Let Sporus tremble-A. What ? that thing of filk?
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 flinks and stings ;
Whofe buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er taftes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred fpaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal fmiles his emptiness betray,
As fhallow freams 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, fpits himself abroad,
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lyes,
Or fpite, or fmut, or rhymes or blafphemies.
His wit all fee-faw, between that and this;
Now high, now low, now mafter up, now mifs,
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 exprefs'd;
A cherub's face, a reptile all the reft.
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,
Nor proud, nor fervile; be one Poet's praife,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:
That flatt'ry even to Kings he held a shame,
And thought a Lye in verfe or prose the same :
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But floop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his fong:
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,
He flood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half approving wit,
The coxcomb bit, or fearing to be bit;
Laugh'd at the lofs of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The diflant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed ;
The tale reviv'd, the lye fo oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trash and dulness not his own ;
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'fcape,
The libell'd perfon, and the pictur'd shape;
Abuse on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, fpread;
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 paft;
For thee, fair Virtue ! welcome even the last.
A. But why infult the poor, affront the great?
P. A knave's a knave to me, in ev'ry flate:
Alike my fcorn, 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 fhire;
If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
He gain his Prince's ear, or lofe his own.
Yet foft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
This dreaded Satʼrift Dennis will confefs
Foe to his pride, but friend to his diftrefs:
So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door,
Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rhym'd for Moor.
Full ten years flander'd, did he once reply?
Three thousand funs went down on Welfted's lye:
To please a Miftrefs, one afper'd his life ;
He lafh'd him not, but let her be his wife:
Let Budgel charge low Grubftreet on his quilt,
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 ori n Song.
Of gentle blood ( part thed in Honour's caufe, While yet in Britain Honoúr had applaufe)
Each parent fprung.-A. What fortune pray? P. Their
And better got than Beftia'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 thro' his age.
No Courts he faw, no fuits would ever try,
Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lye,
Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's fubtle art,
No language but the language of the heart.
By Nature honeft, by Experience wife,
Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercife:
His life, tho' long, to ficknefs pafs'd unknown.
His death was inftant, and without a groan.
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 blifs 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 fmooth the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the sky!
On cares like thefe, 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 bleffing be denied or given,
Thus far was right, the reft belongs to Heaven.
Epilogue to the Satires. In Two Dialogues. Porz DIALOGUE I
Fr. NOT twice a twelvemonth you appear in 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 feel
Why now, this moment, don't I fee you steal?
'Tis all from Horace; Horace, long before ye,
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 truft 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 Bifhops note fome fmall neglects;
And own the Spaniard did a waggifh thing,
Who cropt our ears, and fent them to the King.
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