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A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous
I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings;
Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick,
Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,
That secret to each fool, that he's an ass:
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie ?) To help me through this long disease, my life;
The queen of Midas slept, and so may I.
To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
And teach, the being you preserv'd, to bear.
You think this cruel? Take it for a rule,
No creature smarts so little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb through,
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer,
Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer?
And has not Colly still his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henley, his fre-masons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Still to one bishop Philips seems a wit?
Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God's sake-you'll of-
No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:
I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
But foes like these-P. One flatterer's worse than all.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
But why then publish? Granville the polite,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,
Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head,
And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend before)
With open arms receiv'd one poet more.
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their author, when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books,
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroi prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub street will my fame defend,
And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe!”
There are, who to my person pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short.
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nose, and, Sir! you have an eye!"
Go on, obliging creature, make me see
All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal Maro held his head;"
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.
Ver. 111, in the MS.
For song, for silence some expect a bribe :
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe !"
Time, praise, or money, is the least they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.
After ver. 124, in the MS.
But, friend, this shape, which you and Curll' ad-
Came not from Ammon's son, but from my sire 2;
And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse,
I had it from my mother', not the Muse.
Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.
Curll set up his head for a sign.
? His father was crooked.
? His mother was much afflicted with headachs.
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to Fame,
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd;
The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife;
Soft were my numbers: who could take offence
While pure description held the place of sense?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill ;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ;
I never answer'd, I was not in debt.
If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did some more sober critic come abroad;
If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
Au all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Commas and points they set exactly right,
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds:
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Fach word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
Ev'n suca small critics some regard may claim,
Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name.
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things we know are neither rich nor rare, 171
But wonder how the devil they got there.
Were others angry: I excus'd them too;
Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's secret standard in his mind,
That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, 180
Just writes to make his barrenness appear, [year;
And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a
He, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
And he, who, now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad:
All these, my modest satire bad translate,
And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. 190
How di they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
And swear, not Addison himself was safe.
Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires
True genius kindies, and fair fame inspires;
Blest with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools by flatterers besieg'd,
And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While wits and templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!
What though my name stood rubric on the walls,
Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals?
Or smoaking forth, a hundred hawkers load,
On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
I sought no homage from the race that write;
I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: 220
Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long)
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor like a puppy, daggled through the town,
To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd,
With handkerchief and orange at my side!
But, sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill;
Fed with soft dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
His library (where busts of poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place;
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,
And flatter'd every day, and some days eat;
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise,
To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd,
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh,
Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye:
May every Bavius have his Bufo still!
So when a statesman wants a day's defence,
Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense,
I was not born for courts or great affairs:
I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers;
Can sleep without a poem in my head,
Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.
Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?
Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write?
Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)
Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?
"I found him close with Swift-Indeed? no doubt
(Cries prating Balbus) something will come out."
'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will,
"No, such a genius never can lie still;"
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first lampoon sir Will or Bubo makes.
Poor, guiltless I! and can I choose but smile,
When every coxcomb knows me by my style?
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the soft-ey'd virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
230 Insults fall'n worth, or beauty in distress,
Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out:
That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name,
Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame :
Who can your merit selfishly approve,
And show the sense of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend ;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say.
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
But still the great have kindness in reserve,
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
May some choice patron bless each grey goose
Or simple pride for flattery makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Blest be the great! for those they take away,
And those they left me; for they left me Gay:
Left me to see neglected genius bloom,
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
Of all thy blameless life the sole return
My verse, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn!
Oh let me live my own, and die so too!
(To live and die is all I have to do :)
Maintain a poet's dignity and ease,
And see what friends, and read what books I please:
Above a patron, though I condescend
Sometimes to call a minister my friend.
After ver. 208, in the MS.
Who, if two wits on rival themes contest, Approves of each, but likes the worst the best. Alluding to Mr. Pope's and Tickell's Translation of the first Book of the Iliad.
After ver. 234, in the MS.
To bards reciting he vouchsaf'd a nod,
And snuff'd their incense like a gracious god,
After ver. 270, in the MS.
Friendships from youth I sought, and seek them still:
After ver. 282, in the MS.
P. What if I sing Augustus, great and good?
A. You did so lately, was it understood?
Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it
The world I knew, but made it not my school,
And in a course of flattery liv'd no fool.
Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound,
As rumbling Dennis or a Norfolk hound;
With George and Frederic roughen every verse,
Then smooth up all, and Caroline rehearse.
P. No-the high task to lift up kings to gods,
Leave to court sermons, and to birth day odes.
On themes like these, superior far to thine,
Let laurel'd Cibber and great Arnal shine.
Why write at all?-A. Yes, silence if you keep,
The town, the court, the wits, the dunces weep,
Who to the dean and silver bell can swear,
And sees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads but with a lust to misapply,
Make satire a lampoon, and fiction lie.
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of silk,
Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk?
Satire of sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
And as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, 320
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies.
His wit all see-saw, between that and this,
Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,
And he himself one vile Antithesis.
Amphibious thing! that, acting either part,
The trifling head! or the corrupted heart,
Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord.
Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest,
A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest.
Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will
Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
300 Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:.
This dreaded sat rist Dennis will confess
Foeto his pride but, friend to his distress:
So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door,
Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?
Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rhym'd for Moor.
Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's lie.
To please his mistress one aspers'd his life;
He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife:
Let Budgell charge low Grub-street on his quill,
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his will;
Let the two Curlls of town and court, abuse
His father, mother, body, soul, and Muse.
Yet why? that father held it for a rule,
It was a sin to call our neighbour fool:
That harmless mother thought no wife a whore:
Hear this and spare his family, James Moore;
If there be force in virtue, or in song.
Unspotted names, and memorable long;
While yet in Britain Honour had applause)
Of gentle blood (part shed in Honour's cause,
Each parent sprung-A. What fortune, pray —
P. Their own,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Not Fortune's worshipper, nor Fashion's fool,
Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
Not proud, nor servile; be one poet's praise,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:
That fiattery, ev'u to kings, he held a shame,
And thought a ¡ic in verse or prose the same;
That not in fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song:
That not for fame, but Virtue's better end,
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The distant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape,
The libel'd person and the pictur'd shape;
Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread,
A friend in exile, or a father dead ;
The whisper, that, to greatness still too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his sovereign's ear-
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past:
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the last!
A. But why insult the poor, affront the great?
P. A knave's a knave, to me, in every state: [360
Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail,
Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail;
A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire;
If on a pillory or near a throne,
He gain his prince's ear, or lose his own.
And better got, than Bestia's from the throne.
Born to no pride, inheriting no strife,
Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious through his age.
No courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art,
Nor dar'd an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
No language, but the language of the heart.
By nature honest, by experience wise;
Healthy by temperance, and by exercise;
His life, though long, to sickuess past unknown,
His death was instant, and without a groan.
O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I.
O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine:
Me, let the tender office long engage,
To rock the cradle of reposing age,
With lenient arts extend a moser's breath,
Make languor smile, a d smooth the bed of death,
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep a while one parent from the sky!
On cares like these if length of days attend,
May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend,
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
And just as rich as when he serv'd a queen!
A. Whether that blessings be deny'd or given,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven.
Ver. 368, in the MS.
Once, and but once, his heedless youth was bit,
And lik'd that dangerous thing, a female wit;
Safe as he thought, though all the prudent chid;
He writ no libels, but my lady did:
Great odds in amorous or poetic game,
Where woman's is the sin, and man's the shame.
After ver. 405, in the MS.
And of myself, too, something must I say?
Take then this verse, the trifle of a day.
And if it live, it lives but to commend
The man whose heart has ne'er forgot a friend,
Or head, an author; critic, yet polite,
And friend to learning, yet too wise to write.
SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORAÇE
THE occasion of publishing these imitations was the clamour raised on some of my episties. An answer from Horace was both more full. and of more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person; and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in ever so low, or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and mi nisters under who they lived. The satires of
Dr. Donne I versified, at the desire of the earl of Oxford while he was lord treasurer, and of the duke of Shrewsbury, who had been secretary of state: neither of whom looked upon a satire on
vicious courts as any reflection on those they
served in. And indeed there is not in the world
a greater errour, than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for a libeller; whereas to a true satirist nothing is so odious as a libeller, for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite.
Uni æquus virtuti atque ejus amicis.
WHOEVER expects a paraphrase of Horace, or a faithful copy of his genius, or manner of writing, in these imitations, will be much disappointed. Our author uses the Roman poet for little more than his canvas: and if the old design or colouring chance to suit his purpose, it is well; if not, he employs his own, without scruple or ceremony. Hence it is, he is so frequently serious where Horace is in jest, and at ease where Horace is disturbed. In a word, he regulates his movements no further on his original, than was necessary for his concurrence in promoting their common plau of reformation of manners.
Had it been his purpose merely to paraphrase an ancient satirist, he had hardly made choice of Horace; with whom, as a poet, he held little in common, besides a comprehensive knowledge of life and manners, and a certain curious felicity of expression, which consists in using the simplest Janguage with dignity, and the most ornamented with ease. For the rest, his harmony and strength of numbers, his force and splendour of colouring, his gravity and sublimity of sentiment, would have rather led him to another model. Nor was his temper less unlike that of Horace, than his talents. What Horace would only smile at, Mr. Pope would treat with the grave severity of Persius; and what Mr. Pope would strike with the caustic lightning of Juvenal, Horace would content himself in turning into ridicule.
If it be asked then, why he took any body at all to imitate, he has informed us in his adver ti ement: To which we may add, that this sort of imitations, which are of the nature of parodies. adds reflected grace and splendour on original wit.
Besides, he deemed it more modest to give the name of imitations to his satire, than, like Despréaux, to give the name of satires to imitations.
BOOK II. SATIRE L
TO MR. FORTESCUE.
P. THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told)
1 There are, to whom my satire seems too bold:
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something said of Chartres much too rough.
2 The lines are weak, another's pleas'd to say,
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Timorous by nature, of the rich in awe,
3 I come to council learned in the law:
You'll give me, like a friend both sage and free,
Advice; and (as you use) without a fee.
F. I'd write no more.
P. Not write? but then I think,
And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink.
I nod in company, I wake at night,
Fools rush into my head, and so I write.
F. You could not do a worse thing for your life.
Why, if the nights seem tedious-take a wife:
Or rather truly, if your point be rest,
Lettuce and cowslip wine; Probatum est.
But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise
Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes.
'Or, if you needs must write, write Cæsar's praise,
You'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays.
P. What? like sir' Richard, rumbling, rough,
With arms and George and Brunswick crowd the verse,
Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder, With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder?
Lull with Amelia's liquid name the Nine,
And sweetly flow through all the royal line.
P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear;
They scarce can bear their laureat twice a year;
And justly Cæsar scorns the poet's lays,
It is to history he trusts for praise.
F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still,
Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille,
Abuse the city's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter.
3 Ev'n those you touch not, hate you.
P. What should ail 'em? F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam : The fewer still you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.
P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pye; Ridotta sips and dances, till she see The doubling lustres dance as fast as she; 'F-loves the senate, Hockleyhole his brother, Like in all else, as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myself, as plain As downright Shippen, or as old Montagne : In them, as certain to be lov'd as seen, The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within; In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, Will prove at least the medium must be clear. In this impartial glass, my Muse intends Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends; Publish the present age; but where my text Is vice too high, reserve it for the next: My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And every friend the less lament my fate. My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, ? Verseman or proseman, term me what you will, Papist or Protestant, or both between, Like good Erasmus in an honest mean, In moderation placing all my glory, While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. * Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet;
Cum res ipsa feret: nisi dextro tempore, Flacci
Verba per attentam non ibunt Cæsaris aurem :
Cui male si palpere, recalcitrat undique tutus.
T. 2 Quanto rectius hoc, quam tristi lædere versu
Pantolabum scurram, Nomentanumve nepotem ?
'Cum sibi quisque timet, quanquam est intactus, et
H. Quid faciam? saltat Milonius, ut semel icto
Accessit fervor capiti, numerusque lucernis.
S Castor gaudet equis; ovo prognatus eodem,
Pugnis. quot capitum vivunt, totidem studiorum
Millia. " me pedibus delectat claudere verba,
Lucili ritu, nostrum melioris utroque.
Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim
Credebat libris ; neque, si male gesserat, usquam
Decurrens alio, neque si bene; quo fit, ut omnis
Votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella
Vita senis. sequor hunc, Lucanus an Appulus, an-
[Nam Venusinus arat finem sub utrumque colonus,
Missus ad hoc, pulsis (vetus est ur fama) Sabellis;
Quo ne per vacuum Romano incurreret hostis ;
Sive quod Appula gens, seu quod Iucania bellum
Incuteret violenta sed hic stylis haud potet ultro
Quemquam animantem, et me veluti custodiet
Vagina tectus, quem cur destringere coner,
'I only wear it in a land of Hectors,
Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors.
2 Save but our army! and let Jove incrust
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust!
3 Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more:
But touch me, and no minister so sore.
Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time
4 Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the sad burthen of some merry song.
'Slander or poison dread from Delia's ́ rage ;
Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page.
From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate,
P-x'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate.
Its proper power to hurt, each creature feels;
Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels;
'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug;
And no man wonders he's not stung by pug.
So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat, They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat.
Then, learned sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at court; Whether old-age, with faint but cheerful ray, Attends to gild the evening of my day, Or Death's black wing already be display'd, To wrap me in the universal shade; Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the skewer to write: In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, 'Like Lee or Budgell, I will rhyme and print.
F. 10 Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be long, In flower of age you perish for a song! Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, Will club their te ters, now, to take your life! P. "What? arm'd for Virtue when 1 point the pen, Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men ; Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car; Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star; Can there be wanting, to defend her cause, Lights of the church, or guardians of the laws? Could pension'd Boileau lash in honest strain Flatterers and bigots ev'n in Louis' reign? Could laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage, Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage?