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; But, Sir, I beg you, (for the love of vice') Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe. 40 50 To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums; P. Muft fatire, then, nor rise nor fall? Who now that obfolete example fears? 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? Ev'n in a bishop I can spy defert : 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, And if yet higher the proud list should end, Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays: I follow virtue; where the fhines, I praise; Din'd with the Man of Rofs, or my Lord Mayor. 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, 150 Sure, if I fpare the minifter, no rules F. Hold, Sir for God's fake, where's th' affront to you? Against your worship when had S-k writ? The priest whofe flattery bedropt the crown, 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; 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, 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? As to the regal touch and papal toe; IMITATIONS OF HORACE. EPISTLE Vii. IMITATED IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT.. is true, my lord, I gave my word, "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 'tis but juft, I'll tell you wherefore, Now this I'll fay, you'll find in me But if you'd have me alway's near- A weazel once made fhift to flink 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. 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 ! Our friend Dan Prior told (you know) Knew what was handfome, and would do't, The verieft hermit in the nation Behold the place, where if a poet But let it (in a word) be faid, 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? 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 To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. 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, 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, Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay- 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! |