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 easy Ciceronian style,
So Latin, yet so 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 should be the Nation's Senfe;
Or teach the Melancholy Muse to mourn,
Hang the fad Verse on CAROLINA'S Uru,
And hail her passage to the Realms of Rest,
All parts perform'd, and all her Children bleft!
So-Satire is no more-I feel it die-
No Gazetteer more innocent than
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 still may lash the greatest-in Disgrace:
For Merit will by turns forsake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall. 90
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!
There, where no Paffion, Pride, or Shame tranfport, Lull'd with the sweet Nepenthe of a Court;
There, where no Father's, Brother's, Friend's disgrace Once break their rest, or stir them from their Place:
But past 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 lose a Question, or a Job.
P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should 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, seen such things
As Pride in Slaves, and Avarice in Kings;
And at a Peer, or Peeress, shall I fret,
Who starves a Sifter, or forswears a Debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boaft;
But fhall the dignity of Vice be loft?
Ye Gods! shall 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 some editions:
Who starves a Mother
If Blount dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man;
And fo mayst thou, illustrious Passeran!
But shall a Printer, weary of his life,
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.
Let modeft Foster, if he will, excell
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's Wife,
Outdo Landaffe in Doctrine,-yea in Life:
Let humble Allen, with an aukward Shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame;
Virtue may choose the high or low Degree,
"Tis just 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 Greatness own her, and she 's mean no more,
Her Birth, her Beauty, Crowds and Courts confefs,
Chaste Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless;
In golden Chains the willing World she 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 Scar,
Dragg'd in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
His Flag inverted trails along the ground!
Our Youth, all livery'd o'er with foreign Gold,
Before her dance: behind her, crawl the Old!
See thronging Millions to the Pagod run,
And offer Country, Parent, Wife, or Son!
Hear her black Trumpet through the land proclaim,
That Nor TO BE CORRUPTED IS THE SHAME. 160
In Soldier, Churchman, Patriot, Man in Power,
'Tis Avarice all, Ambition is no more!
See, all our Nobles begging to be Slaves!
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 crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the Law:
While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry-
"Nothing is sacred now but Villainy."
Yet may this Verse (if such a Verse remain)
Show there was one who held it in disdain.
Libel-Paxton (Sir) will fay.
P. Not yet, my Friend! to-morrow 'faith
And for that very caufe I print to-day.
How should I fret to mangle every line,
In reverence to the Sins of Thirty-nine!
Vice with fuch Giant-strides comes on amain,
Invention strives to be before in vain;
Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong,
Some rifing Genius fins up to my Song.
F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lask; 10
Even Guthry faves half Newgate by a Dash.
Spare then the Person, and expose the Vice.
P. How, Sir! not damn the Sharper, but the Dice? Come on then, Satire! general, unconfin'd, Spread thy broad wing, and fouce on all the kind. 15 Ye Statesmen, Priefts, of one Religion all! Ye Tradesmen, vile, in Army, Court, or Hall! Ye reverend Atheists. F. Scandal! name them, Who?
P. Why that 's the thing you bid me not to do.
|