The bribing ftatesman-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? Muft great offenders, once escap'd the crown, Like royal harts, be never more run down? Admit your law to fpare the knight requires, As beafts of nature may we hunt the fquires? Suppose I cenfure-you know what I meanTo fave a bishop, may I name a dean?

30

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

P. If not the tradefman who set up to-day, Much lefs the 'prentice who to-morrow may. Down, down proud fatire! though a realm be fpoil'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 confider twice;
Have you lefs pity for the needy cheat,
The poor and friendless villain, than the great?
Alas! the fmall difcredit of a bribe

Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.
Then better fure it charity becomes

40

50

To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums;
Still better, minifters; or, if the thing
May pinch ev'n there-why lay it on a king.
F. Stop! flop!

P. Muft fatire, then, nor rise nor fall?
Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.
F. Yes, ftrike that Wild, I'll justify the blow.
P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years
ago:

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: Elfe might he take to virtue fome years henceP. As S-k, if he lives, will love the prince. F. Strange fpleen to S-k!

P. Do I wrong the man?
God knows, I praife 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 Efher's peaceful grove
(Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love)
'The scene, the mafter, opening to my view,
I fit and dream I fee 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.

70

But does the court a worthy man remove? That inftant, I declare, he has my love: I fhun 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 fenfe, and Stanhope's noble flame, Compar'd, and knew their generous end the fame: How pleafing Atterbury's fofter hour!

79

How can I Pultney, Chesterfield forget,
While Roman fpirit charms, and Attic wit:
Argyll, the ftate's whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the senate 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,
Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with
their train;

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

Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays:

I follow virtue; where the fhines, I praise;
Point fhe 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 Rofs, or my Lord Mayor.
Some, in their choice of friends (nay, look not

And love him, court him, praise him, in or out. F. Then why fo few commended?

P. Not fo fierce; Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse. But random praise-the tafk can ne'er be done : Each mother asks it for her booby son, Each widow afks it for the beft of men, For him the weeps, for him the weds again. Praise cannot stoop, like fatire, to the ground: 110 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 fcarce could gain, And what young Ammon wish'd, but wifh'd in vain. No power the mufe's friendship can command; No power, when virtue claims it, can withstand: To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line;

120

130

O let my country's friend illumine mine! [no fin,
-What are you thinking? F. Faith the thought's
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 ftrangely round about.
F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow? ¦
P. I only call thofe knaves who are so now.
Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply-
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a flave,
And Lyttelton a dark, designing knave;
St. John has ever been a mighty fool-
But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull,
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, befides, a tyrant to his wife.
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,
What? fhall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, 141
Or each new-penfion'd fycophant, pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend;
Then wifely plead, to me they meant no hurt,

150

Sure, if I fpare the minifter, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be faid
His faws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To fee 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 reft:
Which not at present having time to do-

F. Hold, Sir for God's fake, where's th' affront to you?

Against your worship when had S-k writ?
Ur P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend 160
[In power a fervant, out of power a friend]
To W-le guilty of fome venial fin;
What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?

The priest whofe flattery bedropt 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,
Since the whole house did afterwards the fame.
Let courtly wits to wits afford fupply,
As hog to hog in huts of Weftphaly;
If one, through nature's bounty or his lord's,
Has what the frugal dirty foil affords,

As pure a mess almost as it came in ; The blessed benefit, not there confin'd,

171

O facred weapon! left for truth's defence, Sole dread of folly, vice, and infolence! To all but heaven-directed hands deny'd, The mufe may give thee, but the gods must guide: Reverend I touch thee! but with honeft zeal; To rouze the watchmen of the public weal, To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, And goad the prelate flumbering in his stall. Ye tinsel infects! whom a court maintains, That counts your beauties only by your stains, Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! The mufe's wing shall brush you all away: All his grace preaches, all his lordship fings, All that makes faints of queens, and gods of kings. All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, Like the last gazette, or the laft address.

220

When black ambition ftains a public cause, A monarch's fword when mad vain-glory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's fcar, Not Boileau turn the feather to a star.

231

Not fo, when, diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from virtue's

From him the next receives it, thick or thin,

fhrine

Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;
From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse:
The laft full fairly gives it to the house.
F. This filthy fimile, this beastly line

Her priestless mufe forbids the good to die, And opes the temple of eternity.

180

Quite turns my ftomach

P. So does flattery mine: And all your courtly civet-cats can vent, Perfume to you, to me is excrement. But hear my father-Japhet, 'tis agreed, Writ not, and Chartres fcarce 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? 190 Muft never patriot then declaim at gin, Unless, good man! he has been fairly in? No zealous paftor blame a failing spouse, Without a staring reafon on his brows? And each blafphemer quite escape the rod, Because the infult's not on man, but God?

Afk you what provocation I have had ? The strong antipathy of good to bad. When truth or virtue an affront endures, Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be

yours.

Mine, as a foe profefs'd to falfe pretence, Who think a coxcombs honour like his fenfe;

VARIATIONS.

Ver, 185, in the MS.

I grant it, Sir; and further 'tis agreed,

200

Japhet writ not, and Chartres fcarce could read.

240

There, other trophies deck the truly brave,
Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the grave;
Far other stars than * and ** wear,
And may defcend to Mordington from Stair;
(Such as on Houghs unfully'd mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine)
Let envy howl, while heaven's whole chorus fings,
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let flattery fickening fee the incenfe rife,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, fanctifies the line,
And makes immortal verse as mean as mine.

Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth ftands 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.

After ver. 227, in the MS.

Where's now the ftar that lighted Charles to rife?
With that which follow'd Julius to the skies.
Angels, that watch'd the Royal Oak so well,
How chanc'd ye nod, when lucklefs Sorel fell?
Hence, lying miracles! reduc'd fo low

As to the regal touch and papal toe;
Hence haughty Edgar's title to the Main,
Britain's to France, and thine to India, Spain !

EPISTLE Vii.

IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT..

is true, my lord, I gave my word,
I would be with you, June the third;
Chang'd it to Auguft, and (in fhort)
Have kept it as you do at court.
You humour me when I am fick,
Why not when I am fplenetic?
In town, what objects could I meet?
The fhops fhut up in every freet,
And funerals blackening all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:
And what a duft in every place!
And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W and H both in town!

"The dog-days are no more the cafe." 'Tis true, but winter comes apace: Then fouthward let your bard retire, Hold out fome month's 'twixt fun and fire, And you shall fee, the first warm weather, Me and the butterflies together.

My lord, your favours well I know;

'Tis with diftinction you beftow;
And not to every one that comes,
Juft as a Scotsman does his plums.
"Pray take them, Sir-Enough's a feast:
"Eat fome, and pocket up the reft"-
What, rob your boys? thofe pretty rogues!
"No, Sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.'
Thus fools with compliments beficge ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a fɔp,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;

And 'tis but juft, I'll tell you wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.
A wife man always is or fhould
Be mighty ready to do good;
But makes a difference in his thought
Betwixt
a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll fay, you'll find in me

But if you'd have me alway's near-
A word, pray, in your honour's ear.
I hope it is your refolution
To give me back my conftitution!
The fprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' engaging fmile, the gaiety,
That laugh'd down many a fummer fun,
And kept you up fo oft till one :
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my ftrain.

A weazel once made fhift to flink
In at a corn-loft through a chink;
But having amply fluff'd his skin,
Could not get out as he got in;
Which one belonging to the house
('Twas not a man, it was a mouse)
Obferving, cry'd," You 'fcape not fo,
"Lean as you came, Sir, you must go.'

Sir, you may spare your application, I'm no fuch beaft, nor his relation; Nor one that temperance advance, Cramm'd to the throat with Ortolans: Extremely ready to refign

All that may make me none of mine.
South Sea fubfcriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease.
'Twas what I faid to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my modefty, and fmil'd,
Give me, I cry'd, (enough for me)
My bread, and independency.!
So bought an annual rent or two,
And liv'd-just as you fee I do ;
Near fifty, and without a wife,
I trust that finking fund, my life.
Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well,
Shrink back to my paternal cell,
A little house, with trees a-row,
And, like its master, very low.
There dy'd my father, no man's debtor,
And there I'll die, nor werfe nor better,
To fet this matter full before ye,

Our old friend Swift will tell his ftory. Harley, the nation's great fupport-",

THE LATTER PART OF SATIRE VI'.

O charming noons! and nights divine !
Or when I fup, or when I dine,
My friends above, my folks below,
Chatting and laughing all-a-row,
The beans and bacon fet before 'em,
The grace-cup ferv'd with all decorum:
Each willing to be pleas'd, and please,
And even the very dogs at ease!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian fings,
A neighbour's madness, or his fpoufe's,
Or what's in either of the houses :
But fomething much more our concern,
And quite a fcandal not to learn:
Which is the happier, or the wifer,
A man of merit, or a miser?
Whether we ought to choose our friends,
For their own worth, or our own ends?
What good, or better, we may call,
And what, the very best of all?

Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)
A tale extremely “à propos:"
Name a town life, and in a trice
He had a story of two mice.
Once on a time (fo runs the fable)
A country mouse, right hospitable,
Receiv'd a town mouse at his board,
Just as a farmer might a lord.
A frugal mouse, upon the whole,
Yet lov'd his friend, and had a foul,

Knew what was handfome, and would do't,
On juft occasion, "coûte qui coûte."
He brought him bacon (nothing lean;)
Pudding, that might have pleas'd a dean;
Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,
But wifh'd it Stilton for his fake;
Yet, to his guest though no way sparing,
He eat himself the rind and paring.
Our courtier scarce could touch a bit,
But fhow'd his breeding and his wit;
He did his best to seem to eat,
And cry'd, “ I vow you're mighty neat.
"But lord, my friend, this favage fcene!
"For God's fake, come, and live with men :
"Confider mice, like men, must die,
"Both small and great, both you and I:
"Then spend your life in joy and sport,
"(This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court.")

The verieft hermit in the nation
May yield, God knows, to ftrong temptation.
Away they came, through thick and thin,
To a tall houfe near Lincoln's-Inn:
('Twas on the night of a debate,
When all their lordfhips had fat late).

Behold the place, where if a poet
Shin'd in defcription, he might show it;
Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls,
And tips with the filver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotefco roofs, and ftucco floors:

But let it (in a word) be faid,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkin's white, the carpet red:
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the mice fat, " tête à tête."

Our courtier walks from difh to dish, Taftes for his friend of fowl and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law, "Que ça eft bon! Ah goûtez ça ! "That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing, "Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in." Was ever fuch a happy swain? He stuffs and fwills, and stuffs again. "I'm quite afham'd-'tis mighty rude "To cat fo much-but all's fo good. "I have a thousand thanks to give"My lord alone knows how to live." No fooner faid, but from the hall Rufh chaplain, butler, dogs and all : "A rat, a rat clap to the door"— The cat comes bouncing on the floor. O for the heart of Homer's mice, Or gods to fave them in a trice! (It was by providence they think, For your damn'd ftucco has no chink). "An't please your honour, quoth the peasant, "This fame desert is not so pleasant : "Give me again my hollow tree, "A cruft of bread, and liberty!"

BOOK IV. ODE I.

TO VENUS.

AGAIN? new tumults in my breast?
Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me reft!

I am not now, alas! the man

As in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne. Ah, found no more thy foft alarms,

Nor circle fober fifty with thy charms! Mother too fierce of dear defires!

Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires. To number five dire direct your doves,

There fpread round Murray all your blooming loves;

Noble and young, who strikes the heart
With every fprightly, every decent part;
Equal, the injur'd to defend,

To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend.
He, with a hundred arts refin'd,

Shall ftretch thy conquests over half the kind:

To him each rival shall submit,

Make but his riches equal to his wit. Then fhall thy form the marble grace,

(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face: His house, embofom'd in the grove,

Sacred to focial life and focial love, Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,

Where Thames reflects the vifionary scene: Thither the filver-founding lyres

Shall call the fmiling loves, and young defires; There, every grace and mufe fhall throng,

There youths and nymphs in confort gay,
Shall hail the rifing, close the parting day.
With me, alas! thofe joys are o'er;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu fond hope of mutual fire,

The ftill-believing, ftill renew'd defire; Adieu the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind deceivers of the foul! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!

Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear? Why words fo flowing, thoughts fo free,

Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? Thee, drefs'd in fancy's airy beam,

Abfent I follow through th' extended dream;" Now, now I cease, I clafp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah cruel!) from my arms; And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or foftly glide by the canal, Now fhown by Cynthia's filver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.

part of the NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTÉ BOOŘ.

A FRAGMENT.

LEST you should think that verse shall die,
Which founds the filver Thames along,
Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar fong;
Though daring Milton fits fublime,
In Spenfer native muses play;
Nor yet fhall Waller yield to mine,

Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay-
Sages and chiefs long fince had birth

Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd; Then rais'd new empires o'er the earth,

And thofe, new heavens and fyftems fram'd. Vain was the chief's, the fage's pride!

They had no poet, and they died:

In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no poet, and are dead.