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Poor guiltless I and can I chufe but smile,
When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my style?
Curft be the verfe, how well foe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foc,
Give virtue fcandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the foft-ey'd virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fall'n worth, or beauty in diftrefs,
Who loves a lye, 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 felfifhly 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 lye not, muft at leaft betray:
Who to the dean and filver bell can fwear,
And fees at Canons what was never there;
Who reads, but with a luft to mifapply,
Make fatire a lampoon, and fiction lye.
A lath like mine no honeft man fhall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his ftead.
Let Sporus tremble-A. What that thing of
Sporus, that mere white curd of afs's milk? [filk,
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 stinks 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
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eterna! fimiles 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 car of Eve, familiar toad,
Half froth, half venom, fpits himself abroad
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
Or fpite, or fimut, 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 exprest,
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 proud, nor fervile; be one poet's praise,
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 lyc in verfe or profe the fame.
That not in fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But ftoop'd to truth, and moraliz'd his fong :
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 thed;
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;
Abufe on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, fpread;
A friend in exile, or a father dead;

The whifper, that to greatnefs ftill too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his fov'reign's car-
Welcome for thee, fair virtue! all the past:
For thee, fair virtue! welcome ev'n 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 fcorn, if he fucceed or fail,
Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail,
A hireling fcribb'ler, 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 lofe his own.

Yet foft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
This dreaded fatʼrift Dennis will confefs
Foe to his pride, but friend to his diftrefs:
So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door,
Has drank with Cibber, nay has rhym'd for Moor.
Full ten years flander'd, did he once reply?
Three thoufand funs went down on Welfted's lye.
To please a miftrefs, one afpers'd his life;
He lafh'd him not, but let her be his wife:
Let Budgel charge low Grubftreet on his quill,
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his will;
Let the two Curls of town and court, abuse
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 fong.

Of gentle blood (part fhed in honour's cause,
While yet in Britain honour had applaufe)
Each parent fprung-A. What fortune, pray ?-
P. Their own,

And better got, than Beftia's from the throne.
Born to no pride, inheriting no ftrife,
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 fchoolman's fubtile 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 fick nefs paft unknown,
His death was inftant, and without a groan.
O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Whofprung from kings fhall know lefs joy than I
O friend! may each domestic blifs be thine i
Be no unpleafing melancholy mine:
Me, let the tender office long engage,
To rock the cradle of repofing age;
P 4

.

With

With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make languor fimile, and smooth the bed of death,
Explore the thought, explain the afking eye,
And keep a while one parent from the fky!
On cares like thefe, if length of days attend,
MayHeav'n, to blefs thofe days,preferve my friend;
Preferve him focial, cheerful, and ferene,
And juft as rich as when he ferv'd a queen.
A. Whether that bleffing be deny'd or giv'n,
Thus far was right, the reft belongs to Heav'n.

Ridotta fips and dances, till fhe fee
The doubling luftres dance as faft as she;
F- loves the fenate, Hockleyhole his brother;
Like in all else, as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myfelf, as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montagne:
In them, as certain to be lov'd as feen,
The foul ftood forth, nor kept a thought within;
In me what spots (for fpots I have) appear,
Will prove at least the medium must be clear.
In this impartial glafs, my Mufe intends
Fair to expofe myfelf, my foes, my friends;

§ 17. Satires and Epiftles of Horace imitated. POPE. Publish the prefent age; but where my text

SATIRE I.

To Mr. Fortefeue.

P.THERE arc (Ifcarce 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 say ;
Lord Fanny fpins a thoufand fuch a day.
Tim'rous by nature, of the rich in awe,
I come to council learned in the law:
You'll give me, like a friend both fage and free,
Advice; and (as you ufe) without a fee.
F. I'd write no more,

P. Not write? but then I think;
And, for my foul, I cannot fleep a wink.
I nod in company, I wake at night,
Fools rush into my head, and fo I write.
F. You could not do a worfe 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 advife
Hartshorn, or fomething that fhall clofe your eyes.
Or, if you needs muft write, write Cæfar's praife:
You'll gain at leaft a knighthood, or the bays.
P, What! like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough,
and fierce,
[the veric?
With arms, and George, and Brunfwick crowd
Rend with tremendous founds your cars afunder
With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbufs, and thun-
Or nobly wild, with Budgel's fire and force, [der?
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 verfes touch their nicer car;
They scarce can bear their Laureat twice a year;
And juftly Cafar fcorns the poet's lays;
It is to history he trufts for praife.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll inaintain it still,
Than ridicule all taste, blafpheme quadrille,
Abuse the city's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their truft in Peter.
Ev'n thofe you touch not, hate you---

P. What should ail them?
F. A hundred fiart 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 pleafure: none deny Scarfdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pyc;

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Is vice too high, referve it for the next :
My foes fhall 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 honest mean;
In moderation placing all my glory,
While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too diicrect
To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet;
I only wear it in a land of hectors,
Thieves, fupercargoes, fharpers, and directors.
Save but our army! and let Jove incruft
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting ruft !
Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more:
But touch me, and no minifter so 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 Walters, or with Chartres eat;
They'll never poifon you, they'll only cheat.

Then, learned Sir (to cut the matter thort)
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 difplay'd,
To wrap me in the univerfal fhade;
Whether the darken'd room to mufe invite,
Or whiten'd wall provoke the skew'r to write:
In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint,
Like Lee or Budgel, I will rhyme and print.

F. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be
long;

In flow'r of age you perifh for a fong!
Plume and directors, Shylock and his wife,
Will club their tefters, now, to take your life!

P. What? arm'd for virtue when I point the pen,
Brand the bold front of fhameless guilty men;
Dafh the proud gamefter in his gilded car;
Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star;
Can there be wanting, to defend her cause,
Lights of the church, or guardians of the laws?

Could

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Could penfion'd Boileau lash in honest strain
Flatt'rers and bigots, even in Louis' reign?
Could Laureat Dryden pimp and fry'r 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 perish in the gen'rous cause :
Hear this and tremble! you, who 'scape 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 beft companions grace,
Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place.
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
The feaft of reafon and the flow of foul:
And he, whose lightning pierc'd th’Iberian lines,
Now forms my quincunx,and now ranks my vines;
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain,
Almoft 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 me, tell;
And who unknown defame me, let them be
Scribblers or peers, alike are mob to me.
This is my plea, on this I reft my caufe-
What faith my counfel, learned in the laws?
F. Your plea is good; but still 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 fext. or prim. et quint. Eliz.
See Libels, Satires-here you have it-read.
P. Libels and Satires! lawlefs things indeed!
But grave Epifles, bringing vice to light,
Such as a knight might read, a bishop write,
Such as Sir Robert would approve-
F. Indeed?

The cafe is alter'd-you may then proceed;
In fuch a caufe the plaintiff will be hifs'd,
My lords the judges laugh, and you're dismiss'd.

SATIRE II.

To Mr Bethel.

WHAT, and how great the Virtue and the art
To live on little, with a cheerful heart
(A doctrine fage, but truly none of mine)
Let's talk my friend; but talk before we dine.
Not when a gilt Buffet's reflected pride
Turns you from found philofophy afide;
Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll,
* And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.
Hear Bethel's Sermon,not one 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 stroll'd abroad,
Or fith deny'd (the river yet unthaw'd)

If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, The pleature lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I pleafe, I doubt, our curious men
Will chufe 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 profefs?
Because God made these large, the other lefs.
Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endu'd,
Cries," Send me, Gods, a whole hog barbecu'd!”
Oh blaft it, South-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 stink?
When the tir'd glutton labours thro' a treat,
He finds no relish in the sweetest meat;
He calls for fomething bitter, fomething four
And the rich feast concludes extremely poor:
Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still 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'lifh 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 like 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 lics 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 fpare,

Is what two fouls fo gen'rous cannot bear;
Oil, tho' 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;
Nor lets, like Nævius, ev'ry error pafs;
The mufty wine, foul cloth, or greafy glass.

Now hear what bleffings temperance can bring: (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 School-boy's fimple fare, The temp'rate fleeps, and spirits 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 heav'nly particle infpires the clay ?.

Th

Own:

Old Age ;

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The soul subfides, and wickedly inclines 'Tis true, no Turbots dignify my boards;
To seem but mortal, cr'n in found Divines. But gudgeons, founders, what my Thames

On morning wings how active springs the mind affords.
That leaves the load of yesterday behind ! To Hounslow-heath I point, and Panfted-down;
How caly ev'ry.labour it pursues !

Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my
How coming to the Poct ev'ry Muse!
Not but we may exceed some lioly time, From yon old walnut-tree a show'r shallfall;
Or tir'd in search of Truth, or search of Rhyme; And grapes long lingʻring on my only wall,
Ill health fome just indulgence may engage ; And ligs from standard and espalier join ;
And more the sickness of long

The devil is in you if you cannot dine: [place) For fainting age what cordial drop remains, Then cheerful healths" (your mistress fall have If our intempérate Youth the vessel drains ? And, what's more rare, a poct shall say grace. Our fathers prais'd rank Ven'lon. You sup- Fortune not much of humbling me can boast; polc,

Tho' double tax'd, how little have I lost? Perhaps, young men ! our fathers had no nose. My life's amusements have been just the same Not fo : a Buck was then a week's repast; Before and after standing armies came. And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last ; My lands are fold, my father's house is gone į More pleas'd to keep it till their friends could l'll hire another's : is not that my own, [id comc,

And yours, my friends ? thro' whose free op’ning Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home. None comes too early, none departs too late ; Why had not I in those good times my birth, For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the beft, Ere coxcomb pyes or coxcombs were on earth? Welcome the coming, fpeed the going gucft.

Unworthy he, the voice of fame to hear, “Pray Heav'n it last! (cries Swift!) as you go on; That swecrest music to an honest car;

I with to God this house had been

your (For’faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong; Pity! to build without a son or wife; The world's good word is better than a song) Why, you'll enjoy it only all your

life.” Who has not learn’d, fresh sturgeon and ham-pye Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one, Are no rewards for want and infamy !

Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon! When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf, What’s property dear Swift! you fee it alter Curs'd be thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself. From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame, Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's share ; Think how pofterity will treat thy name; Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir; And buy a rope, that future times may tell Or, in pure equity (the case not clear) Thou hast at least bestow 'd one penny well. The Chanc'ry takes your rents for twenty year: “ Right,” cries his Lordship,“ fora rogue in need At best, it falls to tome ungracious son, (own!** *6 To have a taste, is insolence indeed!

Who cries, “ My father's damn’d, and all's my “ In me 'tis noble, suits my birth and state, Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, “My wealth unwieldy and my heap too great." Become the portion of a booby lord; Then, like the Sun, let Bounty spread her ray, And Hemfley, once proud Buckingham's delight, And Mine that fuperfluity aivay.

Slides to a scriv’ncr, or a city knight. Oh impudence of wealth! with all thy store, Let lands and houtes have what lords they will, How dar'ft thou let one vorthy man

poor?

Let us be fix'd, and own our masters ftill.
Shall halfthe new-built churches roundthee fall ?
Make quays, build bridges, or repair Whitehall: The Fird Epiltle of the First Book of Horace.
Or to thv Country let that hcap be lene

EPISTLE I.
As M-o's was, but not at five per cent.
Who thinks that fortune cannot change her

To Lord Bolingbroke.
Prepares a dreadful jeft for all mankind. [mind, ST. John, whose love indulg’d my labours past,
And who stands fafeft? Tell me, is it he Matures my pretent, and thall bound my last!
That fpreads and fivells in puffd prosperity? Why will you break the Sabbath of my days?
Or, bleft with little, whofe preventing care

Now fick alike of envy and of praise.
In peace provides sit arms against a war? Public too long, ah let me hide my age!
Thus Bethel spoke, who always fpeaks his See modest Cibber now has left the fiage;
thought,

Our Gen’rals now retir'd to their eftates,
And alwars think the very thing he ought: Hang their old trophies o'er the garden-gates ;
His equal mind I copy what I can,

In life's cool ev’ning, satiate of applause, dod as I love, would imitate the man.

Nor fond of bleeding, ev’n in Brunswick's cause. In South-Sea days not happier when surmis'd A voice there is, that whispers in my car The lord of thoufands, than if now excis'd; ('Tis Reason's voice, which fometimes one can La foreft slanted by a father's hand,

hear)

[hreath, Than in hve acres now of rented land.

“ Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Muse take Content with little, I can piddle here

“ And never gallop Pegasus to death; On broccoli and mutton round the year! “ Lelt stiff and stately, void of fire or force, But ancient friends (tho' poor, or out of pa;) “ You limp, likc Blackmore, on a Lord Mayor's Thit touch my bell, I cannot turn away.

horse.”

Farcwell

he

Farewell then Verfe, and Love, and ev'ry toy,
The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy;
What right, what true, what fit 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 most, the last.
But aik not to what Doctors I apply?
Sworn to no mafter, of no fect am I;
As drives the ftorm, at any door I knock;
And houfe with Montagne now, or now with
Locke.

Sometimes a Patriot, active in debate,

Mix with the World, and battle for the State;
Free as young Lyttleton, her caufe purfue,
Still true to Virtue, and as warm as true :
Sometimes with Ariftippus, or St. Paul,
Indulge my candor, 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 still delay
Life's inftant bus'nefs to a future day :
That task, which as we follow, or despise,
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 school,
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 advise,
To keep thefe limbs, and to preferve these 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 con-
Between the fits this fever of the foul; [trol
Know, there are rhymes, which, fresh and fresh
apply'd,

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 afk is but a patient ear.

'Tis the firft 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 finall 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 thro' the Tropic, freeze beneath the Pole!
Wilt thou do nothing for a noble end,
Nothing, to make Philofophy thy friend?
To ftop thy foolish views, thy long defires,
And cafe thy heart of all that it admires?
Here Wisdom calls: "Seek Virtue first, be bold!
"As gold to filwer, Virtue is to gold."

There, London's voice, "Get money, money still
"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 whofe quills ftand quiver'd at his ear,
To him who notches fticks at Weftininfter.

Barnard in fpirit, fenfe, and truth abounds; "Pray then, what wants he !" Fourscore thoufand pounds;

A penfion, or fuch harness for a slave
As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.
Barnard thou art a Cit, with all thy worth;
But Bug and D 1, Their Honours, and fo forth,
Yet ev'ry child another song will fing,
"Virtue, brave boys! 'tis Virtue makes a King!"
True, conscious honour is to feel no fin;
He's arm'd without that's innocent within;
Be this thy fcreen, and this thy wall of brafs;
Compar'd to this, a Minister'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 spoke at Creffy or Poitiers?
Who counfels beft? 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 king!
Or he, who bids thee face with fteady view
Proud Fortune, and look fhallow Greatnefs

thro';

fftare;

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
If honeft Sz take scandal 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,
"Full many a beaft goes in, but none come out."
Adieu to Virtue, if you're once a flave:
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 beast :
Can they direct what measures to purfue,
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 misers drain;
Or crofs, to plunder provinces, the main;
The reft, fome farm the poor-box, fome the pews;
Some keep affemblies, and would keep the stews;
Some with fat bucks on childlefs dotards fawn;
Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn,
While with the filent growth of ten per cent.
In dirt and darknefs, hundreds ftink content.

Of all thefe ways, if each purfues his own, Satire be kind, and let the wretch alone: But fhew me one who has it in his pow'r To act confiftent with himself an hour! Sir Job fail'd forth, the ev'ning bright and ftill, "No place on earth (he cryd) like Greenwich hill !"

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