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EPISTLE II. BOOK II.
DEAR colonel, Cobham's and your country's You love a verse, take fuch as I can fend. [friend A Frenchman comes, prefents you with his boy, Bows and begins" This lad, Sir, is of Blois : Obferve his fhape how clean, his locks how
"My only fon, I 'd have him fee the world :
"His French is pure; his voice too-you fhall
And certain laws, by suff'rers thought unjust,
Denied all posts of profit or of truft;
While mighty William's thund'ring arm prevail'd.
Hopes after hopes of pious Papifts fail'd,
For Right Hereditary tax'd and fin'd,
He ftuck to poverty with peace of mind;
Convict a Papist he, and I a Poet.
And me the Mufes help to undergo it;
"Sir, he's your flave, for twenty pounds a year. "Mere wax as yet, you fashion hin with eafe, "Your barber, cook,upholft'rer,what you please: "A perfect genius at an opera fong"To fay too much, might do my honour wrong. "Take him with all his virtues, on my word; "His whole ambition was to ferve a lord: "But, Sir, to you, with what would I not part? "Tho' 'faith, I fear,'twillbreak his mother's heart. “Once (and but once) I caught him in a lie, "And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry: "The fault he has I fairly fhall reveal; "(Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to ftcal."
But (thanks to Homer!) fince I live and thrive,
Sure I fhould want the care of ten Monroes,
Indebted to no prince or peer alive,
If I would fcribble rather than repofe.
Years following years steal something ev'ry day,
In one our frolics, one amufements end,
At laft they ftcal us from ourselves away;
This fubtle thief of life, this paltry Time,
In one a miftref's drops, in one a friend :
What will it leave me, if it fnatch my rhyme?
That turn'd ten thoufand verfes, now stands ftill?
If ev'ry wheel of that unwearied mill,
But, after all, what would you have me do,
When this Heroics only deigns to praise,
When out of twenty I can please not two;
Sharp Satire that, and that Pindaric lays!
One likes the pheafant's wing, and one the lcg;
Hard talk to hit the palate of fuch guests,
The vulgar boil, the learned roaft, an egg.
When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detefts.
If, after this, you took the graceless lad,
Could you complain, my friend, he prov'd fo bad?
'Faith, in fuch cafe, if you should profecute,
I think Sir Godfrey fhould decide the fuit;
Who fent the thief, that ftole the cash, away,
And punish'd him that put it in his way.
Confider then, and judge me in this light;
I told you, when I went, I could not write;
You faid the fame; and are you discontent
With laws to which you gave your own affent›
Nay worse, to ask for verfe at fuch a time!
D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme?
In Anna's war's, a foldier poor and old
Had dearly earn'd a little purse of gold:
Tir'd with a tedious march, one luckless night
He flept, poor dog! and loft it to a doit.
This put the man in such a defp'rate mind,
Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd,
Against the foe, himself, and all mankind,
He leap'd the trenches, fcal'd a castle wall,
Tore down a standard, took the fort and all.
"Prodigious well!" his great commander cried;
Gave him much praise, and fome reward befide.
Next pleas'd his Excellence a town to batter;
(Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter)
Go on, my friend (he cried), fee yonder walls!
"Advance and conquer! go where glory calls!
"More honcurs, more rewards, attend the brave."To
Don't you remember what reply he gave?
"D'ye think me, noble Gen'ral, fuch a fot?
"Let him take caftles who has ne'er a groat."
Bred up at home, full early I begun
To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' fon.
Befides, my father taught me, from a lad,
The better art to know the good from bad:
(And little fure imported to remove,
To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove.)
But knottier points we knew not half so well,
Depriv'd us foon of our paternal cell;
But grant I may relapfe, for want of grace,
Again to rhyme can London be the place?
Who there his Mufe, or felf, or foul attends,
In crowds, and courts, law, bufinefs, feafts, and
My counsel fends to execute a deed:
A Poet begs me I will hear him read:
At ten for certain, Sir, in Bloomfb'ry square-
In Palace-yard at nine you 'll find me there—
Before the Lords at twelve my Caufe comes on-
There's a Rehearsal, Sir, exact at one.
"Oh! but a Wit can study in the streets,
"And raife his mind above the mob he meets."
Not quite fo well however as one ought;
A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought;
And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead,
God knows, may hurt the very ableft head.
Two Aldermen difpute it with an Afs;
Have you not feen, at Guildhall's narrow pass,
And Peers give way, exalted as they are,
Even to their own S-r-v--nce in a car?
Sing thy fonorous verfe-but not aloud.
Go, lofty Poet! and in fuch a crowd
cafe and filence ev'ry Mufe's fon :
Alas! to grottos and to groves we run;
Blackmore himself, for any grand effort,
Would drink and doze at Tooting orEarl's-Court.
How fhall I rhyme in this eternal roar? [before?
How match the bards whom none e'er match'd
The man who, ftretch'd in Ifis' calm retreat,
To books and ftudy gives feven years complete,
See! ftrew'd with learned duft, his nightcap on,
The boys flock round him,and the people ftare:
He walks, an object new beneath the fun!
So tiff, fo mute! fome ftatue, you would fwear,
Stept from its pedestal to take the air!
And here, while town, and court, and city roars,
With mobs,and duns,and foldiers, at their doors,
Shall I in London act this idle part?
Compofing fongs, for Fools to get by heart?
The Temple late two brother Serjeants saw,
Who deem'd each other Oracles of Law;
With equal talents, these congenial fouls,
One lull'd th'Exchequer,and one stunn'd the Rolls:
Each had a gravity would make you split,
And fhook his head at Murray, as a wit.
'Twas, "Sir, your law”—and Sir, your elo-
"Yours, Cowper's manner; "and" Yours, Talbot's
Thus we difpofe of all poetic merit;
Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's fpirit.
Call Tibbald Shakespear, and he'll fwear the Nine,
Dear Cibber! never match'd one Ode of thine.
Lord! how we ftrut thro' Merlin's Cave, to fee
No Poets there but Stephen, you, and me.
Walk with refpect behind, while we at ease
Weave laurel Crowns, and take what names we
My dear Tibullus!" if that will not do, [please.
"Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you:
"Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's ftrains,
"And you fhall rife up Otway for your pains."
Much do I fuffer, much, to keep in peace
This jealous, wafpifh, wrong-head, rhyming race;
And much muft flatter, if the whim should bite
To court applaufe, by printing what I write :
But, let the fit pafs o'er, I 'm wife enough
To ftop my ears to their confounded kuff.
In vain bad Rhymers all mankind reject,
They treat themselves with most profound respect:
'Tis to fmall purpose that you hold your tongue;
Each, prais'd within, is happy all day long:
But how feverely with themselves proceed
The men who write fuch Verfe as we can read!
Their own ftrict Judges, not a word they spare
That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care.
Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place,
Nay tho' at Court (perhaps) it may find grace:
Such they'll degrade; and fometimes, in its ftead,
In downright charity revive the dead;
Mark where a bold expreffive phrase appears,
Bright thro' the rubbish of fome hundred years;
Command old words that long have flept, to wake,
Words that wife Bacon or brave Raleigh spake;
Or bid the new be English, ages hence,
(For Ufe will father what 's begot by Sense)
Pour the full tide of cloquence along,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely frong,
Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue:
Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
But fhew no mercy to an empty line:
Then polish all with fo much life and ease,
You think 'tis Nature, and a knack to please:
Who, tho' the Houfe was up, delighted fate,
Heard, noted, anfwer'd, as in full debate:
In all but this, a man of fober life,
Fond of his Friend, and civil to his Wife;
Not quite a madman tho' a pasty fell,
And much too wife to walk into a well.
Him the damn'd Doctors and his Friends immur'd,
They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in short,
You tell the Doctor; when the more you have,
The more you want, why not with equal cafe
Confefs as well your Folly, as Disease?
The heart refolves this matter in a trice :
"Men only feel the Smart, but not the Vice."
When golden Angels cease to cure the Evil,
You give all royal Witchcraft to the Devil;
When fervile Chaplains cry that birth and place
Endue a Peer with honour, truth, and grace,
Look if that breast, most dirty D-! be fair;
Say, can you find out one fuch lodger there?
Yet ftill, not heeding what your heart can teach,
You go to church to hear thefe Flatt'rers preach.
Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit,
A grain of courage, or a fpark of fpirit,
The wifeft man might blush, I must agree,
If D*** lov'd fixpence more than he,
If there be truth in Law, and Use can give
A Property, that 's yours on which you live,
Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford
Their fruits to you, confeffes you its lord;
All Worldly's hens, nay partridge, fold to town,
His venifon too, a guinea makes your own:
He bought at thoufands what with better wit
You purchase as you want, and bit by bit;
Now, or long fince, what diff'rence will be found?
You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.
Heathcote himfelf, and fuch large-acred men,
Lords of fat E'fham, or of Lincoln-fen,
Buy ev'ry stick of wood that lends them heat:
Buy ev'ry pullet they afford to eat.
Yet there are Wights who fondly call their own
Half that the Devil o'erlooks from Lincoln town.
The Laws of God, as well as of the land,
Abhor a Perpetuity should stand:
But eafe in writing flows from art, not chance; "Asthofe move easiest who have learn'd to dance."
If fuch the plague and pains to write by rule,
Better (fay 1) be pleas'd, and play the fool:
Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease;
It gives men happiness, or leaves them case.
There liv'd in primo Georgii (they record)
A worthy member, no fmall fool, a Lord;
Whereat the gentleman began to stare-
My friends! he cried, p-x take you for your care.
That, from a Patriot of diftinguish'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a fimple Vote.
Well, on the whole, plain profe must be my fate:
Wifdom, curfe on it! will come foon or late.
There is a time when Poets will grow dull:
I'll e'en leave verfes to the boys at school:
To rules of Poetry no more confin'd,
I'll learn to fmooth and harmonize my
Teach ev'ry thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal measure of the Soul.
Soon as I enter at my country door,
My mind refumes the thread it dropp'd before;
Thoughts which at Hyde-park-corner I forgot,
Meet and rejoin me in the penfive Grot;
There all alone, and compliments apart,
I ask these fober questions of my heart:
If, when the more you drink, the more you
Estates have wings, and hang in Fortune's pow'r
Loofe on the point of ev'ry wav'ring hour,
Ready, by force, or of your own accord,
By fale, at leaft by death, to change their lord.
Man? and for ever? wretch ! what wouldst thou
Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave. [have?
All vaft poffeffions (juft the fame the cafe
Whether you call them Villa, Park, or Chafe)
Alas, ny Bathurst what will they avail ?
Join Corfwood hills to Saperton's fair dale;
Let rifing granaries and temples here,
There mingled farms and pyramids appear;
Link towns to towns with avenues of oak;
Inclofe whole downs in walls-'tis all a joke!
Inexorable Death fhall level all,
And trees, and ftones, and farms, and farmer fall.
Gold, Silver, Iv'ry, Vafes fculptur'd high, Paint, Marble, Gems, and robes of Perfian dye, There are who have not-and thank heaven there
Who, if they have not, think not worth their care. Talk what you will of Tafte, my friend, you'll Two of a face as foon as of a mind. [find Why, of two brothers, rich and reftlefs one Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from fun to fun; The other flights, for women, fports, and wines, All Townshend's turnips, and all Grofvenor's
Why one like Bu- with pay and fcorn content,
Bows, and votes on, in Court and Parliament;
One, driven by ftrong Benevolence of foul,
Shall fly, like Oglethorp, from pole to pole;
Is known alone to that Directing Pow'r
Who forms the Genius in the natal hour;
That God of Nature, who, within us ftill,
Inclines our action, not conftrains our will:
Various of temper, as of face or frame,
Each individual; his great End the same.
Yes, Sir, how fmall foever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy as well as keep.
My heir may figh, and think it want of grace
A man fo poor would live without a place:
But fure no ftatute in his favour fays,
How free or frugal I fhall pafs my days;
I, who at fome times fpend, at others spare,
Divided between careleffnefs and care.
'Tis one thing madly to difperfe my store;
Another, not to heed to treafure more;
Glad, like a boy, to fnatch the first good day,
And pleas'd if fordid want be far away.
What is 't to me (a passenger, God wot)
Whether my veffel be first-rate or not?
The ship itself may make a better figure,
But I that fail am neither lefs nor bigger;
I neither firut with ev'ry fav'ring breath,
Nor ftrive with all the tempeft in my teeth:
In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the laft.
"But why all this of avarice? I have none." I wish you joy, Sir, of a tyrant gone; But does no other lord it at this hour, As wild and mad-the avarice of pow'r Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appall Not the black fear of death,that faddens all?
With terrors round, can reason hold her throne,
Defpife the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birth-day with a grateful mind?
Has life no fournefs, drawn fo near its end?
Canft thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter fruits grow mild eie they decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your bufinefs done,
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?
Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;
You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your
Walk fober off, before a fprightlier age
Comes titt'ring on, and fhoves you from the ftage:
Leave fuch to trifle with more grace and eafe,
Whom folly pleafes, and whofe follies please.
§ 21. Epilogue to the Satires. In two Dialogues. POPE,
twice a twelvemonth you appear in NOT print; And when it comes, the Court fee nothing in 't, You grow correct, that once with rapture writ; And are, befides, too moral for a Wit. Decay of parts, alas! we all muft feelWhy now, this moment, don't I fee you fteal? "Tis all from Horace; Horace, long before ve, Said, "Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a "Tory;"
And taught his Romans, in much better metre, "To laugh at Fools who put their trust in Peter."
But Horace, Sir, was delicate, was nice;
Bubo obferves, he lafh'd no fort of Vice:
Horace would fay, Sir Billy ferv'd the Crown,
Blunt could do bufinefs, H-ggins knew the town;
In Sappho touch the Failings of the Sex,
In rev'rend Bishops note fome fmall negle&s;
And own the Spaniard did a waggifh thing,
Who cropp'd our ears, and fent them to the King.
His fly, polite, infinuating ftyle
Could pleafe at Court, and make Auguftus fmile:
An artful manager, that crept between
His friend and fhame, and was a kind of fereen.
But, 'faith, your very friends will foon be fore;
Patriots there are who with you 'd jeft no more-
And where's the Glory? 'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd you a groat.
Go fee Rir Robert-
P. See Sir Robert!-humAnd never laugh for all my life to come? Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Of Social Pleafure, ill exchang d for Pow'r; Seen him, uncumber'd with a venal tribe, Smile without art, and win without a bribe. Would he oblige me? let me only find He does not think me what he thinks mankind. Come, come at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt; The only diff'rence is-I dare laugh out.
F. Why yes, with Scripture ftill you may be free; A horfe-laugh, if you pleafe, at Honefly';
A Joke on JEKYL, or fome odd Old Whig,
Who never chang'd his principle, or wig;
A patriot is a fool in ev'ry age,
Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the ftage:
Thefe nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still,
And wear their ftrange old virtue, as they will.
If any ask you, "Who's the man, fe near
"His prince, that writes in verfe, and has his car?"
Why anfwer, Lyttelton; and I 'll engage
The worthy youth fhall ne'er be in a rage:
But were his verfes vile, his whisper bafe,
You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's cafe.
Sejanus, Wolfey, hurt not honeft Fleury;
But well may put fome ftatefmen in a fury.
Laugh then at any but at fools or foes;
Thefe you but anger, and you mend not thofe.
Laugh at your friends; and, if your friends are
But, past the sense of human miferies,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;
No check is known to blufh, no heart to throb,
Save when they lofe a queftion, or a job.
P. Good Heaven forbid that I fhould blaft
Who know how like Whig Minifters to Tory,
And when three Sov'reigns died, could searce be
So much the better, you may laugh the more.
To vice and folly to confine the jett,
Sets half the world, God knows, against the reft;
Did not the fneer of more impartial men
At fente and virtue balance all again.
Judicious wits fpread wide the ridicule,
And charitably comfort knave and fool.
P. Dear Sir, forgive the prejudice of youth:
Adieu, diftinction, fatire, warmth, and truth!
Come, harmless characters that no one hit;
Come, Henley's oratory, Ofborne's wit!
The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,
The flow'rs of Bubo, and the flow of Y-ng!
The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence,
And all the well-whipp'd cream of courtly fenfe,
The firft was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then
The S-tc's, and then H-vy's once again.
O come, that eafy, Ciceronian style,
So Latin, yet fo English all the while,
As, tho' the pride of Middleton and Bland,
All boys may read, and girls may understand!
Then might I fing, without the leaft offence,
And all I fung fhould be the Nation's Senfe;
Or teach the melancholy Mufe to mourn,
Hang the fad verfe on Carolina's urn,
And hail her passage to the Realms of Reft,
All parts perform'd, and all her children bleft!
So Satire is no more-I feel it die-
No Gazetteer more innocent than I-
And let, a-God's name, ev'ry fool and knave
Be grac'd thro' life, and flatter'd in his grave.
F. Why fo if Satire knows its time and place,
You ftill may lafh the greatest-in disgrace:
For merit will by turns forfake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all fatire in all changes fpare
Immortal S-k, and grave D-re.
Silent and foft as faints remov'd to heaven,
All ties diffolv'd, and ev'ry fin forgiven,
Thefe may fome gentle minifterial wing
Receive, and place for ever near a King! [port,
There, where no paffion, pride, or fhame tranf-
Lull'd with the fweet Nepenthe of a Court,
There, where no father's, brother's, friend's dif-
Confid'ring what a gracious Prince was next.
Have I, in filent wonder, feen such things
As pride in Slaves, and av'rice in Kings;
And at a Peer or Peercfs fhall I fret,
Who ftarves a fifter, er forfwears a debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boaît;
But fhall the dignity of Vice be loft ?
Ye Gods fhall Cibber's fon, without rebuke,
Swear like a Lord, or Rich outwhore a Duke?
A fav'rite's porter with his mafter vie,
Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?
Shall Ward draw contracts with a fatefman's
Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a will? [ikill?
Is it for Bond or Peter (paltry things!)
To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings?
If Blount difpatch'd himself, he play'd the man,
And so mayst thou, illuftrious Pafferan!
But fhall 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 fin,
And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin.
Let modeft Fofter, if he will, excel
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A fimple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife,
Outdo Landaff in doctrine-yea in life;
Let humble Allen, with an awkward fhame,
Do good by stealth, and bluth to find it fame.
Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
'Tis juft 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 stoops from angels to the dregs of earth:
But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a whore:
Let Greatness own her, and the 's mean no more:
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confefs,
Chafte matrons praife her, and grave bishops blefs;
In golden chains the willing world the draws,
And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her fearlet 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 fear,
Dragg'd in the duft! his arms hang idly round,
His flag inverted trails along the ground!
Our youth, all liveried o'er with foreign gold,
Before her dance; behind her, crawl the Old!
Sec thronging millions to the Pagod run,
And offer country, parent, wife, or fon
Hear her black trumpet thro' the land proclaim,
That not to be corrupted is the fame.
In foldier, churchman, patriot, man in pow'r,
'Tis av'rice all, ambition is no more!
Once break their reft, or ftir them from their place:
See all our nobles begging to be flaves!
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 'fcape or triumph o'er the law;
While truth, worth, wifdom, daily they decry:
61 Nothing is facred now but villany."
Yet may this verfe (if fuch a verse remain) Shew there was one who held it in difdain.
Then better fure it Charity becomes
To tax Directors, who, thank God, have plums;
Still better Minifters; or, if the thing
May pinch even there-why lay it on a King.
F. Stop! Stop!
P. Muft fatire, then, nor rife nor fall?
Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.
F. Yes, ftrike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years
F. 'TIS all a libel-Paxton (Sir) will say. P. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow, 'faith, it And for that very caufe I print to-day. [may; How should I fret to mangle ev'ry line, In rev'rence to the fins of Thirty-nine! Vice with fuch giant ftrides comes on amain, Invention ftrives to be before in vain; Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong, Some rifing genius fins up to my fong.
F. Yet none but you by name the guilty Even Guthry faves half Newgate by a dash. Spare then the perfon, and expofe the vice.
P. How, Sir! not damn the fharper, but the Come on then, fatire! general, unconfin'd, [dice? Spread thy broad wing, and foufe on all the kind. Ye statesmen, priefts, of one religion all ! Ye tradefinen, vile, in army, court, or hall! Ye rev'rend Atheists-F. Scandal! name them; who?
P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. Who ftarv'd a fifter, who forfwore a debt, I never nam'd; the town 's enquiring yet.
F. The pois'ning dame, you mean.-P. I don't,
F. You do.
P. See, now I keep the fecret, and not you! The bribing statesman.-F. Hold, too high you go. P. The brib'd elector.-F. There you ftoop too low.
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 goodness, need I Scarb'row name ? Pleas'd let me own, in Eber's peaceful grove lash;|(Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love), The fcene, the master, op'ning to my view, I fit and dream I fee my Craggs anew!
P. I fain would please you, if I knew with what;
Tell me which knave is lawful game, which not? Muft great offenders, once efcap'd the Crown, Like royal harts, be never more run down? Admit your law to fpare the knight requires, As beafts of nature may we hunt the 'fquires? Suppofe I cenfure-you know what I meanTo fave a Bishop, may I name a Dean?
F. A Dean, Sir? no; his fortune is not made; You hurt a man that 's rifing in the trade.
P. If not the tradefman who set up to-day, Much lefs the 'prentice who to-morrow may. Down, down, proud fatire! tho' 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 less pity for the needy cheat, The poor and friendiefs villain, than the great! Alas the fmall difcredit of a bribe Scarce hurts the Lawyer, but undoes the Scribe.
Who now that obfolete example fears? Even Peter trembles only for his ears.
F. What always Peter? Peter thinks you mad; You make men defp'rate, if they once are bad: Elfe might he take to virtue fome years henceP. As S-k, if he lives, will love the Prince, F. Strange spleen to S―k!
Even in a Bishop I can fpy defert; Secker is decent, Rundel has a heart : Manners with candour are to Benfon given; To Berkley ev'ry virtue under Heaven.
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 once and Halifax were mine. Oft, in the clear ftill mirrour of retreat, I ftudied 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 thin'd the foul, unconquer'd in the Tow'r? How can I Pult'ney, Chefterfield forget, While Roman spirit charms, and attic wit? Argyle, the State's whole thunder born to wield, And shake alike the fenate and the field: Or Wyndham, just 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, 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.
Yet think not, friendship only prompts my lays;
I follow Virtue; where the fhines, I praife;
Point fhe to Prieft or Elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a Quaker's beaver caft a glory.
I never (to my forrow i declare)
Din'd with the Man of Rofs, or my Lord Mayor.
Some in their choice of friends (nay, look not
Have ftill a fecret bias to a knave:
To find an honeft man I beat about,
And love him, court him, praise him, in or cut.
F. Then why fo few commended?
P. Not fo fierce ;
Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse.