20 Who starv'd a Sifter, who forefwore a Debt, P. See, now I keep the Secret, and not you! 30 F. A Dean, Sir? no; his Fortune is not made, You hurt a man that 's rifing in the Trade. 35 P. If not the Tradefman who fet up to day, Much less the 'Prentice who to-morrow may. Down, down, proud Satire! though a realm be spoil'd, Arraign no mightier Thief than wretched Wild; Or, if a Court or Country 's made a job, Go drench a Pickpocket, and join the Mob. But, Sir, I beg you, (for the Love of Vice!) The matter 's weighty, pray confider twice; Have you lefs pity for the needy Cheat, The poor and friendless Villain, than the Great? 45 Scarce hurts the Lawyer, but undoes the Scribe. Then Then better fure it Charity becomes To tax Directors, who (thank God) have Plums; May pinch ev'n there-why lay it on a King. 500 P. Muft Satire, then, nor rife nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no Rogues at all. F. Yes, ftrike that Wild, I'll juftify the blow. P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years ago: Who now that obfolete Example fears? Ev'n Peter trembles only for his Ears. F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad, P. Do I wrong the Man? Ev'n in a Bishop I can spy Defert: But does the Court a worthy Man remove? That inftant, I declare, he has my Love: 60 65 70 75 I shun his Zenith, court his mild Decline; Carleton's calm Senfe, and Stanhope's noble Flame, 80 Compar'd, and knew their generous End the fame: How pleafing Atterbury's fofter hour! How fhin'd the Soul, unconquer'd in the Tower! How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield forget, While Roman Spirit charms, and Attic Wit: 85 Argyll, the State's whole Thunder born to wield, And thake alike the Senate and the Field: Or Wyndham, just to Freedom and the Throne, Names, which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain, 90 Rank'd with their Friends, not number'd with their Train; And if yet higher the proud Lift should end, Still let me fay! No Follower, but a Friend. I never (to my forrow I declare) 95 Din'd with the Man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor. Some, in their choice of Friends (nay, look not grave) Have ftill a fecret Byafs to a Knave: To find an honest man, I beat about; And love him, court him, praise him, in or out. F. Then why fo few commended? P. Not P. Not fo fierce; 105 Find you the Virtue, and I 'll find the Verse. But random Praife-the task can ne'er be done: 110 For him the weeps, for him she weds again. 115 120 125 O let my Country's Friends illumine mine! 130 Has Has never made a Friend in private life, And was, befides, a Tyrant to his Wife. 135 But pray, when others praise him, do I blame? Why rail they then, if but a Wreath of mine, Of honour bind me, not to maul his Tools; Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be faid His Saws are toothlefs, and his Hatchets Lead. It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, To fee a Footman kick'd that took his pay: But when he heard th' Affront the Fellow gave, 150 And begg'd, he 'd take the pains to kick the reft: 155 Which not at present having time to do F. Hold, Sir! for God's fake, where's th' Affront to you? Against your worship when had S-k writ? Ur P-ge pour'd forth the 'Torrent of his Wit? Or 160 What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in? The |