And here, while town, and court, and city roars, With mobs,and duns,and foldiers, at their doors, Shall in London act this idle part? Compofing fongs, for Fools to get by heart?

The Temple late two brother Serjeants saw, Who deem'd each other Oracles of Law; With equal talents, these congenial fouls, One lull'd th'Exchequer,and one stunn'd the Rolls: Each had a gravity would make you split, And fhook his head at Murray, as a wit. 'Twas, "Sir, your law"-and Sir, your elo" quence;' [fenfe. "Yours,Cowper's manner; "and" Yours, Talbot's Thus we difpofe of all poetic merit; Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's fpirit. Call Tibbald Shakespear, and he'll fwear the Nine, Dear Cibber! never match'd one Ode of thine. Lord! how we ftrut thro' Merlin's Cave, to fee No Poets there but Stephen, you, and me. Walk with refpect behind, while we at eafe Weave laurel Crowns, and take what names we My dear Tibullus!" if that will not do, [pleafe. "Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you: "Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's ftrains, "And you fhall rise up Otway for your pains." Much do I fuffer, much, to keep in peace This jealous, wafpifh, wrong-head, rhyming race; And much muft flatter, if the whim should bite To court applaufe, by printing what I write : But, let the fit pafs o'er, I 'm wife enough To ftop my ears to their confounded kuff.

In vain bad Rhymers all mankind reject, They treat themselves with most profound refpect: 'Tis to fmall purpose that you hold your tongue; Each, prais'd within, is happy all day long: But how feverely with themselves proceed The men who write fuch Verfe as we can read! Their own ftrict Judges, not a word they spare That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care. Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place, Nay tho' at Court (perhaps) it may find grace: Such they'll degrade; and fometimes, in its ftead, In downright charity revive the dead; Mark where a bold expreffive phrase appears, Bright thro' the rubbish of fome hundred years; Command old words that long have flept, to wake, Words that wife Bacon or brave Raleigh spake; Or bid the new be English, ages hence, (For Ufe will father what 's begot by Senfe) Pour the full tide of cloquence along, Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong, Rich with the treafures of each foreign tongue: Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine, But fhew no mercy to an empty line: Then polish all with fo much life and ease, You think 'tis Nature, and a knack to please : “But ease in writing flows from art, not chance; "Asthofe move eafieft who have learn'd to dance." If fuch the plague and pains to write by rule, Better (fay 1) be pleas'd, and play the fool: Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease ; It gives men happiness, or leaves them cafe. There liv'd in primo Georgii (they record) A worthy member, no fmall fool, a Lord;

Who, tho' the Houfe was up, delighted fate,
Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate:
In all but this, a man of fober life,
Fond of his Friend, and civil to his Wife;
Not quite a madman tho' a pafty fell,
And much too wife to walk into a well.
Him the damn'd Doctors and his Friends immur'd,
They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in short,
they cur'd:

Whereat the gentleman began to ftare-
My friends! he cried, p-x take you for your care.
That, from a Patriot of diftinguifh'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a fimple Vote.

Well, on the whole, plain profe must be my fate:
Wisdom, curfe on it! will come foon or late.
There is a time when Poets will grow dull:
I'll e'en leave verfes to the boys at school:
To rules of Poetry no more confin'd,
I'll learn to fmooth and harmonize my Mind;
Teach ev'ry thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal measure of the Soul.

Soon as I enter at my country door, My mind refumes the thread it dropp'd before; Thoughts which at Hyde-park-corner I forgot, Meet and rejoin me in the penfive Grot; There all alone, and compliments apart, I ask these fober questions of my heart:

If, when the more you drink, the more you

crave,

You tell the Doctor; when the more you have,
The more you want, why not with equal cafe
Confefs as well your Folly, as Disease?
The heart refolves this matter in a trice:
"Men only feel the Smart, but not the Vice."

When golden Angels cease to cure the Evil,
You give all royal Witchcraft to the Devil;
When fervile Chaplains cry that birth and place
Endue a Peer with honour, truth, and grace,
Look if that breast, most dirty D-! be fair;
Say, can you find out one fuch lodger there?
Yet ftill, not heeding what your heart can teach,
You go to church to hear thefe Flatt'rers preach.

Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit, A grain of courage, or a fpark of spirit, The wifeft man might blush, I must agree, If D*** lov'd fixpence more than he,

If there be truth in Law, and Ufe can give A Property, that's yours on which you live. Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford Their fruits to you, confeffes you its lord; All Worldly's hens, nay partridge, fold to town, His venifon too, a guinea makes your own : He bought at thoufands what with better wit You purchase as you want, and bit by bit; Now, or long fince, what diff'rence will be found? You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.

Heathcote himfelf, and fuch large-acred men,
Lords of fat E'fham, or of Lincoln-fen,
Buy ev'ry stick of wood that lends them heat:
Buy ev'ry pullet they afford to eat.

Yet there are Wights who fondly call their own
Half that the Devil o'erlooks from Lincoln town.
The Laws of God, as well as of the land,
Abhor a Perpetuity should stand:

T 3

Eftates

7

mines:

A

My heir may figh, and think it want of grace
A man fo poor would live without a place:
But fure no ftatute in his favour fays,
How free or frugal I fhall pafs my days;
I, who at fome times fpend, at others ipare,
Divided between careleffnefs and care.
'Tis one thing madly to difperfe my store;
Another, not to heed to treafure more;
Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,
And pleas'd if fordid want be far away.

What is 't to me (a paffenger, God wot)
Whether my veffel be first-rate or not?
The fhip ittelf may make a better figure,
But I that fail am neither lefs nor bigger;
I neither firut with ev'ry fav'ring breath,
Nor ftrive with all the tempeft in my teeth:
In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the laft.

"But why all this of avarice? I have none."
I wish you joy, Sir, of a tyrant gone;
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad-the avarice of pow'r?
Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appall
Not the black fear of death,that faddens all?

With terrors round, can reafon hold her throne,
Defpife the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
In fpite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birth-day with a grateful mind?
Has life no fournefs, drawn fo near its end?
Canft thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter fruits grow mild eie they decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your bufine's done,
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your Walk fober off, before a fprightlier age fill: Comes titt'ring on, and fhoves you from the stage: Leave fuch to trifle with more grace and cafe, Whom folly pleases, and whofe follies please.

§ 21. Epilogue to the Satires. In two Dialogues. POPE,

DIALOGUE I.

Fr. NOT twice a twelvemonth you appear in

print;

And when it coines, the Court fee nothing in 't,
You grow correct, that once with rapture writ;
And are, befides, too moral for a Wit.
Decay of parts, alas! we all muft feel-
Why now, this moment, don 't I fee von fteal?
"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 truft in Peter."
But Horace, Sir, was delicate, was nice;
Bubo obferves, he lafh'd no fort of Vice:
Horace would fay, Sir Billy ferv'd the Crown,
Blunt could do bufinefs, H-ggins knew the town;
In Sappho touch the Failings of the Sex,
In rev'rend Bishops note fome small negle&s;
And own the Spaniard did a waggifh thing,
Who cropp'd our ears, and fent them to the King.
His fly, polite, infinuating style

Could pleafe at Court, and make Auguftus fimile:
An artful manager, that crept between

His friend and fhame, and was a kind of fereen.
But, 'faith, your very friends will foon be fore;
Patriots there are who with you 'd jeft no more-
And where's the Glory? 'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd you a groat.
Go fee Rir Robert-

P. See Sir Robert!-hum-
And never laugh for all my life to come?
Seen him I have, but in his happier hour
Of Social Pleafure, ill exchang'd for Pow'r;
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 diff'rence is-I dare laugh out.
F. Why yes, with Scripture still you may be free;
A horfe-laugh, if you pleafe, at Honefly;
A Joke

A Joke on JEKYL, or fome odd Old Whig, Who never chang'd his principle, or wig; A patriot is a fool in ev'ry age,

But, past the sense of human miferies,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;
No check is known to blush, no heart to throb,
when they lofe a queftion, or a job.

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

Who know how like Whig Minifters to Tory, And when three Sov reigns died, could fcarce be

P. Dear Sir, forgive the prejudice of youth: Adieu, diftinction, fatire, warmth, and truth! Come, harmless characters that no one hit Come, Henley's oratory, Osborne's wit! The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue, The flow'rs of Bubo, and the flow of Y-ng! The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence, And all the well-whipp'd cream of courtly fenfe, The firft was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then The S-te's, and then H-vy's once again. O come, that eafy, Ciceronian ftyle, So Latin, yet fo English all the while, As, tho' the pride of Middleton and Bland, All boys may read, and girls may understand! Then might I fing, without the leaft offence, And all I fung fhould be the Nation's Senfe; Or teach the melancholy Mufe to mourn, Hang the fad verse on Carolina's urn, And hail her paffage to the Realms of Reft, All parts perform'd, and all her children bleft! So Satire is no more-I feel it dieNo Gazetteer more innocent than IAnd let, a-God's name, ev'ry fool and knave Be grac'd thro' life, and flatter'd in his grave. F. Why fo if Satire knows its time and place, You ftill may lafh the greatest-in difgrace: For merit will by turns forfake them all; Would you know when? exactly when they fall. But let all fatire in all changes fpare Immortal S-k, and grave D-rc. Silent and foft as faints remov'd to heaven, All ties diffolv'd, and ev'ry fin forgiven, Thefe may fome gentle minifterial wing Receive, and place for ever near a King! [port, There, where no paffion, pride, or fhame tranfLull'd with the fweet Nepenthe of a Court, There, where no father's, brother's, friend's difgrace

Once break their reft, or ftir them from their place:

vext,

Confid'ring what a gracious Prince was next.
Have I, in filent wonder, feen fuch things
As pride in Slaves, and av'rice in Kings;
And at a Peer or Peerefs fhall I fret,
Who ftarves a fifter, or forfwears a debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boaît;
But fhall the dignity of Vice be loft ?
Ye Gods! fhall Cibber's fon, without rebuke,
Swear like a Lord, or Rich outwhore a Duke?
A fav'rite's porter with his mafter vie,
Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?
Shall Ward draw contracts with a fatefman's
Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a will? [Ikill?
Is it for Bond or Peter (paltry things!)
To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings?
If Blount difpatch'd himself, he play'd the man,
And fo mayft thou, illuftrious Pafferan!
But fhall a Printer, weary of his life,
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 fin,
And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin.

Let modeft Fofter, if he will, excel
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A fimple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife,
Outdo Landaff in doctrine-yea in life;
Let humble Allen, with an awkward fhame,
Do good by stealth, and bluth to find it fame.
Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
'Tis juft alike to virtue, and to me;
Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King,
She's fill the fame belov'd, contented thing.
Vice is undone if the forgets her birth,
And stoops from angels to the dregs of carth:
But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a whore:
Let Greatness own her, and the 's mean no more:
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confefs,
Chafte matrons praife her, and grave bifhops blefs;
In golden chains the willing world the draws,
And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her fcarlet head,
And fees pale Virtue carted in her stead.
Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,
Old England's genius, rough with many a fear,
Dragg'd in the duft! his arms hang idly round,
His flag inverted trails along the ground!
Our youth, all liveried 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 fon I
Hear her black trumpet thro' the land proclaim,
That not to be corrupted is the fame.
In foldier, churchman, patriot, man in pow'r,
'Tis av'rice all, ambition is no more!

See all our nobles begging to be flaves!
See all our fools afpiring to be knaves!
The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore,
Are what ten thousand envy and adore :
All, all look up, with reverential awe,
At crimes that 'fcape or triumph o'er the law;
While truth, worth, wifdom, daily they decry:
"Nothing is facred now but villany.'

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

DIALOGUE II.

F. 'TIS all a libel-Paxton (Sir) will fay. P. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow, 'faith, it And for that very cause I print to-day. [may; How should I fret to mangle ev'ry line, In rev'rence to the fins of Thirty-nine! Vice with fuch giant ftrides comes on amain, Invention ftrives to be before in vain; Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong, Sonie rifing genius fins up to my fong.

}

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

P. How, Sir! not damn the fharper, but the Come on then, fatire general, unconfin'd, [ dice? Spread thy broad wing, and foute on all the kind. Ye ftatefmen, priefts, of one religion all ! Ye tradefinen, vile, in army, court, or hall! Ye rev'rend Atheifts-F. Scandal! name them; who?

P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. Who ftarv'd a fifter, who forfwore a debt, I never nam'd; the town 's enquiring yet. F. The pois'ning dame, you mean.-P. I don't. F. You do.

P. See, now I keep the fecret, and not you! The bribing ftatefman.-F. Hold, too high you go. P. The brib'd elector.-F. There you ftoop 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 efcap'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 'iquires?
Suppose I cenfure-you know what I mean-
To fave a Bishop, may I name a Dean?

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 fet up to-day, Much lefs the 'prentice who to-morrow may. Down, down, proud fatire! tho' a realm be spoil'd, Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild; Or, if a court or country 's made a job, Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob.

But, Sir, I beg you (for the love of vice!) The matter's weighty, pray confider twice; Have you less pity for the needy cheat,

The poor

and friendiefs villain, than the great? Alas the fmall difcredit of a bribe Scarce hurts the Lawyer, but undoes the Scribe.

Then better fure it Charity becomes
To tax Directors, who, thank God, have plums;
Still better Minifters; or, if the thing
May pinch even there-why lay it on a King.
F. Stop! Stop!

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?
Even Peter trembles only for his ears.

F. What always Peter? Peter thinks you mad; You make men defp'rate, 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 praife a Courtier where I can. When I confefs, there is who feels for fame, And melts to goodness, need I Scarb'row name? Pleas'd let me own, in Eber's peaceful grove (Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love), The fcene, the mafter, op'ning to my view, I fit and dream I fee my Craggs anew! Even in a Bishop I can fpy defert; Secker is decent, Rundel has a heart: Manners with candour are to Benfon given; To Berkley ev'ry virtue under Heaven.

But does the Court a worthy man remove? That inftant, I declare, he has my love: I fhun his zenith, court his mild decline; Thus Somers once and Halifax were mine. Oft, in the clear ftill mirrour of retreat, I ftudied Shrewsbury, the wife and great; Carleton's calm fenfe and Stanhope's noble flame Compar'd, and knew their gen'rous end the fame: How pleafing Atterbury's fofter hour! How thin'd the foul, unconquer'd in the Tow'r? How can I Pult'ney, Chesterfield forget, While Roman spirit charms, and attic wit? Argyle, the State's whole thunder born to wield, And thake alike the fenate and the field: Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne, The mafter of our paffions, 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 train;

And if yet higher the proud lift should end,
Still let me fay, No follower, but a friend.

Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays;
I follow Virtue; where the fhines, I praife;
Point the to Prieft or Elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a Quaker's beaver caft a glory.
I never (to my forrow i declare)
Din'd with the Man of Rofs, or my Lord Mayor.
Some in their choice of friends (nay, look not
grave)

Have ftill a fecret bias to a knave:

To find an honeft man I beat about,
And love him, court him, praife him, in or cut.
F. Then why fo few commended?
P. Not fo fierce;

Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse.

But