And which was worse, if any worse could be,
Repented of their boasted loyalty:
Now made the champions of a cruel cause,
And drunk with fumes of popular applause;
For those whom God to ruin has design'd,
He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.
New doubts indeed they daily strove to raise,
Suggested dangers, interpos'd delays;
And emissary pigeons had in store,
Such as the Meccan prophet us'd of yore,
To whisper counsels in their patron's ear;
And veil'd their false advice with zealous fear.
The master smil'd, to see them work in vain,
To wear him out, and make an idle reign:
He saw, but suffer'd their protractive arts,
And strove by mildness to reduce their hearts:
But they abus'd that grace to make allics,
And fondly clos'd with former enemies;
For fools are doubly fools, endeavouring to be wise.
After a grave consult what course were best,
One, more mature in folly than the rest,
Stood up, and told them with his head aside, [ply'd:
That desperate cures must be to desperate ills ap-
And therefore, since their main impending fear
Was from the increasing race of Chanticleer,
Some potent bird of prey they ought to find,
A foe profess'd to him, and all his kind:
Some haggard hawk, who had her eyry nigh,
Well pounc'd to fasten, and well wing'd to fly:
One they might trust, their common wrongs to wreak:
The musket and the coystrel were too weak,
Too fierce the falcon; but, above the rest,
The noble buzzard ever pleas'd me best;
Of small renown, 'tis true; for not to lye,
We call him but a hawk by courtesy.
I know he hates the pigeon-house and farm,
And more, in time of war, has done us harm:
But all his hate on trivial points depends:
Give up our forms, and we shall soon be friends.
For pigeons' flesh he seems not much to care;
Cramm'd chickens are a more delicious fare.
On this high potentate, without delay,
I wish you would confer the sovereign sway:
Petition him t' accept the government,
And let a splendid embassy be sent.

This pithy speech prevail'd; and all agreed,
Old enmities forgot, the buzzard should succeed.
Their welcome suit was granted soon as heard,
His lodgings furnish'd, and a train prepar'd,
With B's upon their breast, appointed for his guard.
He came, and crown'd with great solemnity,
God save king buzzard! was the general cry.

A portly prince, and goodly to the sight, He seem'd a son of Anach for his height: Like those whom stature did to crowns prefer: Black-brow'd, and bluff, like Homer's Jupiter: Broad-back'd, and brawny-built for love's delight; A prophet form'd to make a female proselyte. A theologue more by need than genial bent; By breeding sharp, by nature confident. Interest in all his actions was discern'd;

More learn'd than honest, more a wit than learn'd:
Or forc'd by fear or by his profit led,

Or both conjoin'd, his native clime he fled:
But brought the virtues of his heaven along;
A fair behaviour, and a fluent tongue.

And yet with all his arts he could not thrive;
The most unlucky parasite alive.
Loud praises to prepare his paths he sent,
And then himself pursued his compliment;
But, by reverse of fortune chas'd away,
His gifts no longer than their author stay:
He shakes the dust against th' ungrateful race,
And leaves the stench of ordures in the place.
Oft has he flatter'd and blasphem'd the same;
For in his rage he spares no sovereign's name:
The hero and the tyrant change their style
By the same measure that they frown or smile.
When well receiv'd by hospitable foes,
The kindness he returns, is to expose;
For courtesies, though undeserv'd and great,
No gratitude in felon minds beget;

As tribute to his wit, the churl receives the treat.
His praise of foes is venomously nice:
So touch'd, it turns a virtue to a vice:
"A Greek, and bountiful, forewarns us twice."
Seven sacraments he wisely does disown,
Because he knows confession stands for one;
Where sins to sacred silence are convey'd,
And not for fear, or love, to be betray'd:
But he, uncall'd, his patron to control,
Divulg'd the secret whispers of his soul;
Stood forth th' accusing Satan of his crimes,
And offer'd to the Moloch of the times.
Prompt to assail, and careless of defence,
Invulnerable in his impudence,

He dares the world; and eager of a name,
He thrusts about, and justles into fame.
Frontless, and satire-proof, he scours the streets,
And runs an Indian-muck at all he meets.
So fond of loud report, that not to miss
Of being known (his last and utmost bliss)
He rather would be known for what he is.

Such was, and is, the captain of the test, Though half his virtues are not here express'd; The modesty of fame conceals the rest. The spleenful pigeons never could create A prince more proper to revenge their hate; Indeed more proper to revenge than save; A king, whom in his wrath th' Almighty gave: For all the grace the landlord had allow'd, But made the buzzard and the pigeons proud; Gave time to fix their friends, and to seduce the crowd. They long their fellow-subjects to inthral, Their patron's promise into question call, And vainly think he meant to make them lords of all. False fears their leaders fail'd not to suggest, As if the doves were to be dispossess'd; Nor sighs, nor groans, nor goggling eyes, did want; For now the pigeons too had learn'd to cant. The house of prayer is stock'd with large increase; Nor doors nor windows can contain the press; For birds of every feather fill th' abode; Ev'n Atheists, out of envy, own a God: And reeking from the stews adulterers come,

Like Goths and Vandals to demolish Rome.

That conscience, which to all their crimes was mute, Now calls aloud, and cries to persecute:

No rigour of the laws to be releas'd,

And much the less, because it was their Lord's request:
They thought it great their sovereign to control,
And nam'd their pride nobility of soul.

'Tis true, the pigeons, and their prince elect,
Were short of power, their purpose to effect:
But with their quills did all the hurt they could,
And cuff'd the tender chickens from their food:
And much the buzzard in their cause did stir,
Though naming not the patron, to infer
With all respect, he was a gross idolater.

But when th' imperial owner did espy,
That thus they turn'd his grace to villany,
Not suffering wrath to discompose his mind,
He strove a temper for th' extremes to find,
So to be just, as he might still be kind.
Then, all maturely weigh'd, pronounc'd a doom
Of sacred strength for every age to come.
By this the doves their wealth and state possess,
No rights infring'd, but licence to oppress:
Such power have they as factious lawyers long
To crowns ascrib'd, that kings can do no wrong.
But since his own domestic birds have try'd
The dire effects of their destructive pride,
He deems that proof a measure to the rest,
Concluding well within his kingly breast,
His fowls of nature too unjustly were opprest.
He therefore makes all birds of every sect
Free of his farm, with promise to respect
Their several kinds alike, and equally protect.
His gracious edict the same franchise yields
To all the wild increase of woods and fields,
And who in rocks aloof, and who in steeples builds:
To crows the like impartial grace affords,
And choughs and daws, and such republic birds:
Secur'd with ample privilege to feed,
Each has his district, and his bounds decreed:
Combin'd in common interest with his own,
But not to pass the pigeons' rubicon.

Here ends the reign of his pretended dove;
All prophecies accomplish'd from above,
For Shiloh comes the sceptre to remove.
Reduc'd from her imperial high abode,
Like Dionysius to a private rod,
The passive church, that with pretended grace
Did her distinctive mark in duty place,
Now touch'd, reviles her Maker to his face.

1

What after happen'd is not hard to guess: The small beginnings had a large increase, [peace. And arts and wealth succeed, the secret spoils of "Tis said, the doves repented, though too late, Become the smiths of their own foolish fate: Nor did their owner hasten their ill hour; But, sunk in credit, they decreas'd in power: Like snows in warmth that mildly pass away, Dissolving in the silence of decay.

The buzzard, not content with equal place, Invites the feather'd Nimrods of his race; To hide the thinness of their flock from sight, And all together make a seeming goodly flight: But each have separate interests of their own; Two czars are one too many for a throne. Nor can th' usurper long abstain from food; Already he has tasted pigeon's blood: And may be tempted to his former fare, When this indulgent lord shall late to heaven repair. Bare benting times, and moulting months may come, When, lagging late, they cannot reach their home; Or rent in schism (for so their fate decrees) Like the tumultuous college of the bees,

They fight their quarrel, by themselves opprest;
The tyrant smiles below, and waits the falling feast.
Thus did the gentle Hind her fable end,
Nor would the Panther blame it, nor commend ;
But, with affected yawnings at the close,
Seem'd to require her natural repose:
For now the streaky light began to peep;
And setting stars admonish'd both to sleep.
The dame withdrew, and wishing to her guest
The peace of heaven, betook herself to rest.
Ten thousand angels on her slumbers wait,
With glorious visions of her future state.

MAC-FLECKNOE.

ALL human things are subject to decay,
And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long:
In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute,
Through all the realms of nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And blessed with issue of a large increase;
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state:
And, pondering, which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
Cry'd, 'Tis resolv'd; for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years:
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval:
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty:
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And spread in solemn state supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology!
Ev'n I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung,
When to king John of Portugal I sung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And, big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,

The lute still trembling underneath thy nail;
At thy well-sharpened thumb from shore to shore
The trebles squeak for fear, the bases roar :
Echoes from Pissing-alley Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they resound from Aston-hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.

Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme:
Though they in numbers as in sense excel;
So just, so like tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.

Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy,
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.

Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind, (The fair Augusta much to fears inclin'd) An ancient fabric rais'd t' inform the sight There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight, A watch-tower once; but now, so fate ordains, Of all the pile an empty name remains : From its old ruins brothel-houses rise, Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys; Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep, And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep. Near those a nursery erects its head, Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred; Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry, Where infant punks their tender voices try, And little Maximins the Gods defy. Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, Nor greater Jonson dare in socks appear; But gentle Simkin just reception finds Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds: Pure clinches the suburbian Muse affords, And Panton waging harmless war with words. Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known, Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne. For ancient Decker prophesy'd long since, That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense. To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe, But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow: Humourists and Hypocrites it should produce, Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. Now empress fame had publish'd the renown Of Shadwell's coronation through the town. Rouz'd by report of fame the nations meet, From near Bunhill, and distant Watling-street. No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way, But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay: From dusty shops neglected authors come, Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum. Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay, But loads of Shadwell almost chok'd the way. Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd, And Herringman was captain of the guard. The hoary prince in majesty appear'd, High on a throne of his own labours rear'd. At his right hand our young Ascanius sate Rome's other hope and pillar of the state. His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, And lambent dulness play'd around his face. As Hannibal did to the altars come, Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome; So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, That he till death true dulness would maintain : And in his father's right, and realm's defence,

Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense.
The king himself the sacred unction made,
As king by office, and as priest by trade.
In his sinister hand, instead of ball,
He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;
Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,
At once his sceptre, and his rule of sway,
Whose righteous lore the prince had practis'd young,
And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung.
His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread,
That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head.
Just at the point of time, if fame not lie,
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tyber's brook,
Presage of sway from twice six vultures took.
Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.

The sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness; long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging God;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood.
Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him reign
To far Barbadoes on the western main;

Of his dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his father's be his throne;
Beyond Love's kingdom let him stretch his pen !—
He paus'd, and all the people cry'd Amen.
Then thus continued he: My son, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without births, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuosos in five years be writ;
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage:
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And in their folly show the writer's wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of sense.
Let them be all by thy own model made
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and differing but in name.
But let no alien Sedley interpose,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.
And when false flowers of rhet'ric thou wouldst cull,
Trust nature, do not labour to be dull;

But write thy best, and top; and in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine :

Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,
And does thy northern dedications fill.
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name.
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

Thou art my blood, where Jonson had no part:
What share have we in nature or in art?
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or swept the dust in Psyche's. humble strain?
Where sold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?

When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whole Etherege did transfuse to thine?
But so transfus'd, as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play;
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
By which, one way, to dulness 'tis inclin'd:
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
Thy inoffensive satires never bite:

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics, but mild anagram.
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command
Some peaceful province in acrostic land.

There thou may'st wings display and altars raise,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or if thou wouldst thy different talents suit,
Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.

He said; but his last words were scarcely heard:
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a subterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

EPISTLE TO MR. CONGREVE.

WELL then, the promis'd hour is come at last,
The present age of wit obscures the past:
Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ,
Conquering with force of arms, and dint of wit:
Theirs was the giant race, before the Flood;
And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood.
Like Janus he the stubborn soil manur'd,
With rules of husbandry the rankness cur'd;
Tam'd us to manners, when the stage was rude,
And boisterous English wit with art indu'd.
Our age was cultivated thus at length;
But what we gain'd in skill, we lost in strength.
Our builders were with want of genius curst;
The second temple was not like the first:
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length,
Our beauties equal, but excel our strength;
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base:
The fair Corinthian crown the higher space :
Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise;

He mov'd the mind, but had not power to raise.
Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please;
Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease.
In differing talents both adorn'd their age;
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit ;

One match'd in judgment, both o'ermatch'd in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see,
Etherege's courtship, Southern's purity,
The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherley.
All this in blooming youth you have achiev'd:
Nor are your foil'd contemporaries griev'd.
So much the sweetness of your manners move,
We cannot envy you, because we love.
Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw
A beardless consul made against the law,
And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome;
Though he with Hannibal was overcome.
Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame,
And scholar to the youth he taught became.

O that your brows my laurel had sustain'd!
Well had I been depos'd, if you had reign'd:
The father had descended for the son;
For only you are lincal to the throne.
Thus, when the state one Edward did depose,
A greater Edward in his room arose.
But now not I, but poetry is curs'd,
For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first.
But let them not mistake my patron's part,
Nor call his charity their own desert.
Yet this I prophecy; thou shalt be seen
(Though with some short parenthesis between)
High on the throne of wit, and, seated there,
Not mine, that's little, but thy laurel wear.
Thy first attempt an early promise made;
That early promise this has more than paid.
So bold, yet so judiciously you dare,
That your least praise is to be regular.
Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought;
But genius must be born, and never can be taught.
This is your portion; this your native store;
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakspeare gave as much, she could not give him

more.

Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need; For 'tis impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, I live a rent-charge on his providence: But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and O defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend! Let not th' insulting foe my fame pursue, But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what these lines express: You merit more, nor could my love do less.

EPISTLE TO JOHN DRYDEN, ESQ.

How blest is he who leads a country life,
Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife!
Who, studying peace, and shunning civil rage,
Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age:
All who deserve his love, he makes his own;
And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.
Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come,
From your award to wait their final doom;
And, foes before, return in friendship home.

Without their cost, you terminate the cause; And save th' expense of long litigious laws: Where suits are traversed; and so little won, That he who conquers is but last undone : Such are not your decrees; but so design'd, The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind;

Like your own soul, serene; a pattern of your mind.
Promoting concord, and composing strife;
Lord of yourself, uncumber'd with a wife;
Where, for a year, a month, perhaps a night,
Long penitence succeeds a short delight:
Minds are so hardly match'd, that e'en the first,
Though pair'd by Heaven, in Paradise were curs'd.
For man and woman, though in one they grow,
Yet first or last, return again to two.
He to God's image, she to his was made; [stray'd.
So, farther from the fount the stream at random
How could he stand, when, put to double pain,
He must a weaker than himself sustain !
Each might have stood perhaps; but each alone;
Two wrestlers help to pull each other down.

Not that my verse would blemish all the fair,
But yet, if some be bad, 'tis wisdom to beware;
And better shun the bait, than struggle in the snare.
Thus have you shunn'd, and shun the marry'd state,
Trusting as little as you can to fate.

No porter guards the passage of your door,
T" admit the wealthy, and exclude the poor;
For God, who gave the riches, gave the heart,
To sanctify the whole, by giving part:

Heaven, who foresaw the will, the means has wrought,
And to the second son a blessing brought;
The first begotten had his father's share;
But you, like Jacob, are Rebecca's heir.

So may your stores and fruitful fields increase;
And ever be you bless'd, who live to bless.
As Ceres sow'd where'er her chariot flew ;
As heaven in deserts rain'd the bread of dew:
So free to many, to relations most,
You feed with manna your own Israel host.

With crowds attended of your ancient race,
You seek the champion sports, or sylvan chace:
With well-breath'd beagles you surround the wood,
Ev'n then, industrious of the common good:
And often have you brought the wily fox
To suffer for the firstlings of the flocks;
Chas'd even amid the folds, and made to bleed,
Like felons, where they did the murderous deed.
This fiery game your active youth maintain'd;
Not yet by years extinguish'd, though restrain'd:
You season still your sports with serious hours:
For age but tastes of pleasures, youth devours.
The hare in pastures or in plains is found,
Emblem of human life, who runs the round;
And, after all his wandering ways are done,
His circle fills, and ends where he begun,
Just as the setting meets the rising sun.

Thus princes ease their cares; but happier he, Who seeks not pleasure through necessity, Than such as once on slippery thrones were plac'd; And, chasing, sigh to think themselves are chas'd. So liv'd our sires, ere doctors learn'd to kill, And multiply'd with theirs the weekly bill. The first physicians by debauch were made: Excess began, and sloth sustains the trade: Pity the generous kind their cares bestow

To search forbidden truths; (a sin to know):
To which if human science could attain,
The doom of death, pronounced by God, were vain.
In vain the leach would interpose delay;
Fate fastens first, and vindicates the prey.
What help from art's endeavours can we have?
Gibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save:

But Maurus sweeps whole parishes, and peoples every grave;

And no more mercy to mankind will use,

Than when he robb'd and murder'd Maro's Muse. Wouldst thou be soon despatch'd, and perish whole, Trust Maurus with thy life, and Milbourn with thy soul.

By chace our long-liv'd fathers earn'd their food:
Toil strung the nerves, and purify'd the blood:
But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men,
Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten.
Better to hunt in fields for health unbought,
Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.
The wise for cure on exercise depend;
God never made his work for man to mend.
The tree of knowledge, once in Eden plac'd,
Was easy found, but was forbid the taste:
O, had our grandsire walk'd without his wife,
He first had sought the better plant of life!
Now both are lost: yet, wandering in the dark,
Physicians, for the tree, have found the bark;
They, labouring for relief of human kind,
With sharpen'd sight some remedies may find;
Th' apothecary train is wholly blind.
From files a random recipe they take,
And many deaths of one prescription make.
Garth, generous as his Muse, prescribes and gives;
The shopman sells; and by destruction lives:
Ungrateful tribe! who, like the viper's brood,
From medicine issuing, suck their mother's blood!
Let these obey; and let the learn'd prescribe;
That men may die, without a double bribe:
Let them, but under their superiors, kill:
When doctors first have sign'd the bloody bill.
He 'scapes the best who, nature to repair,
Draws physic from the fields in draughts of vital air.
You hoard not health for your own private use,
But on the public spend the rich produce.
When, often urg'd, unwilling to be great,
Your country calls you from your lov'd retreat,
And sends to senates, charg'd with common care,
Which none more shuns, and none can better bear;
Where could they find another form'd so fit,
To poise, with solid sense, a sprightly wit!
Were these both wanting, as they both abound,
Where could so firm integrity be found?
Well born, and wealthy, wanting no support,
You steer betwixt the country and the court:
Nor gratify whate'er the great desire;
Nor grudging give what public needs require.
Part must be left, a fund when foes invade;
And part employ'd to roll the watery trade:
E'en Canaan's happy land, when worn with toil,
Requir'd a sabbath-year to mend the meagre soil.

Good senators (and such as you) so give,
That kings may be supply'd, the people thrive.
And he, when want requires, is truly wise,
Who slights not foreign aids, nor over-buys;
But on our native strength, in time of need, relies.

P