afraid to fee All the court fill'd with stranger things than he, Ran out as fast as one that pays his bail, And dreads more actions, hurries from a jail.

Bear me, fome God! oh quickly bear me hence To wholesome folitude, the murse of fense;

Where Contemplation prunes her ruffled wings, And the free foul looks down to pity kings! There sober thought pursu'd th' amusing theme, Till fancy colour'd it, and form'd a dream. A vifion hermits can to hell transport, And forc'd ev'r me to see the damn'd at court. Not Dante, dreaming all th' infernal state, Beheld such scenes of envy, fin, and hate. Bafe fear becomes the guilty, not the free; Suits tyrants, plunderers, but fuits not me: Shall 1, the terror of this finful town, Care, if a livery'd lord or smile or frown? Who cannot flatter, and detest who can, Tremble before a noble serving man? O my fair mistress, Truth! shall I quit thee For huffing, braggart, puft nobility? Thou, who fince yesterday haft roll'd o'er all The bufy, idle blockheads of the ball, Haft thou, oh fun! beheld an emptier fort, Than fuch as swell this bladder of a court? Now pox on those who show a court in wax ! It ought to bring all courtiers on their backs; Such painted puppets such a varnish'd race Of hollow gewgaws, only dress and face! Such waxen noses, stately staring thingsNo wonder some folks bow, and think them kings. See! where the British youth, engag'd no

more,

At Fig's at White's, with felons, or a whore,
Pay their last duty to the court, and come
All fresh and fragrant, to the drawing-room;
In hues as gay, and odours as divine,

As the fair fields they fold to look so fine.
"That's velvet for a king!" the flatterer swears;
'Tis true, for ten days hence 'twill be King Lear's.
Our court may justiy to our stage give rules,
That helps it both to fool's-coats and to fools.
And why not players strut in courtiers clothes?
For these are actors too, as well as those :
Wants reach all states: they beg but better drest,
And all is fplendid poverty at best.

Painted for fight, and essenc'd for the fmell,
Like frigates fraught with spice and cochineal,
Sail in the ladies: how each pirate eyes
So weak a vessel, and so rich a prize!
Top-gallant he, and she in all her trim,
He boarding her, she striking fail to him:
"Dear Counters! you have charms all hearts to
"hit!"

And "Sweet Sir Fopling' you have fo much
"wit."
Such wits and beauties are not prais'd for nought,
For both the beauty and the wit are bought.

'Twould burst even Heraclitus with the spleen,
To fee those antics, Fopling and Courtin:
The prefence feems, with things so richly odd,
The mosque of Mahound, or fome queer Pa-god.
See them survey their limbs by Durer's rules,
Of all beau-kind the best proportion'd fools?
Adjust their clothes, and to confeffion draw
Those venial fins, an atom, or a straw :
But oh! what terrors must distract the foul
Convicted of that mortal crime, a hole:
Or should one pound of powder less bespread
Those monkey tails that wag behind their head!
Thus finish'd, and corrected to a hair,

They march, to prate their hour before the fair.
So first to preach a white-glov'd chaplain goes,
With band of lily, and with cheek of rofe,
Sweeter than Sharon, in immac'late trím,
Neatness itself impertinent in him.
Let but the ladies smile, and they are blest :
Prodigious! how the things proteft, protest!
Peace, fools, or Gonfon will for Papists seize you,
If once he catch you at your Jesu! Jefu!

Nature made every fop to plague his brother,
Just as one beauty mortifies another.
But here's the captain that will plague them both,
Whose air cries arm! whose very looks an oath :
The captain's honest, Sirs, and that's enough,
Though his foul's bullet, and his body buff.
He spits fore-right; his haughty cheft before,
Like battering rams, beats open every door:
And with a face as red, and as awry,
As Herod's hangdogs in old tapeftry,
Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curse,
Has yet a strange ambition to look worse :
Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe,
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.

Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it fo As men from jails to execution go; For hung with deadly fins I fee the wall, And lin'd with giants deadlier than them all : Each man an askapart, of strength to toss For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross. Scar'd at the grizly forms, i sweat, I fly, And shake all o'er, like discover'd spy.

Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine: Charge them with Heaven's artillery, bold divine!

From fuch alone the great rebukes endure,
Whose fatire's sacred, and whose rage secure :
'Tis mine to wash a few light stains; but theirs
To deluge fin, and drown a court in tears.
Howe'er, what's now Apocrypha, my wit,
In time to come, may pass for holy writ.
Kij

EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

IN TWO DIALOGUES.

WRITTEN IN 1738.

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A horse-laugh, if you please, at honesty;
A joke on Jekyll, or fome 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 flage:
These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion ftill,
And wear their strange old virtue, as they will.
If any afk you, "Who's the man, so near
"His prince, that writes in verse, and has his

4

II

But Horace, Sir, was delicate, was nice;
Bubo obferves, he lash'd no fort of vice:
Horace would fay, Sir Billy serv'd the crown,
Blunt could do business, Higgins knew the town;
In Sappho touch the failings of the fex,
In reverend bishops note fome small neglects,
And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing,
Who cropt our ears, and fent them to the King.
His fly, polite, infinuating style

Could pleafe at court, and make Augustus smile :
An artful manager, that crept between
21
His friend and shame, and was a kind of fcreen.
But 'faith your very friends will foon be fore;
Patriots there are, who with you'd jeft no more-
And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd you a groat.
Go fee 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 focial pleafure, ill-exchang'd for power;
Seen him, uncumber'd with a venal tribe,,
Smile without art, and win without a bribe.

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 2, in the M8.

You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade,
Becaufe you think your reputation made:
Lake good Sir Paul, of whom so much was faid,
That when his name was up, he lay a bed.
Come, come, refresh us with a livelier fong,
Or, like Sir Paul, you'll lie a bed too long.
P. Sit, what I write, should be correctly writ.
A. Correct! 'tis what no genius can admit.
Eefides, you grow too moral for a wt.

"car?"

Why answer, Lyttleton; and I'll engage
The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage:
But were his verfes vile, his whifper bafe,
You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's cafe. so
Sejanus, Wolfey, hurt not honeft Fleury,
But well may put fome statesmen in a fury.

Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes;
These you but anger, and you mend not thofe.
Laugh at your friends, and if your friends are fore,
So much the better, you may laugh the more.
To vice and folly to confine the jeft,
Sets half the world, God knows, against the reft;
Did not the sneer of more impartial men
At ferse 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 diftinction, fatire, warmth, and truth!"

60

30 Come, harmless characters that no one hit;
Come, Henley's oratory, Ofborn'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-whipp'd cream of courtly fenfe,
That first was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then, 71
The S-te's, and then H-vy's once agen.
O come, that easy Ciceronian ftyle,
So Latin, yet so English all the while,
As, though the pride of Middleton and Bland,
All boys may read, and girls may undersland!
Then might 1 fing, without the leait offence,
And all I fung should be the nation's sense;
Or teach the melancholy mufe to mourn,
Hang the fad veríe on Carolina's urn,

80

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Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king,
She's still the fame belov'd, contented thing. 140
Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth,
And ftoops from angels to the dregs of earth:
But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore;

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Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more,
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confefs,
Chafte matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless ;
In golden chains the willing world the draws,
And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
And fees 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 livery'd o'er with foreign gold,
Before her dance: behind her, crawl the old!
See thronging millions to the pagod run,
And offer country, parent, wife, or fon! [claim,
Heat her black trumpet through the land pro-
That Not to be corrupted is the shame.
In foldier, churchman, patriot, man in power,
'Tis avarice all, ambition is no more!

150

160

Save when they lose a question, or a job.

P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should blast

their glory,

See, all our nobles begging to be slaves! See, all our fools afpiring to be knaves! The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore,

Who know how like Whig Ministers to Tory,

Are what ten thousand envy and adore:

And when three sovereign's dy'd, could scaree be Ail, all look up, with reverential awe,

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At crimes that 'fcape, or triumph o'er the law : While truth, worth, wifdom, daily they decry"Nothing is facred now but villany."

Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain)

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Show there was one who held it in difdain.

170

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

Shall Ward draw contracts with a statefmen's Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a will?

But shall the dignity of vice be loft ?

Ye gods! shall Cibber's fon, without rebuke, Swear like a lord, or Rich outwhore a duke ? A favourite's porter with his master vie,

[skill?

120

Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things?)

To pay their debrs, or keep their faith, like kings? If Blount difpatch'd himself, he play d the man;

And fo mayft thou, illustrious Pafferan!

But shall a printer, weary of his life,

[wife?

Learn, from their books, to hang himfelf and This, this, my friend, I cannot, muft not bear ;

Vice thus abus'd, demands a nation's care: This calls the church to deprecate our fin, And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin.

130

Let modest Foster, if he will, excell Ten metropolitans in preaching well; A fimple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife, Outdo Landaffe in doctrine,-yea in life:

Let humble Allen, with an aukward 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 ;

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 112, in some editions:

Who ftarves a mother

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The bribing statefman-F. Hold, too high you go. P. The brib'd elector-F. There you stoop too low.

P. I fain would please you, if I knew with what; 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?

How can I Pultney, Chesterfield forget,
While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit:
Argyll, the state's whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the fenate and the field:
Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne,
The master of our paffions, and his own?
89
Names, which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain,

Admit your law to spare the knight requires, 30 Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with

As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires?
Suppose I cenfure-you know what I mean-

To save a bishop, may I name a dean?

FA dean, Sir? no; his fortune is not made, You hurt a man that's rifing in the trade.

P. If not the tradesman who set up to-day, Much less the 'prentice who to-morrow may. Down, down. proud fatire! though a realm be spoil'd,

Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild;
Or, if a court or country's made a job,
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 ?
Alas! the small discredit of a bribe

40

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Who now that obfolete example fears? Ev'n Peter trembles only for his ears.

58

F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad, You make men defperate, if they once are bad : Else might he take to virtue some years henceP: 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 confefs, there is who feels for fame,
And melts to goodness, need I Scarborow name?
Pleas'd let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove
(Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love)
'The scene, the master, opening to my view,
I fit and dream I see my craggs anew!

Ev'n in a bishop I can spy defert :
Secker is decent; Rundel has a heart;
Manners with candour are to Benson given;
To Berkley, every virtue under heaven.

their train;

And if yet higher the proud list should end,
Still let me say! No follower, but a friend.

Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays:
I follow virtue; where the shines, I praise;
Point she to Priest or Elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory.
I never. (to my forrow I declare)

Din'd with the Man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor. Some, in their choice of friends (nay, look not

grave)

100

Have still a secret bias to a knave:
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 fo fierce;

Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse.
But random praise-the task can ne'er be done :
Each mother asks it for her booby son,
Each widow asks it for the best of men,

For him the weeps, for him the weds again.
Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground: 10
The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of these days,
To 'scape my cenfure, not expect my praise.
Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend?
What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'din vain.
No power the muse's friendship can command;
No power, when virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line;
O let my country's friend illumine mine! [no sin,
-What are you thinking? F. Faith the thought's
I think your friends are out, and would be in.

120

70

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 complySpirit of Arnall! 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 mighty 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.

130

But pray, when others praise him; do I blame? Call Verres, Wolfey, any odious name? Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine, O all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine,

But does the court a worthy man remove? That instant, I declare, he has my love : 1 shun his zenith, court his mild decline; Thus Sommers once, and Halifax, were mine. Oft, in the clear, ftill mirror of retreat, I ftudy'd Shrewsbury, the wife and great; Carleton's calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame, Compar'd, and knew their generous end the fame: How pleasing Atterbury's fofter hour!

How shin'd the foul, unconquer'd in the tower!

79

What? shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, 141
Or each new-pension'd sycophant, pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend;
Then wifely plead, to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt

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