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And taught his Romans, in much better metre,

"To laugh at Fools who put their truft in Peter." 10
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 Business, Higgins knew the Town;
In Sappho touch the Failings of the Sex,
In reverend Bishops note fome fmall Neglects,
And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing,
Who cropt our Ears, and fent them to the King.
His fly, polite, infinuating style

Could please at Court, and make AUGUSTUS fmile:
An artful Manager, that crept between

His Friend and Shame, and was a kind of Screen.
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 Sir ROBERT-

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P. See Sir ROBERT!-humAnd never laugh-for all my life to come? Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Of Social Pleasure, ill-exchang'd for Power; 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; 35 The only difference is, I dare laugh out.

F. Why

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F. Why yes: with Scripture ftill you may be free; A Horfe-laugh, if you please, at Honesty; A Joke on JEKYLL, or fome odd Old Whig, Who never chang'd his Principle, or Wig; A Patriot is a Fool in every age,

Sets half the world, God knows, against the reft;
Did not the Sneer of more impartial men
At Senfe and Virtue balance all again.
Judicious Wits fpread wide the Ridicule,
And charitably comfort Knave and Fool.

Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the Stage:
Thefe nothing hurts; they keep their Fashion ftill,
And wear their ftrange old Virtue, as they will.
If any afk you, "Who's the Man, fo near 45
"His Prince, that writes in Verfe, and has his ear?"
Why answer LYTTELTON; and I 'll engage
The worthy Youth fhall ne'er be in a rage:
But were his Verfes vile, his Whisper base,
You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's cafe.
Sejanus, Wolfey, hurt not honeft FLEURY,
But well may put fome Statesmen 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, 55
So much the better, you may laugh the more.
To Vice and Folly to confine the jeft,

P. Dear Sir, forgive the Prejudice of Youth: Adieu Diftinction, Satire, Warmth, and Truth! Come, harmless Characters that no one hit; Come, Henley's Oratory, Ofborn's Wit!

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The

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The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,
The Flowers of Bubo, and the Flow of Young!
The gracious Dew of Pulpit Eloquence,

And all the well-whipp'd Cream of Courtly Senfe, 70
That first was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then,
The S-te's, and then H-vy's once agen.
O come, that eafy Ciceronian style,

So Latin, yet fo English all the while,

As, though the Pride of Middleton and Bland,
All Boys may read, and Girls may understand!
Then might I fing, without the least offence,
And all I fung fhould be the Nation's Senfe;
Or teach the Melancholy Mufe 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, every Fool and Knave
Be grac'd through life, and flatter'd in his Grave.
F. Why fo? if Satire knows its Time and Place,
You ftill may lash the greatest-in Disgrace :
For Merit will by turns forfake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all Satire in all Changes spare
Immortal S-k, and grave De-re.
Silent and foft, as Saints remov'd to Heaven,
All Ties diffolv'd, and every Sin forgiven,
These may fome gentle ministerial Wing
Receive, and place for ever near a King!

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There,

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There, where no Paffion; Pride, or Shame tranfport,
Lull'd with the fweet Nepenthe of a Court;
There, where no Father's, Brother's, Friend's difgrace
Once break their reft, or stir them from their Place:
But paft the Sense of human Miseries,

All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;

No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb,
Save when they lofe a Question, or a Job.

P. Good Heaven forbid, that I fhould blaft their glory,
Who know how like Whig Minifters to Tory,
And when three Sovereigns dy'd, could scarce be vext,
Confidering what a gracious Prince was next.
Have I, in filent wonder, feen fuch things
As Pride in Slaves, and Avarice in Kings;
And at a Peer, or Peerefs, fhall I fret,
Who ftarves a Sifter, or forfwears a Debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
But fhall the dignity of Vice be lost?
Ye Gods! fhall Cibber's Son, without rebuke,
Swear like a Lord, or Rich outwhore a Duke?
A Favourite's Porter with his Master vie,

Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?

Shall Ward draw Contracts with a Statesman's skill?
Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a Will?

Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things)

To pay their Debts, or keep their Faith, like Kings?

VARIATION.

Ver. 112, in fome editions:

Who ftarves a Mother

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If Blount dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man ;
And so mayft thou, illuftrious Pafferan!
But shall a Printer, weary of his life,

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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 Sin,
And hurls the Thunder of the Laws on Gin.

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Let modeft Fofter, if he will, excell
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 aukward Shame,
Do good by ftealth, and blush to find it Fame;
Virtue may choofe 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 ftoops from Angels to the dregs of Earth:.
But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a Whore;
Let Greatnefs own her, and fhe 's mean no more,
Her Birth, her Beauty, Crowds and Courts confefs,
Chafte Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless;
In golden Chains the willing World she draws,
And hers the Gofpel 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 Scar,

Dragg'd

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