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Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end,
There, London's voice, 'Get money, money still!
This, this the saving doctrine preach'd to all, From low Saint James's up to high Saint Paul; From him whose quills stand quiver'd at his ear, To him who notches sticks at Westminster.
Barnard in spirit, sense, and truth, abounds; 'Pray then what wants he?' Fourscore thousand A pension, or such harness for a slave [pounds; As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have. Barnard! thou art a cit, with all thy worth; But Bug and D*I, their honours! and so forth. Yet every child another song will sing, 'Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king.' True conscious honour is to feel no sin; He's arm'd without that 's innocent within : Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass; Compared to this a minister 's an ass.
And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new court jargon, or the good old song? The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poitiers? Who counsels best? who whispers, 'Be but great, With praise or infamy leave that to Fate; Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace; If not, by any means get wealth and place.' For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing, And foremost in the circle eye a king;
Or he, who bids thee face with steady view Proud Fortune, and look shallow Greatness
And, while he bids thee, sets the' example too?
I cannot like, dread sir! your royal cave;
Because I see, by all the tracks about,
Just half the land would buy, and half be sold:
The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the pews;
Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
Up starts a palace; lo, the obedient base
But give the knight (or give his lady) spleen;
The fool whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter,
Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch,
Transform themselves so strangely as the rich? Well, but the poor-the poor have the same itch; They change their weekly barber, weekly news, Prefer a new japanner to their shoes,
Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run (They know not whither) in a chaise and one; They hire their sculler, and when once aboard Grow sick, and damn the climate-like a lord.
You laugh, half beau, half sloven, if I stand,
When (each opinion with the next at strife,
I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Nor once to Chancery nor to Hale apply,
Loved without youth, and follow'd without power,
BOOK I. EPISTLE IV'.
A MODERN IMITATION.
SAY, St. John, who alone peruse
Than all the tomes of Haines's band?
This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise bestowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, where Mr. Pope says,
The sons shall blush their fathers were his foes; being so contradictory, probably occasioned the former to be suppressed.
Or shoots he folly as it flies? Or catches manners as they rise?' Or, urged by unquench'd native heat, Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat? Where (emulous of Chartres' fame) E'en Chartres' self is scarce a name.
To you (the' all-envied gift of Heaven) The' indulgent gods, unask'd, have given A form complete in every part, And, to enjoy that gift, the art. What could a tender mother's care Wish better to her favourite heir, Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours, A stock of health, and golden showers, And graceful fluency of speech, Precepts before unknown to teach? Amidst thy various ebbs of fear, And gleaming hope, and black despair; Yet let thy friend this truth impart ; A truth I tell with bleeding heart, (In justice for your labours past) That
every day shall be your last; That every hour you life renew Is to your injured country due.
In spite of fears, of mercy spite, My genius still must rail, and write. Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat, And mingle with the grumbling great: There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find The rhyming bubbler of mankind; There (objects of our mutual hate) We'll ridicule both church and state.