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And fure, the deadlieft Foe to Virtue's flame, Our worst of Evils, is perverted Shame. Beneath this load what abject numbers groan, Th' entangled Slaves to folly not their own! Meanly by fashionable fear oppress'd, We feek our Virtues in each other's breast; Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign Vice, Another's weakness, int'reft, or caprice. Each Fool to low Ambition, poorly great, That pines in fplendid wretchedness of state, 70 Tir'd in the treach'rous Chafe, would nobly yield, And but for Shame, like SYLLA, quit the field: The Dæmon Shame paints ftrong the ridicule, And whispers close, "the World will call you Fool."
Behold, yon Wretch, by impious fashion driv'n, Believes and trembles while he fcoffs at Heav'n. By weakness strong, and bold thro' fear alone, He dreads the fneer by fhallow Coxcombs thrown Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod; To Man a Coward, and a Brave to God.
VER. 80. To Man a Coward, etc.]
Vois tu ce Libertin en public intrepide,
Faith, Juftice, Heav'n itself now quit their hold, When to false Fame the captiv'd heart is fold: Hence, blind to truth, relentless Cato dy'd; Nought could fubdue his Virtue, but his Pride. Hence chaste Lucretia's Innocence betray'd 85 Fell by that Honour which was meant its aid. Thus Virtue finks beneath unnumber'd woes, When Paffions, born her friends, revolt her foes.
Hence SATIRE's pow'r : 'Tis her corrective part, To calm the wild diforders of the heart. She points the arduous height where Glory lies, And teaches mad Ambition to be wife : In the dark bofom wakes the fair defire,
Draws good from ill, a brighter flame from fire;
Nor boasts the Mufe a vain imagin'd Pow'r, Tho' oft fhe mourn thofe ills fhe cannot cure. 100
Il iroit embraer la Verité, qu'il voit;
BOILEAU, Ep. iii.
The Worthy court her, and the Worthlefs fear;
VER. 110. From poys'nous Vice, etc.] Alluding to these Lines of Mr. Pope;
In the nice Bee what Art fo fubtly true
From poys'nous Herbs extracts a healing Dew?
Undaunted storms the batt'ry of his pride,
Bold SATIRE shakes the Tyrant on her throne;
But with the friends of Vice, the foes of SATIRE, All truth is fpleen; all juft reproof, Ill-nature.
Well may they dread the Muse's fatal skill Well may they tremble when she draws her quill: Her magic quill, that, like ITHURIEL's fpear, 135 Reveals the cloven hoof, or lengthen'd ear: Bids Vice and Folly take their natural shapes, Turns Ducheffes to ftrumpets, Beaux to apes; Drags the vile Whisp'rer from his dark abode, Till all the Dæmon starts up from the toad. 140
O fordid maxim, form'd to fcreen the vile, That true good-nature still must wear a smile! In frowns array'd her beauties ftronger rife, When love of Virtue wakes her scorn of Vice:
Where Justice calls, 'tis Cruelty to save;
Then judge of SATIRE'S merit by her end:
Oft in unfeeling hearts the fhaft is fpent: 155 Tho' ftrong th' example, weak the punishment. They leaft are pain'd, who merit fatire moft; Folly the Laureat's, Vice was Chartres' boaft: Then where's the wrong, to gibbet high the name Of Fools and Knaves already dead to fhame? 160 Oft SATIRE acts the faithful Surgeon's part; Gen'rous and kind tho' painful is her art: With caution bold, fhe only ftrikes to heal, Tho' Folly raves to break the friendly steel. Then fure no fault impartial SATIRE knows, 165 Kind ev'n in Vengeance, kind to Virtue's foes. Whofe is the crime, the fcandal too be theirs: The Knave and Fool are their own Libellers.