Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe,
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so
As men from Jails to execution go;
For hung with deadly sins I see the wall,
And lin'd with Giants deadlier than them all;
Each Man an Afkapart, of strength to toss
For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross.
Scar'd at the grizly forms, I sweat, I fly,
And shake all o'er, like a discover'd spy.
Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine: 280 Charge them with Heaven's Artillery, bold Divine! From fuch alone the Great rebukes endure, Whose Satire 's facred, and whose rage secure:
He strives to look worse; he keeps all in awe;
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Tir'd, now, I leave this place, and but pleas'd sa
As men from gaols to execution go,
Go, through the great chamber (why is it hung,
With these seven deadly sins?) being among
› Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing-cross, for a bar, men that do know,
No token of worth, but Queens man, and fine
Living; barrels of beef, flaggons of wine.
I shook like a spied Spie-Preachers which are
Seas of Wit and Arts, you can, then dare,
Drown the fins of this place, but as for me
Which am but a scant brook, enough shall be
'Tis mine to wash a few light stains; but theirs
To deluge fin, and drown a Court in tears.
Howe'er what's now Apocrypha, my Wit,
In time to come, may pass for Holy Writ.
To wash the stains away: Although I yet
(With Maccabees modesty) the known merit
Of my work lessen, yet fome wife men shall,
I hope, esteem my Writs Canonical.
SATIRES.
IN TWO DIALOGUES.
OT twice a twelvemonth you appear in Print,
And when it comes, the Court see nothing in't.
You grow correct, that once with Rapture writ,
And are, besides, too moral for a Wit.
Decay of Parts, alas! we all must feel
Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal ?
'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye
Said, "Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory;"
You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade,
Because you think your reputation made:
Like good Sir Paul, of whom so much was said,
That when his name was up, he lay a-bed.
Come, come, refresh us with a livelier fong,
Or, like Sir Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long.
P. Sir, what I write, should be correctly writ.
F. Correct! 'tis what no genius can admit.
Befides, you grow too moral for a Wit.
VOL. II.
And taught his Romans, in much better metre,
"To laugh at Fools who put their trust in Peter." 10
But Horace, Sir, was delicate, was nice;
Bubo observes, he lash'd no fort of Vice:
Horace would say, Sir Billy serv'd the Crown,
Blunt could do Business, Higgins knew the Town;
In Sappho touch the Failings of the Sex,
In reverend Bishops note some small Neglects,
And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing,
Who cropt our Ears, and fent them to the King.
His fly, polite, infinuating style
Could please at Court, and make AUGUSTUS smile:
An artful Manager, that crept between
His Friend and Shame, and was a kind of Screen.
But 'faith your very Friends will foon be fore;
Patriots there are, who with you'd jest no more-
And where's the Glory? 'twill be only thought
The Great man never offer'd you a groat.
P. See Sir ROBERT!--hum
And never laugh-for all my life to come?
Seen him I have, but in his happier hour
Of Social Pleasure, ill-exchang'd for Power;
Seen him, uncumber'd with a Venal tribe,
Smile without Art, and win without a Bribe.
Would he oblige me! let me only find,
He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt;
The only difference is, I dare laugh out.
F. Why yes: with Scripture still you may be free;
A Horse-laugh, if you please, at Honesty;
A Joke on JEKYLL, or fome odd Old Whig,
Who never chang'd his Principle, or Wig;
A Patriot is a Fool in every age,
Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the Stage:
These nothing hurts; they keep their Fashion still,
And wear their strange old Virtue, as they will.
If any ask you, "Who's the Man, so near "His Prince, that writes in Verse, and has his ear ?"
Why answer LYTTELTON, and I'll engage
The worthy Youth shall ne'er be in a rage:
But were his Verses vile, his Whisper base:
You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's cafe.
Sejanus, Wolfey, hurt not honest FLEURY,
But well may put some Statefmen in a fury.
Laugh then at any, but at Fools or Foes;
These you but anger, and you mend not those.
Laugh at your Friends, and, if your Friends are fore, 55
So much the better, you may laugh the more.
To Vice and Folly to confine the jest,
Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest;
Did not the Sneer of more impartial men
At Sense and Virtue balance all again.
Judicious Wits spread wide the Ridicule,
And charitably comfort Knave and Fool.
P. Dear Sir, forgive the Prejudice of Youth:
Adieu Distinction, Satire, Warmth, and Truth!
Come, harmless Characters that no one hit;
Come, Henley's Oratory, Osborn's Wit!
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