Names which I long have loved, nor loved 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; Point she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory, Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory.

I never (to my sorrow I declare)

Dined 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;
Oh let my country's friends illumine mine!
What are you thinking? F. Faith, the thought's no
I think your friends are out, and would be in. [sin,
P. If merely to come in, sir, they go out,
The way they take is strangely round about.
F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow?
P. I only call those knaves who are so now.

Is that too little? come then, I'll comply—
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave,
And Lyttleton a dark, designing knave;
St. John has ever been a mighty fool-
But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull,
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife.

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,
Oh 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:
But when he heard the affront the fellow gave,
Knew one a man of honour, one a knave,
The prudent general turn'd it to a jest ;

And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the rest :
Which not at present having time to do-

F. Hold, sir! for God's sake, where's th' affront to you?

Against your worship when had S-k writ,
Or P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend
[In power a servant, out of power a friend]
To W-le guilty of some venial sin;
What's that to you, who ne'er was out nor in?
The priest whose flattery bedropp'd the crown,
How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown.

And how did, pray, the florid youth offend, Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?

P. But hear me further. Japhet, 'tis agreed, Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read, In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;

But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write;
And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forged was not my own?
Must never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in;
No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse,
Without a staring reason on his brows?
And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult's not on man, but God?
Ask you what provocation I have had?
The strong antipathy of good to bad.
When truth or virtue an affront endures,

Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours.
Mine, as a foe profess'd to false pretence,

Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense;
Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feels for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.

P.

So proud, I am no slave;

So impudent, I own myself no knave:
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me :

Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone.

Oh sacred weapon! left for truth's defence,
Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
'To all but heaven-directed hands denied,

The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide:
Reverent I touch thee! but with honest zeal;
To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,

To virtue's word provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings,
All that make saints of queens and gods of kings
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press
Like the last gazette or the last address.

When black ambition stains a public cause,
A monarch's sword when mad vainglory draws,
Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar,
Not Boileau turn the feather to a star.

Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine,

Touch'd with the flame that breaks from virtue'. shrine,

Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,

And opes the temple of eternity.

There other trophies deck the truly brave,
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Far other stars than * and ** wear,
And may descend to Mordington from Stair
(Such as on Hough's unsullied mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine).
Let envy howl, while Heaven's whole chorus sings,
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings,

Let flattery sickening see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, verse as mean as mine.
Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw,
When truth stands trembling on the edge of law;
Here, last of Britons! let your names be read;
Are none, none living? let me praise the dead,
And for that cause which made your fathers shine,
Fall by the votes of their degenerate line.

F. Alas, alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Essays on Man.

EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD, AND EARL OF MORTIMER.

SUCH were the notes thy once-loved poet sung,
Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld and lost! admired and mourn'd!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!
Bless'd in each science, bless'd in every strain!
Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear-in vain!
For him thou oft hast bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him despised the farce of state,
The sober follies of the wise and great;
Dex'trous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleased to 'scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear),
Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure, if aught below the seats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine:
A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
Above all pain, all passion, and all pride,
The rage of power, the blast of public breath,
The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made,
The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade:
"Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When interest calls off all her sneaking train,
And all th' obliged desert, and all the vain;
She waits, or to the scaffold or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now she shades thy evening walk with bays
(No hireling she, no prostitute to praise);