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. And forc'd ev'n me to fee the damn'd at court. 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. Let but the ladies fmile, and they are bleft: 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, 1 Fr.NoT twice a twelvemonth you appear in print, Said. "Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a 晷 II And taught his Romans, in much better metre, P. See Sir Robert-hum- VARIATIONS. After ver. 2, in the MS. Would he oblige me! let me only find, F. Why yes with fcripture ftill you may free; A horfe-laugh, if you please, at honesty; be 40 Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the stage: If any ask you, "Who's the man, fo near "His prince, that writes in verfe, and has his *ear?": Why anfwer, Lyttleton; and I'll engage Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes; 60 P. Dear Sir, forgive the prejudice of youth: You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade, So Latin, yet fo English all the while, 1 And hail her passage to the realms of reft, ΙΟΙ Once break their reft, or fir them from their 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. ་་ 110 [kill? 120 Ye gods! fhall Cibber's fon, without rebuke, VARIATIONS. Ver. 112, in fome editions; Who farves a mother 130 | Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, She's ftill the fame belov'd, contented thing. 140 150 In foldier, churchman, patriot, man in power, 66 Yet may this verse (if fuch a verfe remain) Show there was one who held it in difdain. Fr.'Tis all a libel-Paxton (Sir) will fay. 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, P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. Who ftarv'd a fifter, who forefwore a debt, 20 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; But, Sir, I beg you, (for the love of vice') The poor and friendless villain, than the great? Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe. 40 To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums; 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? 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, And if yet higher the proud lift should end, Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays: I follow virtue; where the fhines, I praise; 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; 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, 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 F. Hold, Sir for God's fake, where's th' affront to you? Against your worship when had S-k writ? 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; 180 From tail to mouth, they feed and they caroufe: 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, VARIATIONS. Ver, 185, in the MS. grant it, Sir; and further 'tis agreed, 200 Japhet writ not, and Chartres fcarce could read. | 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, There, other trophies deck the truly brave, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies: 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? |