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Wild to get loose, his patience I provoke, Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke. But as coarse iron, sharpen'd, mangles more, And itch most hurts when anger'd to a sore; So when you plague a fool, 'tis still the curse, You only make the matter worse and worse.



He past it o'er; affects an easy smile At all my peevishness, and turns his style. He asks, "What news?" I tell him of new plays, New eunuchs, harlequins, and operas. He hears, and as a still with simples in it, Between each drop it gives, stays half a minute, Loth to enrich me with too quick replies, By little, and by little, drops his lies. Mere houshold trash! of birthnights, balls, and More than ten Hollinsheds, or Halls, or Stowes, When the queen frown'd, or smil'd, he knows; and A subtle minister may make of that: Who sins with whom: who got his pension rug, Or quicken'd a reversion by a drug: Whose place is quarter'd out, three parts in four, And whether to a bishop, or a whore: Who, having lost his credit, pawn'd his rent, Is therefore fit to have a government: Who, in the secret, deals in stocks secure, And cheats th' unknowing widow and the poor: Who makes a trust of charity a job, And gets an act of parliament to rob: Why turnpikes rise, and now no cit nor clown Can gratis see the country, or the town: Shortly no lad shall chuck, or lady vole, But some excising courtier will have toll. He tells what strumpet places sells for life, What 'squire his lands, what citizen his wife: At last (which proves him wiser still than all) What lady's face is not a whited wall.

As one of Woodward's patients, sick, and sore, I puke, I nauseate, yet he thrusts in more : Trims Europe's balance, tops the stateman's part, And talks gazettes and postboys o'er by heart.

Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron ground
Into an edge, hurts worse: So, I (fool) found,
Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness,
He to another key his style doth dress;
And asks what news; I tell him of new playes,
He takes my hand, and as a still, which stayes
A sembrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,
As loth to enrich me, so tells many a ly.
More than ten Hollensheds, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial houshold trash, he knows: he knows
When the queen frown'd or smil'd; and he knows
A subtle statesman may gather of that: [what
He knows who loves whom; and who by poison
Hasts to an officer's reversion;
Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes;
Who loveth whores

He knows, who hath sold his land, and now doth beg
A licence, old iron, boots, shoes, and egge-
Shells to transport;

Like a big wife at sight of loathsome meat
Ready to cast, I yawn, I sigh, and sweat.
Then as a licens'd spy, whom nothing can
Silence or hurt, he libels every man ;
Swears every place entail'd for years to come,
In sure succession to the day of doom:
He names the price for every office paid,
And says our wars thrive ill, because delay'd;
Nay hints, 'tis by contrivance of the court,
That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's still a port,
Not more amazement seis'd on Circe's guests,
To see themselves fall headlong into beasts,
Than mine to find a subject stay'd and wise
Already half turn'd traitor by surprise.
I felt th' infection slide from him to me;
As in the pox, some give it to get free;
And quick to swallow me, methought I saw
One of our giant statues ope its jaw.

In that nice moment, as another lie
Stood just a-tilt, the minister came by.
To him he flies, and bows, and bows again,
Then, close as Umbra, joins the dirty train.
Not Fannius' self more impudently near,
When half his nose is in his prince's ear.
I quak'd at heart; and, still afraid to see
All the court fill'd with stranger things than he,
Ran out as fast as one that pays his bail,
And dreads more actions, hurries from a jail.

Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat,
Ready to travail: so I sigh, and sweat
Το this makaron talk: in vain, for yet,
Either my humour, or his own to fit,
He like a priviledg'd spie, whom nothing can
Discredit, libels now 'gainst each great man.
He names the price of every office paid;
He saith our wars thrive ill, because delaid:
That offices are intail'd, and that there are
Perpetuities of them, lasting as far
As the last day; and that great officers
Do with the Spaniards share, and Dunkirkers.

I more amaz'd than Circe's prisoners, when
They felt themselves turn beasts, felt myself then
Becoming traytor, and methought I saw
One of our giant statues ope its jaw
To suck me in for hearing him: I found
That as burnt venemous leachers do grow sound
By giving others their sores, I might grow
Guilty, and be free: Therefore I did show
All signs of loathing; but since I am in,
I must pay mine, and my forefathers sin
To the last farthing. Therefore to my power
Toughly and stubbornly I bear; but th' hower
Of mercy was now come: he tries to bring
Me to pay a fine to 'scape a torturing,

And says, "Sir, can you spare me-?" I said, "Willingly;"

'Nay, sir, can you spare me a crown?" Thankfully I

shortly boys shall not play
At span-counter, or blow point, but shall pay
Toll to some courtier; and wiser than all us.
He knows what lady is not painted. Thus

Gave it, as ransom; but as fidlers, still,
Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will
Thrust one more jigg upon you: so did he
With his long complimental thanks vex me.
But he is gone, thanks to his needy want,

He with home racats cloys me. I belch, spue, spit, And the prerogative of my crown; scant
Look pale and sickly, like a patient, yet

He thrusts on more, and as he had undertook,
To say Gallo Belgicus without book,
Speaks of all states and deeds that have been since
The Spaniards came to th' loss of Amyens.


His thanks were ended, when I (which did see
All the court fill'd with more strange things than he)
Ran from thence with such, or more haste than


Who fears more actions, doth hast from prison.

Bear me, some god! oh quickly bear me hence To wholesome Solitude, the nurse of Sense; Where Contemplation prunes her ruffled wings, And the free soul looks down to pity kings! There sober thought pursued th' amusing theme, Till Fancy colour'd it, and form'd a dream. A vision hermits can to Hell transport,

And forc'd ev'n me to see the damn'd at court.
Not Dante, dreaming all th' infernal state,
Beheld such scenes of envy, sin, and hate.
Base fear becomes the guilty, not the free;
Suits tyrants, plunderers, but suits not me:
Shall I, the terror of this sinful 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! shall I quit thee
For huffing, braggart, puft nobility?
Thou, who since yesterday hast roll'd o'er all
The busy, idle blockheads of the ball,
Hast thou, oh Sun! beheld an emptier sort,
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! such a varnish'd race
Of hollow gewgaws, only dress and face!
Such waxen noses, stately staring things-
No wonder some 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 fresh and fragrant, to the drawing room;
In hues as gay, and odours as divine,
As the fair fields they sold to look so fine.
"That's velvet for a king!" the flatterer swears;
'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 strut in courtiers clothes?
For these are actors too, as well as those :
Wants reach all states: they beg but better drest,
And all is splendid poverty at best.

Painted for sight, and essenc'd for the smell, Like frigates fraught with spice and cochinell, Sail in the ladies: how each pirate eyes So weak a vessel, and so rich a prize! Top-gallant he, and she in all her trim, He boarding her, she striking sail to him: [hit!" "Dear countess! you have charms all hearts to And "Sweet sir Fopling! you have so much wit!" Such wits and beauties are not prais'd for nought, For both the beauty and the wit are bought. 'Twould burst even Heraclitus with the spleen, To see those anticks, Fopling and Courtin: The presence seems, with things so richly odd, The mosque of Mahound, or some queer pa-god See them survey their limbs by Durer's rules, Of all beau-kind the best proportion'd fools! Adjust their clothes, and to confession draw Those venial sins, an atom, or a straw : But oh what terrors must distract the soul Convicted of that mortal crime, a hole; Or should one pound of powder less 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 rose, Sweeter than Sharon, in immac'late trim, Neatness itself impertinent in him.

At home in wholesome solitariness
My piteous soul began the wretchedness

Of suitors at court to mourn, and a trance
Like his, who dreamt he saw Hell, did advance
Itself o'er me; such men as he saw there


I saw at court, and worse and more. Low fear
Becomes the guilty, not the accuser: Then
Shall I, none's slave, of highborn or rais'd men
Fear frowns and my mistress Truth, betray thee
For the huffing, bragart, puft nobility?
No, no, thou which since yesterday hast been
Almost about the whole world, hast thou seen,
O Sun, in all thy journey, vanity,
Such as swells the bladder of our court? I
Think he which made your waxen garden, and
Transported it from Italy, to stand

With us, at London, flouts our courtiers; for
Just such gay painted things, which no sap, nor
Taste have in them, ours are; and natural
Some of the stocks are; their fruits bastard all.
'Tis ten a clock and past; all whom the Mues,
Baloun, or tennis, diet, or the stews
Had all the morning held, now the second
Time made ready, that day, in flocks are found
In the presence, and I (God pardon me)
As fresh and sweet their apparels be, as be
Their fields they sold to buy them. For a king
Those hose are, cry the flatterers: and bring
Them next week to the theatre to sell.
Wants reach all states: me seems they do


Let but the ladies smile, and they are blest: Prodigious! how the things protest, protest! Peace, fools, or Gonson will for papists seize you, If once he catch you at your Jesu! Jesu!

At stage, as courts: all are players. Whoe'er looks
(For themselves dare not go) o'er Cheapside books,
Shall find their wardrobes inventory. Now
The ladies come. As pirates (which do know
That there came weak ships fraught with cutchanel)
The men board them: and praise (as they think)

Their beauties; they the mens wits; both are bought.
Why good wits ne'er wear scarlet gowns, I thought
This cause, these men, mens wits for speeches buy,
And women buy all red which scarlets dye.
He call'd her beauty lime-twigs, her hair net:
She fears her drugs ill lay'd, her hair loose set.
Wouldn't Heraclitus laugh to see Macrine
From hat to shoe, himself at door refine,
As if the presence were a mosque; and lift
His skirts and hose, and call his clothes to shrift,
Making them confess not only mortal
Great stains and holes in them, but venial
Feathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate:
And then by Durer's rules survey the state
Of his each limb, and with strings the odds tries
Of his neck to his leg, and waste to thighs.
So in immaculate clothes and symmetry
Perfect as circles, with such nicety

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Nature made every fop to plague his brother, Just as one beauty mortifies another.

But here's the captain that will plague them both,
Whose air cries arm! whose very look's an oath :
The captain's honest, sirs, and that's enough,
Though his soul's bullet, and his body buff.
He spits 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 curse,
Has yet a strange ambition to look worse:
Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe,
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so
As men from jails to execution go;
For hung with deadly sins I see the wall,
And lin'd with giants deadlier than them all:
Each man an Askapart, of strength to toss
For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross.
Scar'd at the grizly forms, I sweat, I fly,
And shake all o'er, like a discover'd spy.

Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine:
Charge them with Heaven's artillery, bold divine!
From such alone the great rebukes endure,
Whose satire's sacred, and whose rage secure :
'Tis mine to wash a few light stains; but theirs
To deluge sin, and drown a court in tears.
Howe'er, what's now Apocrypha, my wit,
In time to come, may pass for holy writ.




Fr. Nor twice a twelvemonth you appear in print, And when it comes, the court see nothing in't.

For saying our lady's Psalter. But 'tis fit
That they each other plague, they merit it.
But here comes Glorious that will plague 'em both,
Who in the other extreme only doth
Call a rough carelesness good fashion :
Whose cloak his spurs tear, or whom he spits on,
He cares not, he. His ill words do no harm
To him; he rushes in, as if arm, arm,
He meant to cry; and though his face be as ill
As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, still
He strives to look worse; he keeps all in awe;
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.

Tir'd, now, I leave this place, and but pleas'd so As men from gaols to execution go, Go, through the great chamber (why is it hung, With these seven deadly sins ?) being among Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw Charing-cross, for a bar, men that do know No token of worth, but queens man, and fine Living; barrels of beef, flaggons of wine. I shook like a spied spie-Preachers which are Seas of wit and arts, you can, then dare, Drown the sins of this place, but as for me Which am but a scant brook, enough shall be To wash the stains away: Although I yet (With Maccabees modesty) the known merit Of my work lessen, yet some wise men shall, I hope, esteem my writs canonical.

You grow correct, that once with rapture writ,
And are, besides, too moral for a wit.
Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel-
Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal?
'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye
Said, "Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory
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 observes, he lash'd no sort of vice:
Horace would say, sir Billy serv'd the crown,
Blunt could do business, Higgins knew the town;
In Sappho touch the failings of the sex,
In reverend bishops note some small neglects,
And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing,
Who cropt our ears, and sent them to the king.
His sly, polite, insinuating style

Could please at court, and make Augustus smile:
An artful manager, that crept between
His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen.
But 'faith your very friends will soon be sore;
Patriots there are, who wish you'd jest no more-
And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd you a groat.
Go see sir Robert-

P. See sir Robert !-humAnd never laugh-for all my life to come? Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Of social pleasure, ill-exchang'd for power; Seen him, uncumber'd with a venal tribe, Smile without art, and win without a bribe. 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.

Why yes: with scripture still you may be free;

A horse-langh, if you please, at honesty;
A joke on Jekyll, or some odd old whig,
Who never chang'd his principle, or wig;
A patriot is a fool in every age,

Whom all lord chamberlains allow the stage:
These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still,
And wear their strange old virtue as they will.

If any ask you, "Who's the man, so near His prince, that writes in verse, and has his ear?" Why answer Lyttelton; and I'll engage The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage: But were his verses vile, his whisper base, You'd quickly find him in lord Fanny's case. Sejanus, Wolsey, hurt not honest Fleury, But well may put some statesman in a fury.

Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes; These you but anger, and you mend not those. Laugh at your friends, and, if your friends are sore, So much the better, you may laugh the more. To vice and folly to confine the jest,

Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest;


After ver. 2, in the MS.

You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade, Because you think your reputation made: Like good sir Paul, of whom so much was said, That when his name was up, he lay a-bed. Come, come, refresh us with a livelier song, Or, like sir Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long. P. Sir, what I write, should be correctly writ. F. Correct! "Tis what no genius can admit. Besides, you grow too moral for a wit

Did not the sneer of more impartial men
At sense and virtue balance all again.
Judicious wits spread wide the ridicule,
And charitably comfort knave and fool.

P. Dear sir, forgive the prejudice of youth:
Adieu distinction, satire, warmth, and truth!
Come, harmless characters that no one hit;
Come, Henley's oratory, Osborn'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 sense,
That first was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then,
The S-te's, and then H-vy's once agen.
O come, that easy Ciceronian style,

So Latin, yet so English all the while,
As, though the pride of Middleton and Bland,
All boys may read, and girls may understand!
Then might I sing, without the least offence,
And all I sung should be the nation's sense;
Or teach the melancholy Muse to mourn,
Hang the sad verse on Carolina's urn,
And hail her passage to the realms of rest,
All parts perform'd, and all her children blest!
So-Satire is no more-I feel it die-
No gazetteer more innocent than I-

And let, a God's name, every fool and knave
Be grac'd through life, and flatter'd in his grave.

F. Why so if Satire knows its time and place,
You still may lash the greatest-in disgrace:
For merit will by turns forsake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all satire in all changes spare
Immortal S-k, and grave De-re.
Silent and soft, as saints remov'd to Heaven,
All ties dissolv'd, and every sin forgiven,
These may some gentle ministerial wing
Receive, and place for ever near a king;'
There, where no passion, pride, or shame transport,
Lull'd with the sweet nepenthe of a court;
There, where no father's, brother's, friend's disgrace
Once break their rest, or stir them from their place:
But past the sense of human miseries,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;
No cheek is kuown to blush, no heart to throb,
Save when they lose a question, or a job. [glory,
P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should blast their
Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory,
And when three sovereigns dy'd could scarce be vext,
Considering what a gracious prince was next.
Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things
As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings;
And at a peer, or peeress, shall I fret,
Who starves a sister, or forswears a debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
But shall the dignity of vice be lost?
Ye gods! shall Cibber's son, 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 statesman's skill?
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 Blunt dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man; And so mayst thou, illustrious Passeran!

But shall a printer, weary of his life,
Learn, from their books, to hang himself and wife?
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 sin,
And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin.

Let modest Foster, if he will, excell
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A simple quaker, or a quaker's wife,
Outdo Landaffe in doctrine,-yea in life:
Let humble Allen, with an aukward shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame;
Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
'Tis just alike to Virtue, and to me;
Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king,
She's still the same belov'd, contented thing.
Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth,
And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth:
But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore ;
Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more,
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess,
Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless;
In golden chains the willing world she draws,
And hers the gospel is and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead.
Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,
Old England's genius, rough with many a scar,
Dragg'd in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
His flag inverted trails along the ground!

Our youth, all livery'd o'er with foreign gold,
Before her dance: behind her, crawl the old !
See thronging millions to the pagod run,
And offer country, parent, wife, or son!
Hear her black trumpet through the land proclaim,
That not to be corrupted is the shame.


Ver. 112, in some editions: Who starves a mother

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In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in power,
"Tis avarice all, ambition is no more!
See, all our nobles begging to be slaves!
See, all our fools aspiring 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 'scape, or triumph o'er the law:
While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry
"Nothing is sacred now but villainy."

Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) Show there was one who held it in disdain.


112 Fr. 'Tis all a libel-Paxton (sir) will say,

P. Not yet, my friend! tomorrow 'faith it may; And for that very cause I print to-day. How should I fret to mangle every line, In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine! Vice with such giant-strides comes on amain, Invention strives to be before in vain ; Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong, Some rising genius sins up to my song.

F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; Even Guthry saves half Newgate by a dash. Spare then the person, and expose the vice.

P. How, sir! not damn the sharper, but the dice! Come on then, Satire! general, unconfin'd, Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind. Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all ! Ye tradesmen, vile, in army, court,


Ye reverend atheists. F. Scandal! name them, who?

P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. Who starv'd a sister, who forswore a debt, I never nam'd; the town's enquiring yet. The poisoning dame-F. You mean-P. I don'tF. You do.

P. See, now I keep the secret, and not you! The bribing statesman-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? Must great offenders, once escap'd the crown, Like royal harts, be never more run down? Admit your law to spare the knight requires, As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires? Suppose I censure--you know what I meanTo save a bishop, may I name a dean?

F. A dean, sir? no; his fortune is not made, You hurt a man that's rising in the trade.

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Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.
Then better sure it Charity becomes
To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums;
Still better, ministers; or, if the thing
May pinch ev'n there-why lay it on a king.
F. Stop! stop!

P. Must Satire, then, nor rise nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.

F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years

ago: Who now that obsolete example fears? Ev'n Peter trembles only for his ears.

F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad, You make men desperate, if they once are bad. Else might he take to virtue some 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 confess, there is who feels for fame,
And melts to goodness, need I Scarborow name?
Pleas'd let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove
(Where Kent and Nature vie for Pelham's love)
The scene, the master, opening to my view,
I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew!

Ev'n in a bishop I can spy desert.
Secker is decent; Rundel has a heart;
Manners with candour are to Benson given;
To Berkley every virtue under Heaven,

Put does the court a worthy man remove? That instant, I declare, he has my love:

| How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!
How shin'd the soul. unconquer'd in the Tower!
How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield forget,
While Roman spirit 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 passions, and his own?
Names, which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain,
Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with their
And if yet higher the proud list should end, [train;
Still let me say, No follower, but a friend.


Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays: I follow Virtue; where she shines, I praise; Points she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory, Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory. I never (to my sorrow I declare) Din'd with the man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor. Some, in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave) Have still a secret bias to a knave: To find an honest man, I beat about; And love him, court him, praise him, in or out. F. Then why so few commended? P. Not so 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 asks it for the best of men, For him she weeps, for him she weds again. Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the ground: The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd. Enough for half the greatest of these days, To 'scape my censure, 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 scarce could gain, And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain. No power the Muse's friendship can command; No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand: To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line;

shun his zenith, court his mild decline; Thus Sommers once, and Halifax, were mine. Oft, in the clear, still mirrour of retreat, I study'd Shrewsbury, the wise and great; Carleton's calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame, Compar'd, and knew their generous end the same:

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But pray, when others praise him, do I blame? Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name? Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine, O all-accomplish'd St. John' deck thy shrine? What? shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, Or each new-pension'd sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend; Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt, But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt? Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools; Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said His saws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.

It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, To see a footman kick'd, that took his pay:

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