Poor guiltless I and can I chufe but smile, When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my ftyle? 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 fteal a tear! But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, Insults 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 lust to misapply, 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! fmiles 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 ear 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 expreft, 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 ainbition'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 lye 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 flood 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 fhape;
Abufe on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread;
A friend in exile, or a father dead;

The whisper, that to greatnefs ftill too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his fov'reign's car-
Welcome for thee, fair virtue ! all the paft:
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 lose his own.

Yet foft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
This dreaded fat'rift 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 spare 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 applause) Each parent fprung—A. What fortune, pray ?P. Their own,

age.

P 4

With

With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make languor finile, and fmooth 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 just 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.

SATIRE I.

To Mr. Fortefeue.

P.THERE are(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 fay;
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:

6

..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 verfe? With arms, and George, and Brunfwick crowd Rend with tremendous founds your cars afunder With gun, druin, trumpet, blunderbufs, and thunOr 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 finocth the tuneful lav; 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 fcarce can bear their Laureat twice a year; And juftly Cafar fcorns the poet's lays; It is to hiftory he trufts for praife.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it fill, Than ridicule all tafte, 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 fmart 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-py¤; 、

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 fo 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 asses 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 fhort)
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

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 perifh in the gen'rous caufe:
Hear this and tremble! you, who 'fcape 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 best 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, whofe 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 spy 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 cause-
What faith my counfel, learned in the laws?
F. Your plea is good; but ftill I fay, beware!
Laws are explain'd by men-fo have a care.
It stands on record, that in Richard's times
A man was hang'd for very honest 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 strong in fenfe, and wife without the rules.
Go work, hunt, excrcife! (he thus began)
Then feorn a homely dinner if you can.
Your wine lock'd up, your butler ftroll'd abroad,
Or fifh 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 cat) Yet for fmall turbots fuch efteem profefs? Becaufe God made thefe large, the other lefs. Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endu'd, Cries," Send me, Gods, a whole hog barbecu'd!" Oh blast it, South-winds, till a ftench exhale Rank as the ripenefs of a rabbit's tail. By what criterion do you eat, d'ye think, If this is priz'd for fweetness, 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 ftill 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'lish 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 lies 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 feast, 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 stops, 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 greasy 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 dish,

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 fpirits light as air.

How pale each Worshipful and Rev'rend guest Rife from a clergy or a city-feaft! What life in all that ample body, fay? What heav'nly particle infpires the clay.

The

come,

Than eat the fweeteft by themselves at home.
Why had not I in thofe good times my birth,
Ere coxcomb pyes or coxcombs were on earth?
Unworthy he, the voice of fame to hear,
That fweeteft mufic to an honeft car;
(For'faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong;
The world's good word is better than a fong)
Who has not learn'd, fresh fturgeon and ham-pye
Are no rewards for want and infamy!
When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,
Curs'd be thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself.
To friends, to fortune, to mankind a fhame,
Think how pofterity will treat thy name;
And buy a rope, that future times may tell
Thou haft at leaft beftow'd one penny well.
Right," cries his Lordfhip, "for a rogue in need
"To have a tafte, is infolence indeed!

66

"In me 'tis noble, fuits my birth and state,

My wealth unwieldy and my heap too great.” Then, like the Sun, let Bounty fpread her ray, And hine that fuperfluity away.

Oh impudence of wealth! with all thy ftore,
How dar'ft thou let one worthy man be poor?
Shall halfthe new-built churches round thee fall?
Make quays, build bridges, or repair Whitehall:
Or to thy Country let that heap be lent,
As M-o's was, but not at five per cent.

Who thinks that fortune cannot change her
Prepares a dreadful jeft for all mankind. [mind,
And who ftands fafeft? Tell me, is it he
That fpreads and fwells in puff'd prosperity?
Or, bleft with little, whofe preventing care
In peace provides fit arms against a war?
Thus Bethel fpoke, who always fpeaks his
thought,

And always think the very thing he ought:
His equal mind I copy what I can,
And as I love, would imitate the man.
In South-Sea days not happier when furmis'd
The lord of thoufands, than if now excis'd;
In foreft planted by a father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
Content with little, I can piddle here
On broccoli and mutton round the year!
But ancient friends (tho' poor, or out of pay)
That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.

'Tis true, no Turbots dignify my boards ; But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords.

To Hounflow-heath I point, and Panfted-down; Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my

own:

From yon old walnut-tree a fhow'r shall fall; | And grapes long ling'ring on my only wall, And figs from ftandard and efpalier join; The dev'l is in you if you cannot dine: [place) Then cheerful healths (your miftrefs fhall have And, what's more rare, a poet fhall fay grace. Fortune not much of humbling me can boaft; Tho' double tax'd, how little have I loft? My life's amufements have been juft the fame Before and after standing armies came. My lands are fold, my father's houfe is gone i I'll hire another's: is not that my own, [Late And yours, my friends? thro' whofe free op'ning None comes too early, none departs too late; For I, who hold fage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, fpeed the going gueft. "Pray Heav'n it laft! (cries Swift!) as you go on; "I with to God this houfe had been your own. Pity! to build without a fon or wife;

66

Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life.” Well, if the ufe be mine, can it concern one, Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon! What's property? dear Swift! you fee it alter From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's fhare; Or, in a jointure, vanifh from the heir; Or, in pure equity (the cafe not clear) The Chanc'ry takes your rents for twenty year: At beft, it fails to fome ungracious fon, [own!" Who cries," My father's damn'd, and all's my Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, Become the portion of a booby lord;

And Hemfley, once proud Buckingham's delight, Slides to a fcriv'ner, or a city knight.

Let lands and houfes have what lords they will,
Let us be fix'd, and own our mafters ftill.

The First Epistle of the First Book of Horace.
EPISTLE

I.

To Lord Bolingbrol.c.

ST. John, whofe love indulg'd my labours paft, Matures my prefent, and fhall bound my laft! Why will you break the Sabbath of my days? Now fick alike of envy and of praise. Public too long, ah let me hide my age! See modeft Cibber now has left the age; Our Gen'rals now retir'd to their eftates, Hang their old trophies o'er the garden-gates; In life's cool ev'ning, fatiate of applaufe, Nor fond of bleeding, ev'n in Brunfwick's caufe. A voice there is, that whispers in my car ('Tis Reafon's voice, which fometimes one can hear) [breath, "Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Mufe take "And never gallop Pegasus to death; "Left ftiff and ftately, void of fire or force, “You limp, like Blackmore, on a Lord Mayor's

horfe."

Farewell

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 master, of no fect am I;
As drives the storm, at any door I knock;
And house 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 wise:
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 fchool,
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 thefe 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, slothful, 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 Wifdom, to be fool no more. But to the world no bugbear is fo great As want of figure and a small 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,

There, London's voice, "Get money, money ftill
"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 Weftminster.
Barnard in fpirit, fenfe, and truth abounds;
Pray then, what wants he !" Fourfcore thou-
fand pounds;

66

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 D1, Their Honours, and so forth,
Yet ev'ry child another fong 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 Minifter's an Afs.

And fay to which fhall our applause 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 praise 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 steady view
Proud Fortune, and look fhallow Greatnefs

thro';

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 S*z take scandal at a Spark [ftare; That lefs admires the palace than the park, Faith, I fhall give the answer 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 send 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 mifers 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,

And cafe thy heart of all that it admires?

"As gold to filver, Virtue is to gold."

hill !"

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