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And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile,
When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my flyle?

Curft be the verfe, how well foe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give virtue fcandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the foft-eyed virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fallen worth, or beauty in diftrefs;
Who loves a lie, lame flander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;
That fop whofe pride affects a patron's name,
Yet abfent wounds an author's honeft fame;
Who can your merit felfibly approve,
And fhew the fenfe of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you Friend,
Yet wants the honour injur'd to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you fay,
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the dean and filver bell can fwear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads but with a luft to mifapply,
Make fatire a lampoon, and fiction lie-
A lafh like mine no honeft man fhall dread,
But all fuch babbling block heads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble.-A. What! that thing of

Sporus, that mere white curd of afs's milk?
Satire or fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that ftinks and ftings;
Whole buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er taftes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred fpaniels civilly delight

That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half-approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the lofs of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The diftant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never fhed;
The tale reviv'd, the lie fo oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trafh and dulnefs not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'fcape,
The libell'd perfon, and the pictur'd shape;
Abufe on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread;
A friend in exile, or a father dead;
The whisper that, to greatnefs ftill too near,
Perhaps yet vibrates on his Sov'reign's ear-
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue ! all the past;
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome even the laft!

A. But why infult the poor, affront the great?
P. A knave's a knave to me in ev'ry state:
Alike my scorn if he fucceed or fail,
Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail,
A hireling fcribbler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the poft corrupt, or of the thire;
If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
He gain his Prince's ear, or lose his own.

Yet foft by nature, more a dupe than wit
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
This dreaded Sat'rift Dennis will confels
Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress:
So humble, he has knock'd at Tibald's door,
Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rhym'd for

Full ten years flander'd, did he once reply?
Three thousand funs went down on Welfied's lie:
To please a Miftrefs, one afpers'd his life;
He lafh'd him not, but let her be his wife:
Let Budgel charge low Grubfireet on his quill,
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will;
Let the two Curls of Town and Court abufe
His father, mother, body, foul, and mufe.
Yet why that Father held it for a rule,
It was a fin to call our neighbour Fool:
That harmless Mother thought no wife a whore:
Hear this, and fpare his family, James Moor!
Unfpotted names, and memorable long!
If there be force in Virtue or in Song.


In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal fmiles his emptinefs betray,
As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet fqueaks;
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
Or fpite, or fiut, or rhymes or blafphemies.
His wit all fee-faw, between that and this;
Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,
And he himself one vile antithefis.
Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head, or the corrupted heart;
Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now ftruts a lord.
Eve's tempter thus the rabbins have express'd;
A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest.
Beauty that fhocks you, parts that none will truft,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the duft.
Not Fortune's worshipper, nor Fashion's fool,
Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
Not prond, nor fervile; be one Poet's praife,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:
That flatt'ry ev'n to Kings he held a fhame,
And thought a lie in verfe or profe the fate :
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But ftoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his fong:

Of gentle blood (part fhed in Honour's caufe,
While yet in Britain Honour had applause)
Each parent sprung.—A. What fortune, pray ?—
P. Their own;

And better got than Befia's from the throne,
Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife,
Nor marrying Difcord in a noble wife;
Stranger to civil and religious rage,

The good man walk'd innoxious through his age.
No Courts he faw, no Suits would ever try,
Nor da'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lie.
Unlearn'd, he knew no fchoolman's fubtle art;
No language but the language of the heart.
By Nature honest, by Experience wife,
Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercife;
His life, tho' long, to sickness pafs'd unknown,
His death was inftant, and without a groan.

O grant

O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Who fprung from Kings fhall know lefs joy

than I.

O Friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!
Be no unpleafing Melancholy mine:
Me let the tender office long engage,
To rock the cradle of repofing Age;
With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath,
Make languor fmile, and smooth the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the tky!
On cares like these, if length of days attend,
May Heaven, to blefs thofe days,preferve my friend,
Preferve him focial, cheerful, and ferene,
And just as rich as when he ferv'd a Queen.

A. Whether that bletfing be denied or given,
Thus far was right, the reft belongs to Heaven.


In me what spots (for spots I have) appear,

20. Satires and Epiftles of Horace imitated. POPE. Will prove at least the medium must be clear.


To Mr. Fortescue.

P. THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told)
There are to whom my Satire feems too bold;
Scarce to wife Peter complaifant enough,
And fomething faid of Chartres much too rough.
The lines are weak, another 's pleas'd to fay;
Lord Fanny fpins a thousand fuch a day.
Tim'rous by nature, of the rich in awe,
I come to counsel learned in the law:

Abuse the city's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter.
Ev'n thofe you touch not, hate you.
P. What thould ail them?
F. A hundred fmart in Timon and in Balaam.
The fewer ftill you name, you wound the more;
Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.

P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny
Scarfdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pye;
Ridotta fips and dances, till the fee
The doubling luftres dance as faft as fhe;
Floves the fenate, Hockleyhole his brother,
Like in all elfe as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myfelf, as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne :
In them, as certain to be lov'd as feen,
The foul food forth, nor kept a thought

P. Not write? but then I think;
And for my foul I cannot fleep a wink.
1 nod in company, I wake at night;
Fools rufh into my head, and fo I write.
F. You could not do a worse thing for your life.
Why, if the nights feem tedious, take a wife:
Or rather truly, if your point be reft,
Lettuce and cowflip wine-probatum eft.
But talk with Celfus, Celfus will advise
Hartfhorn, or fomething that fhall clote your eyes.
Or, if you needs muft write, write Cæfar's praife;
You'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays.
P. What! like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough,
and fierce,
[the verfe,
With arms, and George, and Brunswick crowd
Rend with tremendous found your ears afunder,
With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbufs, and

You'll give me, like a friend both fage and free, While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. Advice; and (as you use) without a fee.

F. I'd write no more.

Satire 's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet;
I only wear it in a land of hectors,
Thieves, fupercargoes, sharpers, and directors.
Save but our army! and let Jove incruft
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust!
Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more:
But touch me, and no minifter fo fore.
Whoe'er offends, at fome unlucky time
Slides into verfe, and hitches in a rhyme;
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the fad burthen of fome merry fong.

Slander or poifon dread from Delia's rage;
Hard words, or hanging, if your judge be Page:
From furious Sappho fcarce a milder fate,
P-x'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate.
Its proper pow'r to hurt, each creature feels;
Bulls aim their horns, and affes lift their heels;
'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug;
And no man wonders he 's not ftung by pug.
So drink with Waters, or with Chartres eat;
They 'll never poison you, they 'll only cheat.

Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter fhort)
Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at Court,
Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray,
Attends to gild the ev'ning of my day;
Or death's black wing already be display'd,
To wrap me in the universal shade;
Whether the darken'd room to muse invite,
Or whiten'd wall provoke the skewer to write :
In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint,
Like Lee or Budgel, I will rhyme and print.

F. Alas,


Or nobly wild, with Budgel's fire and force,
Paint angels trembling round his falling horfe?

F. Then all your Mufe's fofter art display,
Let Carolina finooth the tuneful lay,
Lull with Amelia's liquid name the Nine,
And fweetly flow thro' all the royal line.

P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear;
They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a year;
And justly Cæfar fcorns the poet's lays;
It is to biftory he trufts for praife.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still,
Than ridicule all tafte, blafpheme quadrille,

In this impartial glass my Muse intends
Fair to expofe myfelf, my foes, my friends;
Publish the prefent age; but where my text
is vice too high, referve it for the next :
My foes with my life a longer date,
And ev'ry friend the lefs lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing thro' my quill,
Verfeman or Profeman, term me which you will,
Papift or Proteftant, or both between,
Like good Erafinus, in an honeft mean,
In moderation placing all my glory,

F. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be | (A doctrine fage, but truly none of mine),
In flow'r of age you perith for a long! [long; Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine,
Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride
Will club their tefters now to take your life! Turns you from found philosophy afide;
Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll,
And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

P. What? arm'd for virtue when I point the
Brand the bold front of thamelefs guilty men;
Dalh the proud gamefter in his gilded car;
Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star;
Can there be wanting, to defend her caufe,
Lights of the church, or guardians of the laws?
Could perfion'd Boi cau lath in honest strain
Flatt'res and bigots even in Louis' reign?
Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage,
Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage?
And I not ftrip the gilding off a knave,
Unplac'd, unpenfion'd, no man's heir or flave?
I will, or perith in the gen'rous caufe:
Hear this, and tremble you who 'fcape the laws.
Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave
Shall walk the world in credit to his grave.
To virtue only and her friends a friend,
The world befide may murmur or commend.
Know, all the diftant din that world can keep,
Rolls o'er my grotto, and but fooths my fleep.
There, my retreat the best companions grace,
Chiefs out of war, and ftatefinen out of place.
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
The feaft of reafon and the flow of foul:
And he, whofe lightning pierc'd th' Iberian lines,
Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines;
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain,
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.

Envy must own, I live among the great,
No pimp of pleasure, and no fpy of state;
With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne'er repeats,
Fond to fpread friendships, but to cover heats;
To help who want, to forward who excel;
This, all who know me, know; who love ine, tell;
And who unknown defame me, let them be
Scribblers or peers, alike are mob to me.
This is my piea, on this I reft my caufe-
What faith my counfel, learned in the laws?

Hear Bethel's Sermon, one not vers'd in fchools,
But ftrong in fenfe, and wife without the rules.
Go work, hunt, exercife! (he thus began)
Then fcorn a homely dinner if you can.
Your wine lock'd up, your butler ftroll'd abroad,
Or fith denied (the river yet unthaw'd),
If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I pleafe, I doubt our curious men
Will choose a pheasant still before a hen;
Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold,
Except you eat the feathers green and gold.
Of carps and mullets why prefer the great
(Tho' cut in pieces ere my Lord can eat),
Yet for fmall turbots fuch efteem profess?
Because God made these large, the other lefs.
Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endued,
Cries, "Send me, Gods! a whole hog barbecued!"
Oh blaft it, fouth winds, till a stench exhale
Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail!
By what criterion do you eat, d' ye think,
If this is priz'd for fweetnefs, that for ftink!
When the tir'd glutton labours thro' a treat,
He finds no relith in the sweetest meat;
He calls for fomething bitter, fomething four,
And the rich feaft concludes extremely poor:
Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives ftill we fee;
Thus much is left of old Simplicity!
The Robin-red-breaft till of late had reft,
And children facred held a Martin's neft,
Till Becca-ficos fold fo dev'lish dear
To one that was, or would have been, a Peer.
Let me extol a Cat on oyfters fed,
I'll have a party at the Bedford-head;
Or ev'n to crack live Crawfish recommend,
I'd never doubt at Court to make a friend.
'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother
About one vice, and fall into the other:
Between Excefs and Famine lies a mean;
Plain, but not fordid; tho' not fplendid, clean.
Avidien, or his Wife (no matter which,
For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch),
Sell their prefented partridges and fruits,
And humbly live on rabbits and on roots:
One half-pint bottle ferves them both to dine,
And is at once their vinegar and wine.
But on fome lucky day (as when they found
A loft Bank bill, or heard their fon was drown'd)
At fuch a feaft, old vinegar to spare,
Is what two fouls fo gen'rous cannot bear :
Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart;
But foufe the cabbage with a bounteous heart.


He knows to live who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this fide nor on that;
Nor ftops for one bad cork his butler's pay;
Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;

To Mr. Belbel.

WHAT, and how great, the virtue and the art Nor lets, like Nævius, ev'ry error pass; To live on little with a cheerful heart, The mufty wine, foul cloth, or greafy glass.


F. Your plea is good; but ftill I fay, beware!
Laws are explain'd by men-fo have a care.
It ftands on record, that in Richard's times
A man was hang'd for very honeft rhymes!
Confult the ftatute, quart. I think it is,
Edwardi feat. or prim. et quint. Eliz.
See Libels, Satires-here you have it-read.

P. Libels and Satires! lawlets things indeed!
But grave Epifiles, bringing vice to light,
Such as a King might read, a bishop write,
Such as Sir Robert would approve→
F. Indeed?
The cafe is alter'd-you may then proceed;
In fuch caute the plaintiff will be hifs'd,
My lords the judges laugh, and you 're difmifs 'd.

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Now hear what bleffings Temperance can | Or, bleft with little, whofe preventing care
In peace provides fit arms against a war?
Thus Bethel fpoke, who always fpeaks his

(Thus faid our friend, and what he said I fing) First Health: the ftomach (cramm'd from ev'ry difh,

A tomb of boil'd and roaft, and flesh and fish,
Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar,
And all the man is one inteftine war)
Remembers oft the fchool-boy's fimple fare,
The temp'rate fleeps, and fpirits light as air.

How pale each worshipful and rev'rend guest
Rife from a Clergy or a City feast!
What life in all that ample body, fay?
What heavenly particle infpires the clay?
The foul fubfides, and wickedly inclines
To feem but mortal, even in found Divines.

On morning wings how active fprings the mind
That leaves the load of yesterday behind!
How eafy ev'ry labour it purfues!
How coming to the Poet ev'ry Mufe!
Not but we may exceed fome holy time,
Or tir'd in fearch of Truth, or fearch of Rhyme;
Ill health fome juft indulgence may engage,
And more, the fickness of long life, Old Age;
For fainting Age what cordial drop remains,
If our intemp'rate Youth the veffel drains?

Our fathers prais'd rank Ven'fon. You fuppofe,
Perhaps, young men ! our fathers had no note.
Not fo: a Buck was then a week's repaft,
And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it laft;
More pleas'd to keep it till their friends could


Than eat the fweeteft by themselves at home.
Why had not I in thofe good times my birth,
Ere coxcomb pyes or coxcombs were on earth?
Unworthy he, the voice of Fame to hear,
That sweetest mufic to an honeft ear
(For, 'faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong;|
The world's good word is better than a fong),
Who has not learn'd, fresh sturgeon and ham-rye"
Are no rewards for want and infamy?
When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,
Curs'd by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyfelf;
To friends, to fortune, to mankind a fhame,
Think how pofterity will treat thy name;
And buy a rope, that future times may tell
Thou haft at lcaft beftow'd one penny well.
"Right," cries his Lordship, "for a rogue in need
"To have a tafte, is infolence indeed:
"In me 'tis noble, fuits my birth and state,


My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great."
Then, like the Sun, let Bounty spread her ray,
And shine that fuperfluity away.

Oh Impudence of wealth with all thy store,
How dar'ft thou let one worthy man be poor?
Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall?
Make Quays, build Bridges, or repair Whitehall:
Or to thy Country let that heap be lent,
As M-o's was, but not at five per cent.
Who thinks that fortune cannot change her

And always thinks the very thing he ought:
His equal mind I copy what I can,
And as I love, would imitate, the man.
In South-fea days not happier, when furmis'd
The lord of thoufands, than if now excis'd;
In forest planted by a father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
Content with little, I can piddle here
On broco i and mutton round the year;
But ancient friends (tho poor, or out of play),
That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.
'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards,
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords.
To Hourflow heath I point, and Banited-down;
Thence comes your mutton, and thefe chicks my


Prepares a dreadful jeft for all mankind.
And who ftands fafeft? tell me, is it he
That spreads and fwells in puff'd profperity;

From yon old walnut-tree a fhow'r fhall fall;
And grapes, long ling ring on my only wall,
And gs from ftandard and efpalier join;
The devil is in you, if you cannot dine: [place);
Then cheerful healths (your miftreis fhall have
And, what's more rare, a poet fhall fay grace.
Fortune not much of humbling me can boaft:
Tho' double tax'd, how little have I loft!
My life's amufements have been just the fame
Before and after standing armies came.
My lands are fold, my father's houfe is gone :
I'll hire another's; is not that my own, [gate
And yours, my friends? thro' whose free op'ning
None comes too early, none departs too late;
For I who hold fage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, fpeed the going gueft.


O Pray Heaven it laft! (cries Swift) as you go on ;. "I with to God this houfe had been your own. "Pity to build, without a fon or wife;

Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life."
Well, if the ufe be mine, can it concern one,
Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon?
What 's property? dear Swift! you fee it alter
From you to me, from me to Peter Walter;
Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's fhare;
Or, in a jointure, vanifh from the heir;
Or in pure equity (the cafe not clear)
The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year:
At best, it falls to fome ungracious fon, [own."
Who cries," My father's damn'd, and all's my
Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford,
Become the portion of a booby lord;

And Hemiley, once proud Buckingham's delight,
Slides to a fcriv'ner, or a city knight.
Let lands and houfes have what lords they will,
Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still.

The Firft Epifle of the First Book of Horace.



To Lord Bolingbroke.

ST. JOHN, whofe love indulg'd my labours paft,
Matures my.prefent, and fhall bound my laft!


'Tis the first Virtue, Vices to abhor; And the first Wisdom, to be Fool no more. But to the world no bugbear is fo great As want of figure, and a small eftate. To either India fee the Merchant fly, Scar'd at the spectre of pale Poverty See him, with pains of body, pangs of foul, Burn through the Tropit, freeze beneath the Pole! Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end, Nothing, to make Philofophy thy friend? To stop thy foolish views, thy long defires; And cafe thy heart of all that it admires ? Here Wifdom calls: "Seek Virtue firft, be bold! As Gold to Silver, Virtue is to Gold." There, London's voice: "Get money, money ftill! "And then let Virtue follow, if the will." This, this the faving doctrine preach'd to all, From low St. James's up to high St Paul ! From him whole quills ftand quiver'd at his ear, To him who notches fticks at Westminster.

Why will you break the Sabbath of my days ? Now fick alike of envy and of praise. Public too long, ah let me hide my age! See, modeft Cibber now has left the Stage; Our Gen'rals, now, retir'd to their eftates, Hang their old Trophies o'er the Garden gates; In Life's cool ev'ning, fatiate of applaufe, Nor fond of bleeding even in Bruniwick's caufe. A voice there is, that whispers in my ear, ('Tis Reafon's voice, which fometimes one can hear) "Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Mufe take "And never gallop Pegatus to death; [breath, "Left stiff and stately, void of fire or force, "You limp, like Blackmore, on a Lord Mayor's" "horfe."

Farewel then, Verfe, and Love, and ev'ry toy, The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy; What right, what true, what De we justly call, Let this be all my care-for this is All: To lay this harvest up, and hoard with hafte, What ev'ry day will want, and moft, the laft. But afk not to what Doctors I apply; Sworn to no master, of no fect am I : As drives the ftorm, at any door I knock; And house with Montaigne now, or now with Sometimes a Patriot, active in debate, [Locke. Mix with the World, and battle for the State, Free as young Lyttelton her cause purfue, Still true to Virtue, and as warm as true: Sometimes with Ariftippus, or St. Paul, Indulge my candour, and grow all to all; Back to my native moderation flide, And win my way by yielding to the tide. Long, as to him, who works for debt, the day, Long as the night to her whofe Love 's away, Long as the year's dull circle feems to run When the brifk Minor pants for twenty-one; So flow th' unprofitable moments roll, That lock up all the functions of my foul; That keep me from myself, and ftill delay Life's inftant bufinefs to a future day: That task, which as we follow, or defpife, The eldest is a fool, the youngest wife: Which done, the pooreft can no wants endure; And, which not done, the richest must be poor.

Late as it is, I put myself to fchool, And feel fome comfort not to be a fool. Weak tho' I am of limb, and fhort of fight, Far from a Lynx, and not a Giant quite; I'll do what Mead and Chefelden advite, To keep thefe limbs, and to preferve thefe eyes. Not to go back, is fomewhat to advance; And men must walk at least before they dance.

Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bofom move
With wretched Av'rice, or as wretched Love?
Know, there are words and fpells which can control,
Between the Fits, this Fever of the foul;
Know, there are rhyines, which, fresh and fresh

Will cure the arrant'ft puppy of his pride.
Be furious, envious, flothful, mad, or drunk,
Slave to a wife, or vaffal to a punk,
A Switz, a High Dutch, or a Low Dutch bear;
All that we ask is but a patient ear.

Barnard in fpirit, fenfe, and truth abounds;

Pray then, what wants he?" Fourfcore thoufand pounds;

A penfion, or fuch harnefs for a flave
As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.
Barnard, thou art a Cit, with all thy worth;
But Bug and D1, their Honours and fo forth.

Yet ev'ry child another fong will fing:
"Virtue, brave boys! 'tis Virtue makes a King."
True, confcious Honour is to feel no fin;
He's arm'd without that 's innocent within:
Be this thy fcreen, and this thy wall of brais;
Compar'd to this, a Minifter 's an Afs.

And fay, to which fhall our applaufe belong, This new Court jargon, or the good old fong? The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was fpoke at Creffy or Poitiers? Who counfels best? who whispers," Be but great, "With praife or infamy, leave that to fate; "Get Place and Wealth, if poffible with grace: "If not, by any means get Wealth and Place:" For what to have a box where Eunuchs fing, And foremost in the circle eye a KingOr he, who bids thee face with steady view Proud Fortune,and look thallowGreatnefsthro'; And, while he bids thee, fets th' Example too? If fuch a doctrine in St. James's air Should chance to make the well-dreft rabble stare; If honeft Sz take fcandal at a Spark That lefs admires the Palace than the Park, 'Faith I fhall give the anfwer Reynard gave: "I cannot like, dread Sir, your Royal Cave; "Because I fee, by all the tracks about,

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Full many a beaft goes in, but none come out.' Adieu to Virtue, if you're once a Slave; Send her to Court, you fend her to her grave.

Well, if a King's a Lion, at the leaft The people are a many-headed beaft: Can they direct what meafures to pursue, Who know themfelves fo little what to do? Alike in nothing but one luft of gold, Juft half the land would buy, and half be fold; Their country's wealth our mightier Mifers drain, Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main;


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