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Where Contemplation prunes her ruffled wings, And the free foul looks down to pity kings!

'Twould burst even Heraclitus with the spleen, To fee those antics, Fopling and Courtin':

There fober thought purfu'd th' amufing theme,The prefence feems, with things fo richly odd,

Till fancy colour'd it, and form'd a dream.
A vifion hermits can to hell transport,

And forc'd ev'n me to fee the damn'd at court.
Not Dante, dreaming all th' infernal state,
Beheld fuch scenes of envy, fin, and hate.
Base fear becomes the guilty, not the free;
Suits tyrants, plunderers, but fuits not me;
Shall I, 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! fhall 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 such 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: fuch a varnish'd race
Of hollow gewgaws, only drefs and face!
Such waxen nefes, ftately ftaring things-
No wonder fome 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 freth and fragrant, to the drawing-room; In hues as gay, and odours as divine, As the fair fields they fold to look fo fine. "That's velvet for a king!" the flatterer fwears; 'Tis true, for ten days hence 'twill be King Lear's. Our court may justly to our stage give rules, That helps it both to fool's-coats and to fools. And why not players ftrut in courtiers clothes? For thefe are actors too, as well as thofe : Wants reach all states: they beg but better dreft, And all is fplendid poverty at beft.

Painted for fight, and effenc'd for the smell, Like frigates fraught with fpice and cochineal, Sail in the ladies: how each pirate eyes So weak a veffel, and so rich a prize! Top-gallant he, and the in all her trim, He boarding her, the ftriking fail to him: "Dear Countess: 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.

The mofque of Mahound, or fome queer Pa-god.
See them furvey their limbs by Durer's rules,
Of all beau-kind the beft proportion'd fools?
Adjust their clothes, and to confeffion draw
Thofe 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 lefs 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 trim,
Neatness itself impertinent in him.

Let but the ladies fmile, and they are bleft:
Prodigious! how the things protest, protest!
Peace, fools, or Gonfon will for Papists seize you,
If once he catch you at your Jefu! Jefu!

Nature made every fop to plague his brother, Juft as one beauty mortifies another. But here's the captain that will plague them botk, Whofe air cries arm! whofe very looks an oath : The captain's honest, Sirs, and that's enough, Though his foul's bullet, and his body buff. He fpits fore-right; his haughty chest before, Like battering rams, beats open every door: And with a face as red, and as awry, As Herod's hangdogs in old tapestry, Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curfe, Has yet a ftrange ambition to look worse : Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe, Jefts 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 hin'd with giants deadlier than them all : Each man an askapart, of strength to tofs For quoirs, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross. Scar'd at the grizly forms, I fweat, I fly, And shake all o'er, like a difcover'd fpy.

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

From fuch alone the great rebukes endure,
Whofe fatire's facred, and whose rage fecure:
'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 pafs for holy writ.
Kij

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Fr.NoT twice a twelvemonth you appear in print,
And when it comes, the court fee nothing in't.
You grow correct, that once with rapture writ,
And are, befides, too moral for a wit,
Decay of parts, alas! we all muft feel-
Why now, this moment, don't I fee you steal!
'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye

Said. "Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a
"Tory;

II

And taught his Romans, in much better metre,
"To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter."
But Horace, Sir, was delicate, was nice;"
Bubo obferves, he lash'd no fort of vice:
Horace would fay, Sir Billy ferv'd the crown,
Blunt could do bufinefs, Higgins knew the town;
In Sappho touch the failings of the scx,
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 ftyle

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P. See Sir Robert-hum-
And never laugh--for all my life to come?
Seen him I have, but in Lis happier hour
Of focial pleasure, 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 MS.

Would he oblige me! let me only find,
He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt;
The only difference is, I dare laugh out.

F. Why yes with fcripture ftill you may

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free;

A horfe-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,

be

40

Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the stage:
Thele nothing hurts; they keep their fashion fill,
And wear their ftrange old virtue, as they will.

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If any ask you, "Who's the man, fo near

"His prince, that writes in verfe, and has his *ear?":

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

Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes;
Thefe you but anger, and you mend not those.
Laugh at your friends, and if your friends are fore,
So much the better, you may laugh the more.
To vice and fully to confine the jeft,
Sets half the world, God knows, against the reft;
Did not the fneer of more impartial men
At fenfe and virtue balance all again.
Judicious wits fpread wide the ridicule,
And charitably comfort knave and fool.

60

P. Dear Sir, forgive the prejudice of youth:
Adieu diftinction, fatire, warmth, and truth!
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 firft was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then, 71
The S-te's, and then H-vy's once agen.
O come, that eafy Ciceronian style,

You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade,
Because you think your reputation made:
Like good Sir Paul, of whom fo much was said,
That when his name was up, he lay a bed.,
Come, come, refrefh us with a livelier fong,
Or, like Sir Paul, you'll lie a bed too long..
P. Sir, what I write, fhould be correctly writ.
F. Correct! 'tis what no genius can admit.

So Latin, yet fo English all the while,
As, though the pride of Middleton and Bland,
All boys may read, and girls may understand?
Then might I fing, without the leaft offence,
And all I fung fhould be the nation's fenfe;
Or teach the melancholy mufe to mourn,

1

And hail her passage to the realms of reft,
All part's perform'd, and all her children bleft!
So-fatire is no more-I feel it die-
No gazetteer more innocent than I-
And let, a God's name, every fool and knave
Be grae'd through life, and flatter'd in his grave.
F. Why fo? if fatire knows its time and place,
You still may lash the greatest-in difgrace:
For merit will by turns forfake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all fatire in all changes spare
Immortal S-k, and grave De-re.
Silent and foft, as faints remov'd to heaven,
All ties diffolv'd, and every fin forgiven,
These may fome gentle ministerial Wing
Receive, and place for ever near a king! [port,
There, where no paffion, pride, or fhame tranf-
Lull'd with the fweet Nepenthe of a court;
There, where no father's, brother's, friend's dif-
grace.
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ΙΟΙ

Once break their reft, or fir them from their
But pak the sense of human miferies,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;
No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb,
Save when they lofe a question, or a job..

P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should blast their glory,

Who know how like Whig Minifters to Tory, i.. And when three fovereign's dy'd, could fcarce be vext,

Confidering what a gracious prince was next.
Have 1, in filent wonder feen fuch things
As pride in flaves, and avarice in kings;
And at a peer, or peerefs, shall I fret,
Who ftarves a fifter, or førswears a debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty bọast;
But fhall the dignity of vice be loft?

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110

[kill?

120

Ye gods! fhall Cibber's fon, without rebuke,
Swear like a lord, or Rich outwhore a duke?
A favourite's porter with his master vie,
Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?
Shall Ward draw contracts with a flatermen's
Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a will?
Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things?)
To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings?
If Blount difpatch'd himself, he play d the man;
And fo mayft thou, illuftrious Pafferan
But fhall a printer, weary of his life, [wife?
Learn, from their books, to hang himself and
This, this, my friend, I cannot, must 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.
Let modeft Fofter, 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 fhame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame;
Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
'I is juft alike to virtue, and to me;

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 112, in fome editions; Who farves a mother

130

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Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king,

She's ftill the fame belov'd, contented thing. 140
Vice is undone, if the forgets her birth,
And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth:
But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore;
Let greatnefs own her, and fhe's mean no more,
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess,
Chafte matrons praise her,and grave bishops bless;
In golden chains the willing world fhe draws,
And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her fearlet head,
And fees pale virtue carted in her ftead.
Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,

150

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In foldier, churchman, patriot, man in power,
'Tis avarice all, ambition is no more!
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,
Are what ten thousand envy and adore :
All, all look up, with reverential awe,
At crimes that 'fcape, or triumph o'er the law:
While truth, worth, wifdom, daily they decry--
Nothing is facred now but villany.”
170

66

Yet may this verse (if fuch a verfe remain) Show there was one who held it in difdain.

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Fr.'Tis all a libel-Paxton (Sir) will fay.
P. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow 'faith it may;
And for that very cause I print to-day.
How fhould I fret to mangle every line,
In reverence to the fins of thirty-nine!
Vice with fuch giant-ftrides comes on amairi,
Invention ftrives to be before in vain;
Feign what I will, and paint it e'er fo strong,
Some rifing genius fins up to my fong.

F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lafh Even Guthry faves half Newgate by a dash. Spare then the perfon, and expofe the vice.

P. How, Sir! not damn the fharper, but the dice?

Come on then, fatire! general, unconfin'd,
Spread thy broad wing, and foufe on all the kind.
Ye ftatesmen, priests, of one religion all
Ye tradefmen, vile in army, court, or hall!
Ye reverend Atheists. F. Scandal! name them,
Who?

P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. Who ftarv'd a fifter, who forefwore a debt,

20

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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? Suppofe 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

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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 rife 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 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 Efher'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 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 shun his zenith, court his mild decline; Thus Sommers once, and Halifax, were mine. Oft, in the clear, still 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 state'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 lift 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 she to Priest or Elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a Quaker's beaver caft 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 grave)

Have ftill a fecret bias to a knave:

To find an honeft man, I beat about;

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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 afks it for the best of men, For him the weeps, for him the weds again. Praise cannot ftoop, like fatire, to the ground: 119 The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd. Enough for half the greatest of these days, To 'fcape 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'din 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

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.

130

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 complySpirit 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 foolBut 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 cach new-penfion'd sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend; Then wifely plead, to me they meant no hurt,

150

Sare, 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 whose flattery bedropt the crown,
How hurt he you? he only ftain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whofe fpeech 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 bleffed benefit, not there confin'd,

From him the next receives it, thick or thin,

Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;

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180

From tail to mouth, they feed and they caroufe:
The last full fairly gives it to the house.
F. This filthy fimile, this beastly line

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 guiltlefs quite ; But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write; And muft 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, Unlefs, good man! he has been fairly in? No zealous paftor blame a failing spouse, Without a staring reason 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 ftrong 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.

grant it, Sir; and further 'tis agreed,

200

Japhet writ not, and Chartres fcarce could read.

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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 tinfel 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 fhall 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 prefs, Like the last gazette, or the last addrefs.

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

fhrine

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

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;
(Šuch as on Houghs unfully'd mitre shine, 240
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 verfe as mean as mine.

Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth stands 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 Effays on Man.

After ver. 227, in the MS.

Where's now the star that lighted Charles to rife?
With that which follow'd Julius to the skies.
Angels, that watch'd the Royal Oak fo well,
How chanc'd ye nod, when luckless 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 !

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