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I only wear it in a land of Hectors,

Thieves, Supercargoes, Sharpers, and Directors,
Save but our Army! and let Jove incruft
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust.
Peace is my dear delight—not FLEURY's more;
But touch me, and no Minister so sore.
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 song.

Slander or Poifon dread from Delia's rage,
Hard words or hanging, if your Judge be Page.
From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate,
P-x'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate.
Its proper pow'r to hurt, each creature feels; 85
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. 90


Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at Court, Whether Old age, with faint but chearful ray, Attends to gild the Ev'ning of my day, Or Death's black wing already be display'd, 95 To wrap me in the universal shade;

Whether the darken'd room to muse invite,

Or whiten❜d wall provoke the skew'r to write ;

In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint,
Like Lee or Budgell, I will rhyme and print. 100
F. Alas young man! your days can ne'er be long,
In flow'r of age you perish for a fong!
Plums and Directors, Shylock and his Wife,
Will club their Testers, now, to take your life.


P. What? arm'd for Virtue when I point the pen, Brand the bold front of fhameless guilty men; Dash the proud Gamester 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 penfion'd Boileau lash in honest strain Flatt'rers and Bigots ev'n in Louis' reign? Could Laureate Dryden Pimp and Fry'r engage, Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage? And I not strip the gilding off a Knave, 115 Unplac'd, unpenfion'd, no man's heir, or flave? I will, or perish 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. 120 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 bow! The Feast of Reason, and the Flow of Soul:

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, 131
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 spread friendships, but to cover heats;
To help who want, to forward who excel;
This, all who know me, know; who love me,
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 Council, learned in the laws?
F. Your plea is good; but ftill I fay, beware!
Laws are explain'd by Men-so 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! lawless things indeed!
But grave Epiftles, bringing Vice to light, 151
Such as a King 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 cause the Plaintiff will be hifs'd, 155
My Lords the Judges laugh, and you're dismiss'd.

Earl of Peterborough.

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s when that Hero, who in each Campaign, Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain, Lay Fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of Woe! Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by every Foe; Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind, But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind? Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight? A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite ? Such, fuch emotions should in Britons rise, When prefs'd by want and weakness DENNIS lies; Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns, Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns; A defp'rate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce Against the Gothic fons of frozen verse : How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, And shook the stage with thunders all his own!

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Stood up to dash each vain Pretender's hope, Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope! If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, Who holds Dragoons and wooden fhoes in scorn; If there's a Critic of diftinguish'd rage;

If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;

Let him to-night his just affiftance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.






STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,

In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

Prais'd, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he lov❜d.

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