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The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,
The Flowers of Bubo, and the Flow of Young!
The gracious Dew of Pulpit Eloquence,

And all the well-whipt Cream of Courtly Senfe,
That first was H—vy`s, F—'s next, and then,
The S-te's, and then H-vy's once agen.
O come, that easy Ciceronian style,

So Latin, yet fo English all the while,

As, though the Pride of Middleton and Bland,
All Boys may read, and Girls may understand!
Then might I fing, without the least offence,
And all I fung should be the Nation's Sense;
Or teach the Melancholy Mufe to mourn,
Hang the fad Verfe on CAROLINA's Urn,
And hail her paffage to the Realms of Reft,
All parts perform'd, and all her Children bleft!
So-Satire is no more-I feel it die-

No Gazetteer more innocent than I

And let, a God's name, every Fool and Knave
Be grac'd through Life, and flatter'd in his Grave.
F. Why fo? if Satire knows its Time and Place,
You ftill may lash the greatest-in Disgrace:

For Merit will by turns forfake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all Satire in all Changes spare
Immortal S-k, and grave De-re.
Silent and foft, as Saints remov'd to Heaven,
All Ties diffolv'd, and every Sin forgiven,
These may fome gentle ministerial Wing
Receive, and place for ever near a King!








There, where no Paffion, Pride, or Shame tranfport,
Lull'd with the fweet Nepenthe of a Court,

There, where no Father's, Brother's, Friend's difgrace Oncé break their reft, or stir them from their Place: But past the Sense of human Miseries,

All Tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;

No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb,
Save when they lose a Question, or a Job.

P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should blaft their glory,
Who know how like Whig Ministers to Tory,
And when three Sovereigns dy'd, could scarce be vext,
Confidering what a gracious Prince was next.
Have I, in filent wonder, feen fuch things
As Pride in Slaves, and Avarice in Kings;
And at a Peer, or Peerefs, fhall I fret,
Who ftarves a Sifter, or forfwears a Debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;


But shall the dignity of Vice be loft?

Ye Gods! fhall Cibber's Son, without rebuke,


Swear like a Lord, or Rich outwhore a Duke?

A Favourite's Porter with his Master vie,

Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?

Shall Ward draw Contracts with a Statesman's fkill?

Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a Will?


Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things)

To pay their Debts, or keep their Faith, like Kings?



Ver. 112. in fome editions,

Who ftarves a Mother

If Blount dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man,
And fo may't thou, illustrious Pafferan!

But shall a Printer, weary of his life,



Learn, from their Books, to hang himfelf and Wife?
This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear;
Vice thus abus'd, demands a Nation's care;
This calls the Church to deprecate our Sin,
And hurls the Thunder of the Laws on Gin.
Let modeft Fofter, if he will, excell
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A fimple Quaker, or a Quaker's Wife,
Outdo Landaffe in Doctrine,-yea in Life':
Let humble Allen, with an aukward Shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame,
Virtue may choose the high or low Degree,
'Tis just alike to Virtue, and to me;
Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King,
She's ftill the fame belov'd, contented thing.
Vice is undone, if the forgets her Birth,
And stoops from Angels to the dregs of Earth :
But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a Whore;
Let Greatnefs own her, and fhe's mean no more,
Her Birth, her Beauty, Crowds and Courts confess,
Chafte Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless;
In golden Chains the willing World she draws,
And hers the Gospel is, and hers the Laws,
Mounts the Tribunal, lifts her fcarlet head,
And fees pale Virtue carted in her stead.
Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal Car,
Old England's Genius, rough with many a Scar,






Dragg'd in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
His Flag inverted trails along the ground!
Our Youth, all livery'd o'er with foreign Gold,
Before her dance: behind her, crawl the Old !
See thronging Millions to the Pagod run,
And offer Country, Parent, Wife, or Son!
Hear her black Trumpet through the Land proclaim,
In Soldier, Churchman, Patriot, Man in Power,
'Tis Avarice all, Ambition is no more!
See, all our Nobles begging to be Slaves!


See, all our Fools aspiring to be Knaves!

The Wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore,


Are what ten thousand envy and adore:

All, all look up, with reverential Awe,

At crimes that 'fcape, or triumph o'er the Law: While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry"Nothing is facred now but Villainy."

Yet may this Verse (if such a Verse remain) Show there was one who held it in difdain.


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FR." T

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IS all a Libel-Paxton (Sir) will say.
P. Not yet, my Friend! to-morrow 'faith

it may;

And for that very cause I print to-day.
How should I fret to mangle every line,
In reverence to the Sins of Thirty-nine!
Vice with fuch Giant-ftrides comes on amain,
Invention ftrives to be before in vain;
Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong,
Some rifing Genius fins up to my Song.

F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash;
Even Guthry faves half Newgate by a Dash.
Spare then the Perfon, and expose the Vice.

P. How, Sir! not damn the Sharper, but the Dice? Come on then, Satire! general, unconfin'd,



Spread thy broad wing, and fouce on all the kind. 15
Ye Statesmen, Priests, of one Religion all!

Ye Tradesmen, vile, in Army, Court, or Hall!
Ye reverend Atheists. F. Scandal ! name them, Who?
P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do..


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