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Who fent the thief that stole the cash, away, And punish'd him that put it in his way.

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Confider then, and judge me in this light;
I told you when I went, I could not write;
You faid the fame; and are you difcontent
With laws to which you gave your own affent?
Nay worfe, to afk for verfe at fuch a time!
D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme?
In Anna's wars, a foldier, por and old,
Had dearly earn'd a little purse of gold:
Tir'd with a tedious march, one lucklefs night,
He flept, poor dog! and loft it to a doit.
This put the man in fuch a defp'rate mind,
Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd,
Against the foe, himself, and all mankind,
He leap'd the trenches, fcal'd the cafile-wall,
Tore down a ftandard, took the fort and all.
'Prodigious well!' his great commander cry'd;
Gave him much praife, and fome reward befide.
Next pleas'd his Excellence a town to batter:
(Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter)
Go on, my friend (he cry'd); fee yonder walls!
Advance and conquer ! go where glory calls!
'More honors, more rewards, attend the brave.'
Don't you remember what reply he >
gave
D'ye think me, noble Gen'ral, fuch a fot?
'Let him take cafties who has ne'er a groat.'
Bred up at home, full early I begun
To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' fon.
Befides, my father taught me from a lad,
The better art to know, the good from bad:
(And little fure imported to remove,
To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove.)
But knottier points we knew not half fo well,
Depriv'd us foon of our paternal cell;
And certain laws, by fuff'rers thought unjust,
Deny'd all pofts of pofit or of truft:
Hopes after hopes of pious Papifts fail'd,
While mighty William's thund'ring arm pre-
For Right Hereditary tax'd and fin'd; [vail'd.
He fuck to poverty with peace of mind;
And me the Mufes help to undergo it;
Convict a Papift he, and I a Poct.

But (thanks to Homer) fince I live and thrive,
Indebted to no prince or peer alive,
Sure I fhould want the care of ten Monroes,
If I would fcribble rather than repose.

Years following years, fteal fomething ev'ry
At laft they steal us from ourselves away; [day:
In one our frolics, one amufement end,
In one a mistress drops, in one a friend :
This fubtle thief of life, this paltry Time,
What will it leave me, if it fnatch my rhyme ?
If ev'ry wheel of that unweary'd mill,
That turn'd ten thousand verfes, now stand still?
But after all, what would you have me do?
When out of twenty I can please not two;
When this Heroics only deigns to praife,
Sharp Satire that, and that Pindaric lays P
One likes the pheafant's wing, and one the leg;
The vulgar boil, the learned roaft an egg.
Hard task to hit the palate of such guests,
When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detefts.
But grant I may relapfe, for want of grace,
Again to rhyme, can London be the place?

Who there his Mufe, or felf, or foul attends,
In crowds, and courts, law, bus'nefs, feasts, and
My counfel fends to execute a deed: [friends?
A Poet begs me I will hear him read:
In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me there-
At ten for certain, Sir, in Bloomsbury-iquare-
Before the Lords, at twelve, my cauf comes on-
There's a Rehearsal, Sir, exact at one —
"Oh, but a wit can study in the streets,

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And raise his mind above the mob he meets.' Not quite fo well, however, as one ought; A hackney-coach may chance to ipo a thought; And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead, God knows, may hurt the very ablest head. Have you not feen, at Guildhall's narrow pafs, Two aldermen difpute it with an ass ? And peers give way, exalted as they are, Ev'n to their own S-r-v--nce in a car?

Go, lofty Poct! and in fuch a crowd, Sing thy fonorous verfe-but not aloud. Alas! to grottos and to groves we run; To cafe and filence ev'ry Mufe's fon : Blackmore himicif, for any giand effort, Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl's Court. How thall I rhyme in this eternal roar?[before? How match the bards whom none c'er match'd

The man who, ftretch'd in Ifis' calm retreat,
To books and ftudy gives fev'n years complete,
See! ftrow'd with learned duft, his nightcap on,
He walks, an object new beneath the fun!
The boys flock round him, and the people
ftare:

So ftiff, fo mute! fome ftatue you would fwear,
Stept from its pedestal to take the air!
And here, while town, and court, and city roars
With mobs, and duns, and foldiers, at their doors,
Shall I, in London act this idle part'
Compofing fongs, for fools to get by heart!

The Temple late two brother Serjeants faw, Who deem'd each other Oracles of Law; With equal talents, thefe congenial fouls, One lull'd th'Exchequer, and one stunn'd the Each had a gravity would make you split, [Rolls; 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 difpote of all poetic merit, Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's fpirit. CallTibbald Shakefpear, and he'll wear the Nine, Dear Cibber, never match'd one Ode of thine I Lord how we ftrut thro' Merlin's Cave, to fee No Poets there, but Stephen, you, and me! Walk with refpe&t 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 strains; And you shall rife up Otway for your pains. Much do I fuffer, much, to keep in peace This jealous, wafpifh, wrong-head, rhyming race; And much must fatter, if the whim ihould 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 stuff.

In vain, bad rhymers all mankind reject; They treat themfelves with moft profound refpe&t; 'Tis to fmall purpofe that you hold your tongue; Each prais'd within is happy all day long: But how feverely with themfelves procced 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 phrafe appears, Bright thro' the rubbish of fome hundred years; Command old words that long have flept, to wake; [{pake; Words that wife Bacon or brave Rawleigh Or bid the new be English, ages hence, (For Ufe will father what's begot by Senfe) Pour the full tide of eloquence along, Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong, Rich with the trcafures of each foreign tongue; Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth retine, But thew no mercy to an empty line: Then polith all, with fo much life and cafe, You think 'tis Nature, and a knack to pleafe! "But cafe in writing flows from art, not chance; "As thofe move cafieft 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 difeafe;
It gives men happinefs, or leaves them cafe.
There liv'd in primo Georgii (they record)
A worthy member, no finall fool, a Lord;
Who, tho' the Houfe was up, delighted fat,
Heard, noted, anfwer'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 thort,
they cur'd:

Whercat the gentleman began to ftare- [care!
My friends! he cry'd, p―x take you for your
That from a patriot of diftinguith'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a fimple vote.
Well,on the whole, plain profe must be my fate:
Wifdom, 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 confia'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 foul.

Soon as I enter at my country door,
My ind refumes the thread it dropt before; ́
Thoughts which at Hyde-park Corner 1 forgot,
Mect, and rejoin me in the penfive grot;
There, all alone, and compliments apart,
I afk thefe fober queftions of my heart: [crave,
If, when the more you drink, the more you
You tell the Doctor? When the more you have,

The more you want, why not with equal cafe
Confefs as well your folly as difeafe ?
The heart refolves this matter in a trice;
"Men only feel the finart, but not the vice."

When golden angels ceafe 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 in that breatt (moft dirty D-1 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 these flatt'rers preach.

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

¦
If there be truth in law, and ufe can give
A property, that's your's on which you live.
Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford
Their fruits to you, confeffes you its lord,
All Worldly's liens, nay partridge, fold to town,
His ven'ton too, a guinca 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.

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Heathcote himself, and fuch large-acr❜d men,
Lords of fat E'fham, or of Lincoln-fen,
Buy ev'ry tick of wood that lends them heat
Buy ev'ry pullet they afford to cat.
Yet thefe are wights, who fondly call their own
Half that the Dev'l o'erlooks from Lincoln town.
The laws of God, as well as of the land,
Abhor a perpetuity fhould ftand:
Eltates have wings, and hang in fortune's pow'r,
Loofe on the point of ev'ry wav'ring hour;
Ready by force, or of your own accord,
By fale, at leaft by death, to change their lord.
Man? and for ever? wretch! what would'f
thou have?

Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave.
All vaft poffefiions (juft the fame the cafe
Whether you call them Villa, Park, or Chace)
Alas, my Bathurft! what will they avail?
Join Coffwood hills to Saperton's fair dale;
Let rifing granaries and temples here,
There mingled farms and pyramids appear;
Link towns to towns with avenues of oak,
Enclote whole downs in walls, 'tis all a joke!
Inexorable Death fhall level all,

And trees, and ftones, and farms, and farmer fall.
Gold, filver, iv'ry, vafes fculptur'd high,
Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Perfian dye,
There are who have not-and thank Heav'n there
arc,
[care.

Who, if they have not, think not worth their

Talk what you will of tafte, my friend, you'll Two of a face as foon as of a mind. [find Why, of two brothers, rich and reftlefs, one Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from fun to

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Why one, like Bu―,with pay and fcorn content, Bows and votes on, in Court and Parliament; One, driv'n by strong benevolence of foul, Shall fly, like Oglethorpe, from pole to pole: Is known alone to that Directing Pow'r Who forms the genius in the natal hour; That God of Nature, who, within us still Inclines our action, not conftrains our will; Various of temper, as of face or frame, Each individual: His great end the fame. Yes, Sir, how fmall foever be my heap, A part I will enjoy as well as keep. 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 fometimes fpend, at others fpare, 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 fiatch 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 firft rate or not? The fhip itfelf may make a better figure; But I that fail an neither lefs nor bigger; I neither ftrut with ev'ry fav'ring breath, Nor strive 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 av'rice, I have none."
I with 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 appal?
Not the black fear of death that faddens all?
With terrors round, can Reafon hold her throne,
Defpife the known, not 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?
Can'ft thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your bus'nefs 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 fill:

Walk fober off; before a fprightlier age
Comes titt'ring on, and fhoves you from the ftage:
Leave fuch a trifle with more grace and cafe,
Whom folly pleafes, and whofe follies please.

§ 18. Epilogues to the Satires. In Two Dialogues.

DIALOGUE I.

POPE.

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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

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 obferves, he lafh'd no fort of Vice.
Horace would fay, Sir Billy ferv'd the Crown,
Blunt could do bus'nefs, H-ggins knew the town;
In Sappho touch the failings of the fex,
In rev'rend Bishops note fome fmall negle&s,
And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing,
Who cropt our ears, and fent them to the King.
His fly, polite, infinuating style,

Could pleafe at court, and make Auguftus fmile:
An artful manager, that crept between

His friend and thame, and was a kind of fereen.
But 'faith, your very friends will foon be fore;
Patriots there are who wifh 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 Sir 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 focial pleature, 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 ftill you may be free; A horfe-laugh, if you pleafe, at Honefty; 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,

Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the ftage; Thefe nothing hurts; they keep their fathion ftill,

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And wear their strange old virtue as they will.
If any afk you, Who's the man fo near
His prince, that writes in verfe, and has his car?'
Why anfwer, Lyttleton, and I'll engage
The worthy youth fhall ne'er be in a rage:
But were his verfes vile, his whisper bafe,
You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's cafe.
Sejanus, Wolfey, hurt not honeft Fleury;
But well may put fome ftatefinen in a fury.

Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes;
Thefe you but anger, and you mend not thofe.
Laugh at your friends, and, if your friends are fore,
So much the better, you may laugh the more.
To vice and folly to confine the jeft,
Did not the fneer of more impartial men
Sets half the world, God knows, against the reft,
At fenfe and virtue balance ail again.
Judicious wits fpread wide the ridicule,
And charitably comfort kuave and fool.

P. Dear Sir, forgive the prejudice of youth: Adieu diftinction, fatire, warinth, and truth ! Come harmless characters that no one hit; Come, Henly's oratory, Ofborn's wit !

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The

The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,
The flow'rs of Bubo, and the flow of Y-g!
The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence,
And all the well-whipt 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 cafy, 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 leatt offence;
And all I fung fhould be the nation's fente!
Or teach the melancholy Mule to mourn,
Hang the fad verfe 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 die-
No Gazetteer more innocent than I-
And 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 kitows its time and place,
You ftill may lath the greateft-in difgrace:
For merit will by turns forfake them all;
Would you know when? Exactly when they fal!.
But let all fatire in all changes fpare
Tinmortal S-k, and grave D-re.
Silent and foft as faints remov'd to heav'n,
All tyes diffolv'd, and ev'ry fin forgiv'n,
Thefe may fome gentle minifterial wing
Receive, and place for ever near a king!
There, where no paffion, pride, or fhame,
Lull'd with the fweet Nepenthe of a court; [port,
There, where no father's, brother's, friend's
difgrace

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 Landaffe in doctrine-yea in life:
Let humble Allen, with an awkward fhame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.
Virtue may chufe the high or low degree;
'Tis juft alike to virtue, and to me;
Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king,
She's ftill the fame belov'd contented thing.
Vice is undone if the forgets her birth,
And ftoops from angels to the dregs of earth:
But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a whore;
Let Greatnefs own her, and the's mean no more:
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confefs,
Chafte matrons praise her, and grave bishops blefs;
In golden chains the willing world the draws,
And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet 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 liv'ry'd o'er with foreign gold,
Before her dance: behind her crawl the old
Sce thronging millions to the Pagod run,
And offer country, parent, wife, or fon!
tranf-Hear her black trumpet thro' the land proclaim,
That Not to be corrupted is the shame!
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 times that 'cape, or triumph o'er the law:
While truth, worth, wifdom, daily they decry
Nothing is facred now but villany !

Once break their reft, or ftir them from their place:
But paft the fenfe of human miferies,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;
No check is known to blufh, no heart to throb,
Save when they lofe a queftion, or a job.

P. Good Heav'n forbid, that I fhould blaft
their glory,

Who know how like Whig Minifters to Tory,
And when three fov'reigns dy'd, could fcarce be
vext,

Confid'ring what a gracious Prince was next.
Have I, in filent wonder, feen fuch things
As pride in flaves, and avarice 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 boaft;
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 ftatefman's
Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a will? {{kill
Is it for Bond, or Peter (paltry things) [kings
To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like
If Blount difpatch'd himself, he play'd the man;
And fo may'ft 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, mufi not bear;
Vice thus abus'd demands a nation's care;

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

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F. 'Tis all a libel-Paxton (Sir) will fay.
P. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow 'faith it
And for that very caufe, 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 fo ftrong,
Some rifing genius fins up to my fong.

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

P. How, Sir! not damn the fharper, but the

dice?

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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. The pois'ning dame.-F. 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. [what

P. I fain would please you, if I knew with Tell me, which knave is lawful game, which not? Muft great offenders, once efcap'd the crown, Like roval harts be never more run down? Admit your law to spare the knight requires, As beafts of nature may we hunt the 'fquires? Sappole I cenfure-you know what I meanTo fave a bishop, may I name a dean?

F. A dean, fir? 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 bc fpoil'd, Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild; Or, if a court or country's made a job, Go drench a pickpoket, and join the mob.

But, Sir, I beg you (for the love of vice)
The matter's weighty, pray confider twice;
Have you lefs pity for the needy cheat,
'The poor and fricndlefs villain, than the great?

Alas! the finall difcredit of a bribe
Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the fcribe.
Then better, fure, it charity becomes
To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums;
Still better minifters; or, if the thing
May pinch ev'n 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 juftify the blow.
P. Strike? Why the man was hang'd ten
years ago;

Who now that obfolete example fears;
Ev'n Peter trembles only for his cars.

I hun his zenith, court his mild decline;
Thus Somers once, and Halifax were mine.
Oft, in the clear, ftill mirrour of retreat,
I ftudy'd 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 fhin'd the foul, unconquer'd in the Tow'r l
How can I Pult'ney, Chesterfield forget,
While Roman fpirit 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 matter 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 fhould 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 May'r.
Some, in their choice of friends (nay look not
Have ftill a fecret bias to a knave: [grave)
To find an honeft man I beat about,
And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.
F. Then why fo few commended?-
P. Not fo fierce;
Find
you the virtue, and I'll find the verse.
But random praife-the task can ne'er be done :
Each mother asks it for her booby fon.
Each widow afks it for the best of men ;
For him the weeps, for him the weds agen.
Praife cannot ftoop, like fatire, to the ground:
The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of thefe days,
To 'cape my cenfure, not expect my praife.
Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poct for their friend?
What Richlieu wanted, Louis fcarce could gain;
And what young Ammon wifh'd, but with'd in

vain.

F. What always Peter? Peter thinks you mad; No pow'r the Mufe's friendship can command; You make men defp'rate, if they once are bad: No pow'r, when Virtue claims it, can withstand: Elfe might he take to virtue fome years hence-To Cato, Virgil pay'd one honest line; P. As S-k, if he lives, will love the Prince. O let my country's friends illumine mine! F. Strange spleen to S-k! -What are you thinking?

P. Do I wrong the man?

God knows, I praifè a courtier where I can.
When I confefs, there is who feels for fame,
And melts to goodnefs, need I Scarb'ro' name?
Pleas'd let me own in Ether'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!

Ev'n in a bifhop I can fpy defert;
Secker is decent, Rundel has a heart :
Manners with candour are to Benton given;
To Berkley, ev'ry virtue under heav'n.

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

thought's no fin,

F. Faith, the

I think your friends are out, and would be in.
P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out,
The way they take is ftrangely round about.
F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow
P. I only call thofe knaves who are fo now.
Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply-
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwart is a flave,
And Littleton a dark defigning knave;
St. John has ever been a wealthy fool--
But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull;
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, befides, a tyrant to his wife.

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