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What if, difdaining oaths, and empty found, By which our nation never fhall be bound, Bravely we taught unmuzzled war to roam

Nay, men of real worth can scarcely bear, So nice is Jealoufy, a rival there.

Be wicked as thou wilt, do all that's bafe,

Thro' the weak land, and brought cheap laurels Proclaim thyfelf the monster of thy race;

home;

When the bold traitors leagu'd for the defence
Of Law, Religion, Liberty and Senfe,
When they against their lawful monarch rofe,
And dar'd the Lord's Anointed to oppose,
What if we ftill rever'd the banish'd race,
And ftrove the Royal Vagrants to replace,
With fierce rebellions shook th' unfettled ftaté,
And greatly dar'd, tho' crofs'd by partial fate;
Thefe facts, which might, where wifdom held the fway,
Awake the very ftones to bar our way,
There shall be nothing, nor one trace remain
In the dull region of an English brain.
Blefs'd with that faith, which mountains can remove,
First they shall dupes, next faints, lait martyrs prove,
Already is this game of fate begun
Under the fanction of my darling fon:
That fon of nature royal as his name,

Is deftin'd to redeem our race from shame;
His boundless pow'r, beyond example great,
Shall make the rough way fmooth, the crooked
ftraight,

Shall for our eafe the raging floods restrain,
And fink the mountain level to the plain.
Difcord, whom in a cavern under ground
With maffy fetters their late Patriot bound,
Where her own flesh the furious hag might tear,
And vent her curfes to the vacant air,
Where, that she never might be heard of more,
He planted Loyalty to guard the door,
For better purpose shall our Chief release,
Difguife her for a time, and call her Peace.

Lur'd by that name, fine engine of deceit,
Shall the weak English help themselves to cheat;
To gain our love, with honours shall they grace
The old adherents of the Stuart race,
Who pointed out, no matter by what name,
Tories or Jacobites are ftill the fame,
To foothe our rage, the temporifing brood
Shall break the ties of truth and gratitude,
Against their Saviour venom'd falfehoods frame,
And brand with calumny their William's name;
To win our grace, (rare argument of wit)
To our untainted faith fhall they commit
(Our faith which in extremeft perils tried,
Difdain'd, and ftill difdains, to change her fide)
That facred Majesty they all approve,
Who moft enjoys, and beft deferves their love.

AN

EPISTLE

то

Let Vice and Folly thy black foul divide,

Be proud with meannefs, and be mean with pride;
Deaf to the voice of faith and honour, fall
From fide to fide, yet be of none at all;
Spurn all thofe charities, thofe facred ties,
Which Nature in her bounty, good as wife,
To work our safety, and enfure her plan,
Contriv'd to bind, and rivet man to man ;
Lift against Virtue powr's oppreffive rod,
Betray thy country, and deny thy God;
And, in one gen'ral comprehenfive line,
To group, which volumes scarcely could define,
Whate'er of fin and dullness can be said,
Join to a F's heart a D's head;
Yet may'st thou pafs unnotic'd in the throng,
And free from envy, fafely sneak along.
The rigid faint, by whom no mercy's fhewn
To faints whofe lives are better than his own,
Shall fpare thy crimes; and Wit, who never once
Forgave a brother, thall forgive a dunce.
But should thy soul, form'd in fome luckless hour,
Vile int'reft fcorn, nor madly grasp at pow'r;
Should love of fame, in ev'ry noble mind
A brave disease, with love of virtue join'd,
Spur thee to deeds of pith, where courage, tried
In Reafon's court, is amply justified;
Or fond of knowledge, and averfe to strife,
Should'ft thou prefer the calmer walk of life;
Should'ft thou, by pale and fickly Study led,
Purfue coy Science to the fountain-head;
Virtue thy Guide, and Public Good thy end,
Should ev'ry thought to our improvement tend,
To curb the paffions, to enlarge the mind,
Purge the fick weal, and humanize mankind :
Rage in her eye, and malice in her breaft,
Redoubled horror grinning on her creft,
Fiercer each fnake, and sharper ev'ry dart,
Quick from her cell shall maddening Envy start,
Then fhalt thou find, but find alas! too late,
How vain is worth how short is glory's date!

Then shalt thou find, whilst friends with foes con

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Thy malice to indulge, and feed thy pride,
Can't thou, fevere by Nature as thou art,
With all that wond'rous rancour in thy heart,
Delight to torture Truth ten thousand ways,
To fpin detraction forth from themes of praise,

WILLIAM HOGARTH. To make Vice fit for purposes of strife,

A

MONGST the fons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own! Superior virtue and fuperior fenfe

Ty knaves and fools will always give offence ;

And draw the hag much larger than the life,
To make the good seem bad, the bad feem worse,
And reprefent our nature as our curfe?
Doth not humanity condemn that zeal
Which tends to aggravate and not to heal ?

Doth not difcretion warn thee of difgrace,
And danger grinning ftare thee in the face;
Loud as the drum, which spreading terror round
From emptiness acquires the pow'r of found?
Doth not the voice of Norton strike thy ear,
And the pale Mansfield chill thy foul with fear?
Do'ft thou, fond man, believe thyself secure,
Because thou'rt honeft, and because thou'rt poor?
Do'st thou on law and liberty depend?

Turn, turn thy eyes, and view thy injur'd friend.
Art thou beyond the ruffian gripe of pow'r?
When Wilkes, prejudg'd, is fentenc'd to the Tow'r?
Do'st thou by privilege exemption claim,
When privilege is little more than name?
Or to prerogative (that glorious ground
On which state-scoundrels oft have fafety found)
Do'st thou pretend, and there a fanction find,
Unpunish'd, thus to libel human kind?

When poverty, the poet's conftant crime,
Compell'd thee, all unfit, to trade in rime,
Had not romantic notions turn'd thy head,
Had it thou not valu'd honour more than bread,
Had int'reft, pliant int'reft, been thy guide,
And had not prudence been debauch'd by pride,

In flattery's ftream thou would't have dipp'd thy
pen,

Applied to great, and not to honeft men,
Nor should conviction have seduc'd thy heart
To take the weaker tho' the better part.

What but rank folly, for thy curfe decreed,
Could into Satire's barren path mislead,
When, open to thy view, before thee lay
Soul-foothing Panegyric's flow'ry way?
There might the Muse have faunter'd at her ease,
And, pleafing others, learn'd herself to please ;
Lords Thould have liften'd to the fugar'd treat,
And ladies, fimp'ring, own'd it vastly sweet;
Rogues, in thy prudent verfe with virtue grac'd,
Fools, mark'd by thee as prodigies of tafte,
Must have forbid, pouring preferment down,
Such Wit, fuch Truth as thine to quit the gown.
Thy facred brethren too (for they no less
Than laymen, bring their offerings to fuccefs)
Had hail'd thee good if great, and paid the vow
Sincere as that they pay to God, whilft thou
In larun hadft whisper'd to a fleeping croud,
As dull as R, and half as proud.

Peace, Candour!-Wifely had'ft thou faid,
well,

Could int'reft in this breast one moment dwell,
Could fhe, with profpect of fuccefs, oppose
The firm refolves which from conviction rofe.
I cannot truckle to a fool of state,
Nor take a favour from the man I hate.
Free leave have others by fuch means to shine;
I fcorn their practice, they may laugh at mine.
But in this charge, forgetful of thyself,
Thou haft affum'd the maxims of that elf,
Whom God in wrath for man's dishonour fram'd,
Cunning in Heav'n, amongst us Prudence nam'd,
That fervile Prudence which I leave to those
Who dare not be my friends, can't be my foes.
Had I with cruel and oppreffive rimes
Purfu'd, and turn'd misfortunes into crimes;
Had I, when Virtue gasping lay and low,
Join'd tyrant Vice, and added woe to woe;
Had I made Modefty in blushes speak,

And drawn the tear down Beauty's facred cheek;

Had I (damn'd then) in thought debas'd my lays,
To wound that fex which honour bids me praife;
Had I, from vengeance by base views betray'd,
In endless night funk injur'd Ayliff's fhade;
Had I (which Satirifts of mighty name,
Renown'd in time, rever'd for moral fame,
Have done before, whom Juftice fhall purfue
In future verfe) brought forth to public view
A noble friend, and made his foibles known,
Because his worth was greater than my own;
Had I fpar'd thofe (fo Prudence had decreed)
Whom, God fo help me at my greatest need,
I ne'er will fpare, thofe vipers to their King,
Who fmooth their looks, and flatter whilft they
fting.

Or had I not taught patriot zeal to boast

Of those, who flatter leaft, but love him most;
Had I thus finn'd, my stubborn soul should bend
At Candour's voice, and take, as from a friend,
The deep rebuke; myself should be the first
To hate myself, and ftamp my Mufe accurs'd.
But shall my arm-forbid it manly pride,
Forbid it Reafon, warring on my fide-
For vengeance lifted high, the stroke forbear,
And hang fufpended in the defart air,

Or to my trembling fide unnerv'd fink down,
Palfied, forfooth, by Candour's half-made frown?
When Juftice bids me on, fhall I delay
Because infipid Candour bars my way?
When the, of all alike the puling friend,
Would difappoint my Satire's nobleft end,
When the to villains would a fanction give, ́
And shelter those who are not fit to live,
When she would screen the guilty from a blush,
And bids me fpare whom Reafon bids me crush,
All leagues with Candour proudly I refign;
She cannot be for honour's turn, nor mine.

Yet come, cold monitor, half foe, half friend, Whom Vice can't fear, whom Virtue can't com→ mend,

Come Candour, by thy dull indiff'rence known,
Thou equal-blooded judge, thou lukewarm drone,
Who, fafhion'd without feelings, doft expect,
We call that Virtue which we know Defect;
Come, and obferve the nature of our crimes,
The grofs and rank complexion of the times,
Obferve it well, and then review my plan,
and Praise if you will, or cenfure if you can.

Whilft Vice prefumptuous lords it as in fport,
And Piety is only known at court;
Whilft wretched Liberty expiring lies
Beneath the fatal burthen of Excife;
Whilft nobles act without one touch of fhame,
What men of humble rank would blush to name;
Whilft Honour's plac'd in highest point of view,
Worshipp'd by thofe, who juftice never knew ;
Whilft bubbles of diftinction wafte in play
The hours of reft, and blunder thro' the day,
With dice and cards opprobrious vigils keep,
Then turn to ruin empires in their fleep;
Whilft fathers, by relentless paffion led,
Doom worthy injur'd fons to beg their bread,
Merely with ill-got, ill-fav'd wealth to grace
An alien, abject, poor, proud, upstart race ;
Whilft Martin flatters only to betray,
And Webb gives up his dirty foul for pay;
Whilft titles ferve to hufh a villain's fears;
Whilft peers are agents made, and agents peers;

Whilst bafe betrayers are themselves betray'd,
And makers ruin'd by the thing they made;
Whilft C, falfe to God and man, for gold,
Like the old traitor who a Saviour fold,

To fhame his mafter, friend, and father gives;
Whilft Bute remains in pow'r, whilft Holland lives;
Can Satire want a subject, where Disdain,
By Virtue fir'd, may point her sharpest strain ;
Where cloath'd with thunder, Truth may roll along,
And Candour juftify the rage of fong?

Such things! fuch men before thee! fuch an age!
Where Rancour, great as thine, may glut her rage,
And ficken e'en to furfeit, where the pride
Of Satire, pouring down in fulleft tide,
May spread wide vengeance round, yet all the while
Juftice behold the ruin with a fmile;
Whilft I, thy foe misdeem'd cannot condemn,
-Nor difapprove that rage I wish to stem,
Wilt thou, degen'rate and corrupted, chufe
To foil the credit of thy haughty Mufe?
With fallacy, most infamous, to stain
Her truth, and render all her anger vain?
When I beheld thee incorrect, but bold,
A various comment on the ftage unfold;
When play'rs on play'rs before thy fatire fell,
And poor Reviews confpir'd thy wrath to fwell;
When ftates and statesmen next became thy care,
And only kings were fafe if thou waft there;
Thy ev'ry word I weigh'd in Judgment's scale,
And in thy ev'ry word found truth prevail,
Why doft thou now to falfhood meanly fly?
Not even Candour can forgive a lye.

Bad as men are, why fhould thy frantic rimes
Traffic in flander, and invent new crimes ?
Crimes, which existing only in thy mind,
Weak spleen brings forth to blacken all mankind.
By pleafing hopes we lure the human heart
To practise virtue, and improve in art ;
To thwart thefe ends, (which proud of honeft fame,
A noble Mufe would cherish and enflame)
Thy drudge contrives, and in our full career
Sick lies our hopes with the pale hue of fear;
Tells us that all our labours are in vain ;
That what we feek, we never can obtain ;
That dead to Virtue, loft to Nature's plan,
Envy poffefies the whole race of man ;
That worth is criminal, and danger lies,
Danger extreme, in being good and wife.

"Tis a rank falfhood; fearch the world around,
There cannot be fo vile a monster found,
Not one fo vile, on whom fufpicions fall
Of that grofs guilt, which you impute to all.
Approv'd by thofe who difobey her laws,
Virtue from Vice itself extorts applaufe.
Her very foes bear witness to her state;
They will not love her, but they cannot hate.
Hate Virtue for herself, with fpite pursue
Merit for merit's fake! Might this be true,
I would renounce my Nature with disdain,
And with the beafts that perifh graze the plain:
Might this be true, had we fo far fill'd up
The measure of our crimes, and from the cup
Of guilt fo deeply drank, as not to find,
Thirsting for fin, one drop, one dreg behind,
Quick ruin must involve this flaming ball,
And Providence in justice crush us all.

None but the damn'd, and amongst them the worst,
Those who for double guilt are doubly curs'd,

Can be fo loft; nor can the worst of alt
At once into fuch deep damnation fall;
By painful flow degrees they reach this crime,
Which e'en in hell must be a work of time.
Ceafe then thy guilty rage, thou wayard fon,
With the foul gall of difcontent o'er- un,
Lift to my voice be honeft, if you can,
Nor flander Nature in her fav'rite Man.
But if thy fpirit, resolute in ill,

One having err'd, perfists in error ftill,
Go on at large, no longer worth my care,
And freely vent thofe blafphemies in air,
Which I would ftamp as falfe, tho' on the tongue
Of angels the injurious flander hung.

Dup'd by thy vanity (that cunning elf
Who fnares the coxcomb to deceive himself)
Or blinded by that rage, did'ft thou believe
That we, too, coolly, would ourselves deceive?
That we as fterling falfhood would admit,
Becaufe 'twas feafon'd with fome little wit?
When fiction rifes pleafing to the eye,
Men will believe, because they love the lie ;
But Truth herself, if clouded with a frown,
Muft have fome folemn proof to pass her down.
Halt thou, maintaining that which must disgrace
And bring into contempt the human race,
Haft thou, or can't thou, in Truth's facred court,
To fave thy credit, and thy caufe fupport,
Produce one proof, make out one real ground
On which fo great, fo grofs a charge to found!
Nay, do'st thou know one man (let that appear
From wilful falfhood I'll proclaim thee clear)
One man fo loft, to Nature fo untrue,
From whom this gen'ral charge, thy rashness drew ?
On this foundation fhalt thou stand or fall-
Prove that in One, which you have charg'd on All.
Reafon determines, and it must be done;
'Mongft men, or paft, or prefent, name me One.

Hogarth-I take thee, Candour, at thy word, Accept thy proffer'd terms, and will be heard ; Thee have I heard with virulence declaim, Nothing retain'd of Candour but the name; By thee have I been charg'd in angry strains With that mean falfhood which my foul difdainsHogarth stand forth-Nay hang not thus aloofNow, Candour, now thou shalt receive fuch proof, Such damning proof, that henceforth thou shalt fear To tax my wrath, and own my conduct clearHogarth ftand forth-I dare thee to be tried In that great court, where Confcience muft prefide; At that moft folemn bar hold up thy hand; Think before whom, on what account you stand→ Speak, but confider well-from first to laft Review thy life, weigh ev'ry action pastNay, you shall have no reafon to complainTake longer time, and view them o'er againCan't thou remember from thy earliest youth, And as thy God muft judge thee, fpeak the truth, A fingle inftance where, felf laid afide, And justice taking place of fear and pride, Thou with an equal eye did't Genius view, And give to merit what was merit's due ? Genius and merit are a fure offence, And thy foul fickens at the name of fenfe, Is any one fo foolish to fucceed, On Envy's altar he is doom'd to bleed? Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes, The place of executioner supplies.

See how he glotes, enjoys the facred feaft,
And proves himself by cruelty a priest.

Whilft the weak artift to thy whims aflave,
Would bury all those pow'rs which Nature gave.
Would fuffer blank concealment to obfcure
Thofe rays, thy jealoufy could not endure;
To feed thy vanity would ruft unknown,
And to fecure thy credit blaft his own,
In Hogarth he was fure to find a friend;

He could not fear, and therefore might commend.
But when his fpirit, rous'd by honeft shame,
Shook off that lethargy, and foar'd to fame,
When, with the pride of man, refolv'd and strong,
He fcorn'd thofe fears which did his honour wrong,
And, on himself determin'd to rely,
Brought forth his labours to the public eye,
No friend in thee, could fuch a rebel know;
He had defert, and Hogarth was his foe.

Souls of a tim'rous caft, of petty name
In Envy's court, not yet quite dead to shame,
May fome remorfe, fome qualms of confcience feel,
And fuffer honour to abate their zeal ;
But the man truly and compleatly great,
Allows no rule of action but his hate;
Thro' ev'ry bar he bravely breaks his way,
Paffion his principle, and parts his prey.
Mediums in vice and virtue (peak a mind
Within the pale of temperance confin'd;
The daring fpirit fcorns her narrow schemes,
And, good, or bad, is always in extremes.

Man's practice duly weigh'd, thro' ev'ry age
On the fame plan hath Envy form'd her rage:
'Gainft those whom fortune hath our rivals made
In way of Science, and in way of Trade,
Stung with mean jealousy the arms her spite,
First works, then views their ruin with delight.
Our Hogarth here a grand improver fhines,
And nobly on the gen'ral plan refines;
He like himself o'erleaps the fervile bound;
Worth is his mark, wherever worth is found.
Should painters only his vaft wrath fuffice?
Genius in ev'ry walk is lawful prize.
'Tis a grofs infult to his o'ergrown state ;
His love to merit is to feel his hate.

When Liberty, all trembling and aghast,
Fear'd for the future, knowing what was paft;
When ev'ry breaft was chill'd with deep despair,
Till reafon pointed out that Pratt was there;
Lurking, most ruffian-like, behind a screen,
So plac'd all things to fee, himself unfeen,
Virtue, with due contempt, faw Hogarth stand,
The murd'rous pencil in his palfied hand.
What was the caufe of Liberty to him,
Or what was Honour? Let them fink or swim,
So he may gratify without controul,
The mean refentments of his selfish foul.
Let Freedom perish, if, to Freedom true,
Ia the fame ruin Wilkes may perish too.
With all the symptoms of affur'd decay,
With age and ficknefs pinch'd, and worn away,
Pale quiv'ring lips, lank cheeks, and fault'ring

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And, dead to all things elfe, to malice live ?
Hence, dotard, to thy closet, shut thee in.
By deep repentance wash away thy fin,
From haunts of men to fhame and forrow fly,
And, on the verge of death, learn how to die.

Vain exhortation! Wafh the Ethiop white,
Discharge the leopard's fpots, turn day to night,
Controul the courfe of Nature, bid the deep
Hush at thy pigmy voice her waves to fleep,
Perform things paffing ftrange, yet own thy art
Too weak to work a change in fuch a heart.
That Envy which was woven in the frame
At first, will to the last remain the same.
Reafon may droop, may die, but Envy's rage
Improves by time, and gathers ftrength from age.
Some, and not few, vain triflers with the pen,

When Wilkes, our countryman, our common Unread, unpractis'd in the ways of men,"

friend,

Arofe, his king, his country to defend,

When tools of pow'r he bar'd to public view,
And from their holes the fneaking cowards drew,
When Rancour found it far beyond her reach
To foil his honour, and his truth impeach,
What could induce thee, at a time and place,
Where manly foes had blush'd to fhew their face,
To make that effort, which muft damn thy name,
And fink thee deep, deep in thy grave with shame?
Did virtue move thee? No, 'twas pride, rank pride,
And if thou hadst not done it, thou hadft dy'd.
Malice (who, disappointed of her end,
Whether to work the bane of foe or friend,
Prefs on herself, and driven to the stake,
Gives Virtue that revenge the fcorns to take)
Had kill'd thee, tott'ring on life's utmost verge,
Had Wilkes and Liberty efcap'd thy scourge.
When that great Charter, which our fathers
bought

With their best blood, was into question brought;
When, big with ruin, o'er each English head
Vile flav'ry hung fufpended by a thread;

Tell us that Envy, who with giant ftride
Stalks thro' the vale of life by Virtue's fide,
Retreats when he hath drawn her latest breath,
And calmly hears her praises after death.
To fuch obfervers Hogarth gives the lie;
Worth may be hears'd, but Envy cannot die;
Within the manfion of his gloomy breaft,
A mansion fuited well to fuch a guest,
Immortal, unimpair'd she rears her head,
And damns alike the living and the dead.

Oft have I known thee Hogarth, weak and
vain,

Thyself the idol of thy aukward strain,
Thro' the dull measure of a fummer's day,
In phrase most vile, prate long long hours away,
Whilft friends with friends all gaping fit, and gaze
To hear a Hogarth babble Hogarth's praife.
But if athwart thee interruption came,
And mentioned with respect some ancient's name,
Some ancient's name, who in the days of yore
The crown of Art with greatest honour wore,
How have I feen thy coward cheek turn pale,
And blank confufion feize thy mangled tale!

How hath thy jealousy to madness grown,
And deem'd his praife injurious to thy own!
Then without mercy did thy wrath make way,
And Arts and Artifts all became thy prey;
Then did'st thou trample on establish'd rules,
And proudly levell'd all the ancient schools,
Condemn'd thofe works, with praise through ages
grac'd,

Which you had never feen, or could not taste.
"But would mankind have true perfection shewn,
"It must be found in labours of my own.
"I dare to challenge in one fingle piece,
"Th' united force of Italy and Greece."
Thy eager hand the curtain then undrew,
And brought the boasted mafter-piece to view.
Spare thy remarks-fay not a single word-
The picture feen, why is the painter heard?
Call not up fhame and anger in our cheeks;
Without a comment Sigifmunda fpeaks.

Poor Sigifmunda; what a fate is thine!
Dryden, the great High-Prieft of all the Nine,
Reviv'd thy name, gave what a Muse could give,
And in his numbers bade thy mem'ry live ;
Gave thee those soft fenfations, which might move
And warm the coldeft anchorite to love;
Gave thee that virtue which could curb defire,
Refine and confecrate love's headstrong fire;
Gave thee thofe griefs which made the ftoic feel,
And call'd compaffion forth from hearts of steel;
Gave thee that firmnefs which our fex may shame,
And make Man bow to Woman's juster claim,
So that our tears, which from compassion flow,
Seem to debafe thy dignity of woe.

But O, how much unlike how fallen! how chang'd!
How much from Nature and herself eftrang'd!
How totally depriv'd of all the pow'rs
To fhew her feelings, and awaken ours,
Doth Sigifmunda now devoted stand,
The helpless victim of a Dauber's hand!

But why, my Hogarth, fuch a progress made,
So rare a pattern for the fign-poft trade,
In the full force and whirlwind of thy pride,
Why was Heroic painting laid afide ?

Why is it not refum'd? Thy friends at court,
Men all in place and pow'r, crave thy support;
Be grateful then for once, and thro' the field
Of politics, thy Epic pencil wield,
Maintain the caufe, which they, good lack! avow,
And would maintain too, but they know not how.
Thro' ev'ry Pannel let thy virtue tell
How Bute prevail'd, How Pitt and Temple fell!
How England's fons (whom they confpir'd to blefs
Against our will, with infolent fuccefs)
Approve their fall, and with addresses run,
How got, God knows, to hail the Scottish fun!
Point out our fame in war, when vengeance, hurl'd
From the strong arm of Juftice, shook the world;
Thine, and thy country's honour to encrease,
Point out the honours of fucceeding peace;
Our moderation, chriftian-like, display,
Shew what we got, and what we gave away.
In colours, dull and heavy as the tale,
Let a State-chaos thro' the whole prevail.

But, of events regardlefs, whilst the Mufe,
Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues ;
Whilft her quick spirits rouse at Freedom's call,
And ev'ry drop of blood is turn'd to gall;

Whilft a dear country, and an injur'd friend,
Urge my ftrong anger to the bitter'ft end;
Whilst honeft trophies to revenge are rais'd,
Let not one real virtue pafs unprais'd :
Juftice with equal courfe bids Satire flow,
And loves the virtue of her greatest foe.

O that I here could that rare Virtue mean,
Which fcorns the rule of Envy, Pride, and Spleen,
Which fprings not from the labour'd works of Art,
But hath its rife from Nature in the heart,
Which in itself with happiness is crown'd,
And fpreads with joy the bleffing all around!
But Truth forbids, and in thefe fimple lays,
Contented with a diff'rent kind of praise,
Muft Hogarth ftand: that praife which Genius
gives,

In which to latest time the Artift lives,

But not the Man; which, rightly understood,
May make us great, but cannot make us good;
That praife be Hogarth's; freely let him wear
The wreath which Genius wove, and planted there.
Foe as I am, fhould Envy tear it down,
Myfelf would labour to replace the crown.

In walks of humour, in that caft of style,
Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us fmile;
In Comedy, his nat'ral road to fame,
Nor let me call it by a meaner name,
Where a beginning, middle, and an end
Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend,
Each made for each, as bodies for their foul,
So as to form one true and perfect whole.
Where a plain story to the eye is told,
Which we conceive the moment we behold,
Hogarth unrivall'd ftands, and shall engage
Unrivall'd praife to the most diftant age.

How could't thou then to fhame perverfely run,
And tread that path which Nature bade thee fhun ?
Why did Ambition overleap her rules,
And thy vaft parts become the fport of fools?
By diff'rent methods diff'rent men excel,
But where is he who can do all things well?
Humour thy province, for fome monstrous crime
Pride ftruck thee with the phrenzy of Sublime.
But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mind
So partial be, and to herself fo blind,

What with contempt all view'd, to view with awe,
Nor fee thofe faults which ev'ry blockhead saw ?
Blush, thou vain man, and if defire of fame.
Founded on real Art, thy thoughts inflame,
To quick deftruction Sigifmunda give,
And let her mem'ry die, that thine may live.

But fhould fond Candour, for her mercy fake,
With pity view, and pardon this mistake;
Or fhould oblivion, to thy wish most kind,
Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind;
Of Arts defpis'd, of Artists by thy frown
Aw'd from just hopes, of rifing worth kept down,
Of all thy meannefs thro' this mortal race,
Can't thou the living memory erafe?
Or fhall not vengeance follow to the grave,
And give back juft that measure which you gave?
With fo much merit, and fo much fuccefs,
With fo much power to curfe, fo much to blefs,
Would he have been man's friend instead of foe,
Hogarth had been a little God below.
Why then, like favage giants, fam'd of old,
Of whom in fcripture story we are told,

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