The Priest whofe Flattery be-dropt 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 Houfe did afterwards the fame. 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 mess almost 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 House.
F. This filthy fimile, this beastly line Quite turns my stomach----
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 Chartres fcarce could write or read,
In all the Courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But Pens can forge, my Friend, that cannot write;
And must 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,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous Paftor blame a failing Spouse,
Without a staring reafon 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 yours.
Mine, as a Foe profefs'd to falfe Pretence,
Who think a Coxcomb's Honour like his Sense;
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 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 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 must guide;
Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest 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,
VOL. III.
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 Lordship fings,
All that makes Saints of Queens, and Gods of Kings.
All, all but Truth, drops dead-born from the Prefs,
Like the last Gazette, or the last Address.
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,
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 Tropies deck the truely brave,
Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the Grave;
Far other Stars than* and ** wear,
And may defcend to Mordington from STAIR;
(Such as on HOUGn's unfully'd Mitre fhine,
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 Flatt'ry fick'ning fee the Incense rise,
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 ftands trembling on the edge of Law;
Flere, laft of Britons! let your Names be read;
Are none, none living? let me praife the Dead,
And for that Caufe which made your Fathers shine, Fall by the Votes of their degenerate Line.
F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Eays on Man.
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