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140

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 hatchet's 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,

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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 the
affront to you?

Against your worship when had Selkirk writ?
Or Page pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend, 160
In power a servant, out of power a friend,'*
To Walpole 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. Faith, it imports not much from whom it

caine :

Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame,
Since the whole House did afterwards the same.
Let courtly wits to wits afford supply,
As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly :

171

* A line in an epistle to Sir R. Walpole, by Lord Mel

combe.

Lord Hervey, alluding to his painting himself.

If one, through nature's bounty or his lord's,
Has what the frugal, dirty soil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mess almost as it came in ;
The blessed benefit, not there confined,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;
From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse:
The last full fairly gives it to the House.
F. This filthy simile, this beastly line,
Quite turns my stomach-

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P. So does flattery mine; And all your courtly civet-cats.can vent, Perfume to you, to me is excrement.

191

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,
The 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 feel for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.

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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, 210
Yet touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone.

O 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 work provoke the tardy Hall,
And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, 220
That count 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 makes 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 vain-glory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.

231

Not so, when diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's 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; §

The chief herald at arms.

According to some, George II. and Frederick Prince of Wales are here intended; according to others, Kent and Grafton.

A Scottish nobleman, who at last kept a gaming-house in Covent Garden.

John Dalrymple, Earl of Stair, Knight of the Thistle.

Such as on Hough's* unsullied mitre shine, 240
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; 250 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.'

* Dr. John Hough, the intrepid President of Magdalen College, Oxford, who resisted the attempts of James II. to introduce popery into his college. In the next reign he was made Bishop of Worcester. (See Pope's Epigram on him.)

↑ Lord Digby.

IMITATIONS

OF

ENGLISH POETS.

I.

CHAUCER.

WOMEN ben full of ragerie,

Yet swinken nat sans secresie.
Thilke moral shall ye understond,
From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond;
Which to the fennes hath him betake,
To filche the gray ducke fro the lake.
Right then, there passen by the way,
His aunt, and eke her daughters tway :
Ducke in his trowses hath he hent,
Not to be spied of ladies gent.
'But ho! our nephew!' crieth one :
'Ho!' quoth another, 'cozen John!'
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out.
This sely clerk full low doth lout :
They asken that, and talken this ;—
'Lo, here is coz, and here is miss.'
But, as he glozeth with speeches soote,
The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote:
Forepiece and buttons all to-brest,
Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest.
'Te-he!' cry'd ladies clerke nought spake :
Miss stared; and gray ducke cried 'Quaake.'
'O moder, moder!' quoth the daughter,
'Be thilke same thing maids longen a'ter?
Bette is to pyne on coals and chalke,
Than trust on mon, whose yerde can talke.'

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