The Prieft whofe Flattery bedropt the Crown,
How hurt he you? he only ftain'd the Gown.
And how did, pray, the florid Youth offend,
Whofe Speech you took, and gave it to a Friend?
P. Faith it imports not much from whom it came;
Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame,
Since the whole House did afterwards the fame.
Let Courtly Wits to Wits afford fupply,
As Hog to Hog in huts of Weftphaly;
If one, through Nature's Bounty or his Lord's,
Has what the frugal, dirty foil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pare a mess almost as it came in;
The blessed benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;
From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse:
The laft full fairly gives it to the House.
F. This filthy fimile, this beaftly line
Quite turns my
ftomach-
P. So does Flattery mine:
And all your courtly Civet-cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is Excrement.
But hear me further-Japhet, 'tis agreed,
Writ not, and Chartres fcarce could write or read,
In all the Courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But Pens can forge, my Friend, that cannot write;
Ver. 185, in the MS.
I grant it, Sir; and further 'tis agreed,,
Japhet writ not, and Chartres fcarce could read.
And must no Egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the Deed he forg'd was not my own?
Must never Patriot then declaim at Gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous Paftor blame a failing Spouse,
Without a ftaring Reason on his brows?
And each Blafphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the infult 's not on Man, but God?
Afk you what Provocation I have had?
The ftrong Antipathy of Good to Bad.
When Truth or Virtue an Affront endures,
Th' Affront is mine, my friend, and should be
Mine, as a Foe profefs'd to false Pretence,
Who think a Coxcomb's Honour like his Senfe;
Mine, as a Friend to every worthy mind;
And mine as Man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're ftrangely proud.
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 fee
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me:
Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by Ridicule alone.
O facred weapon! left for Truth's defence,
Sole Dread of Folly, Vice, and Infolence!
To all but Heaven-directed hands deny'd,
The Muse may give thee, but the Gods muft guide:
Reverent I touch thee! but with honeft zeal;
To rouze the Watchmen of the Public Weal,
To Virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall,
And goad the Prelate slumbering in his Stall.
Ye tinfel Infects! whom a Court maintains,
That counts your Beauties only by your Stains,
Spin all your Cobwebs o'er the Eye of Day!
The Mufe's wing shall brush you all away :
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship fings,
All that makes Saints of Queens, and Gods of Kings.
All, all but Truth, drops dead-born from the Press,
Like the laft Gazette, or the last Addrefs.
When black Ambition ftains a public Caufe,
A Monarch's Sword when mad Vain-glory draws,
Not Waller's Wreath can hide the Nation's Scar, 230
Not Boileau turn the Feather to a Star.
Not fo, when, diadem'd with rays divine,
Touch'd with the Flame that breaks from Virtue's Shrine,
Her Prieftefs Mufe forbids the Good to die,
And opes the Temple of Eternity.
There, other Trophies deck the truly brave,
Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the Grave;
After ver. 227, in the MS.
Where's now the Star that lighted Charles to rife?
-With that which follow'd Julius to the skies.
Angels, that watch'd the Royal Oak fo well,
How chanc'd ye nod, when luckless Sorel fell?
. Hence, lying miracles! reduc'd fo low
As to the regal-touch and papal-toe;
Hence haughty Edgar's title to the Main,
Britain's to France, and thine to India, Spain'
Far other Stars than * and ** wear,
descend to Mordington from Stair; (Such as on Hough's unfully'd Mitre shine,
*Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine)
Let Envy howl, while Heaven's whole Chorus fings, And bark at Honour not conferr'd by Kings;
Let Flattery fickening fee the Incense rife,
Sweet to the World, and grateful to the Skies:
Truth guards the Poet, fanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, Verfe as mean as mine.
Yes, the laft Pen for Freedom let me draw,
When Truth stands trembling on the edge of Law;
Here, last of Britons! let your Names be read;
Are none, none living? let me praise the Dead,
And for that Caufe which made your Fathers fhine,
-Fall by the Votes of their degenerate Line.
F. Alas, alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Effays on Man.
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