Who now that obfolete example fears?
Ev'n Peter trembles only for his ears.
F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks
You make men defp'rate if they once are bad,
Elfe might he take to virtue fome years hence-
P. As Sk, if he lives, will love the prince.
F. Strange ipleen to S---k!
P. Do I wrong the man?
God knows I praife a courtier where I can.
When I confefs there is who feels for fame,
And melts to goodnefs, need I Scarb'row name?
Pleas'd let me own, in Efher's peaceful grove,
(Where Kent and Nature vie for Pelham's love,)
The fcene, the mafter op'ning to my view,
I fit and dream I fee my Craggs anew!
Ev'n in a bishop I can spy defert;
Secker is decent, Rundel has a heart;
Manners with candour are to Benfon giv'n,
To Berkley ev'ry virtue under Heav'n.
But does the Court a worthy man remove?
That inftant, I declare, he has my love:
I fhun his zenith, court his mild decline;
Thus Somers cnce and Halifax were mine.
Oft' in the clear ftill miror of retreat
I ftudy'd Shrewsbury, the wife and great:
Carleton's calm fenfe and Stanhope's noble flame
Compar'd, and knew their gen'rous end the fame :
How pleafing Atterbury's fofter hour!
How fhin'd the foul, unconquer'd, in the Tow'r!
How can I Pultney, Chofte: field, forget,
While Roman fpirit charms, and Attic wit?
Argyle, the state's whole thunder born to wield,
And thake alike the fenate and the field?
Or Wyndham, juft to freedom and the throne,
The mafter of our paffions and his own?
Names which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain, 90
Rank'd with their friends, nor number'd with their
And if yet higher the proud lift fhould end,
Still let me fay, no foli'wer, but a friend.
D
Yet think nor friendship only prompts my lays;
I follow virtue; where the fhines I praife,
Point the to prieft or elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory.
I never (to my forrow I declare)
Din'd with the Man of Rofs or my Lord May'r.
Some in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave)
Have ftill a fecret bias 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?
Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verfe.
But random praise—the task can neʼer be done ;
Each mother asks it for her booby fon,
Each widow afks it for the best of men,
For him the weeps, and him the weds agen.
Praise cannot ftoop, like Satire, to the ground;
The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of these days
To fcape my cenfure, not expect my praise.
Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend?
What Richlieu wanted Louis fcarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain.
No pow'r the Mufes friendship can command;
No pow'r, when Virtue claims it, can withstand.
To Cato, Virgil paid one honeft line;
O let my country's friends illumine mine!
-What are you thinking? F. Faith the thought's no
I think your friends are out, and would be in.
P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go cut,
The way they take is ftrangely round about.
F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow?
P. I only call thofe knaves who are fo now.
Is that too little? come then, I'll comply-
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a flave,
And Lyttleton a dark designing knave;
St. John has ever been a wealthy fool-
But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull,
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, betides, a tyrant to his wife.
But pray, when others praite him do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolfey, any odious name?
Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine,
Oh all accomplish'a St. John! deck thy fhrine?
What! thall each ipur gall'a hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay,
Or each new-penfion'd fycophant pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend,
Then wifely plead to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my gueft at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure if I fpare he minifter, no rules
Of honour bind me not to maul his tools;
Sure if they cannot cut, it may be faid,
His faws 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,
Krew one a man of honour, one a knave,
The prudent gen'ral turn'd it to a jest,
And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the reft;
Which not at prefent having time to do
F. Hold, Sir! for God's fake; where's th' affront to
Against your Worthip when had S-k writ?
Or P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whofe diftich all commend
[In pow'r a fervant, out of pow'r a friend]
To W-le guilty of fome venial fin,
What's that to you, who ne'er was out nor in ?
The priest whole flattery bedropp'd the crown
How hurt he you? he only ftain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whofe fpeech you took, and gave it toa friend?
P. Faith it imports not much from whom it caine;
Whoever borrow'd could not be to blame,
Since the whole Houfe did afterwards the fame. S
Let courtly wits to wits afford fupply,
As hog to hog in huts of Weftphaly:
If one, thro' Nature's bounty or his lord's,
Has what the frugal dirty foil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mefs almoft as it came in ;
The bleffed benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;
From tail to mouth they feed and they caroufe;
The laft full fairly gives it to the Houfe.
F. This filthy fimile, this beaftly line,
Quite turns my ftomach-P. So does flatt'ry 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 Chatres fcarce could write or read;
In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write;
And muft no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own?
Muft never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unlefs, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous paftor blame a failing fpoufe
Without a staring reas'ning on his brows?
And each blafphemer quite efcape 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 your's.
Mine as a foe profefs'd to falfe pretence,
Who think a coxcomb's honour like his fense;
Mine as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind,
F. You're ftrangely proud,
P. So proud, I am no flave;
So impudent, I own myfelf no knave;
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave,
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
Men not afraid of God afraid of me;
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and fham'd by ridicule alone.
O facred weapon! loft for truth's defence,
Sole dread of folly, vice, and infolence!
To all but heav'n directed hands deny'd,
The Mule may give thee, but the gods muft guide:
Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honeft zeal,
To roufe the watchmen of the public weal,
To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate flumb'ring 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 fhall brush you all away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordfhip fings,
All that makes faints of queens and gods of kings;
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the prefs,
Like the loft Gazette or the laft Addrefs.
When black Ambition ftains a public cause,
A monarch's word when mad Vain glory draws,
No Waller's wreath can hide the nation's fcar,
Not Boileau turn the feather to a ftar.
Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's
Not fo when diadem'd with rays divine,
Her prieftefs Mufe for bids 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;
Far other ftars then * and ** wear,
And
may defcend to Mordington from Stair!
[Such as on Hough's unfully'd mitre fhine,
Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine.]
Let Envy howl, while heav'n's whole chorus fings,
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let Flatt'ry sick'ning fee the incenfe rife,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the fkies:
Truth guards the poet, fanctifies the line,
And makes immortal verfe as mean as mine.
Yes, the lait pen for freedom let me draw,
When Truth ftands trembling on the edge of law.
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