F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow?
P. I only call those knaves who are so now.
Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply-
Spirit of Arnall* ! aid me while I lie.
COBHAM's a coward, POLWARTH § is a flave,
And LYTTLETON a dark, defigning knave,
ST. JOHN has ever been a wealthy fool~~-
But let me add, Sir ROBERT's mighty dull,
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, befides, a tyrant to his wife.
But pray when others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolfey, any ódious name ?
Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine,
Oh all accomplish'd ST. JOHN! deck thy fhrine?
What? fhall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, 140
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay,
Or each new-penfion'd fycophant, pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend;
Then wifely plead, to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my gueft at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure, if I fpare the minifter, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said
His faws are toothlefs, and his hatchets lead.
It anger'd TURENNE, once upon a day,
To fee a footman kick'd, that took his pay:
But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave,
Knew one a man of honour, one a knave;
The prudent gen'ral turn'd it to a jest,
And begg'd, he'd take the pains to kick the reft:
Which not at prefent having time to do
F. Hold, Sir! for God's fake, where's th' affront to you?
Look for him in his place. Dunc. B. ii. ver. 315.
The Hon. Hugh Hume, fon of Alexander earl of Marchmont, grand. fon of Patrick earl of Marchmont, and diftinguifhed, like them, in the cause of liberty.
Against your worship when had S―k writ ?
Or P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whofe diftich all commend
[In pow'r a fervant, out of pow'r a friend]
To W-le guilty of fome venial fin;
What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?
The priest whose flattery bedropt the crown,
How hurt he you? he only ftain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?
P. Faith, it imports not much from whom it came ; Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame,
Since the whole houfe did afterwards the fame.
Let courtly wits to wits afford fupply,
As hog to hog in huts of Weftphaly;
If one, thro' Nature's bounty, or his lord's,
Has what the frugal, dirty foil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mefs almoft as it came in ;
The bleffed benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind:
From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse;
The last full fairly gives it to the House.
F. This filthy fimile, this beaftly line
Quite turns my ftomach-
P. So does flatt'ry mine;
And all your courtly Civet-cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
But hear me further-Japhet, 'tis agreed,
Writ not, and Chartres § scarce could write or read,
In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write:
And muft no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own?
A verfe taken out of a poem to Sir R. W.
See the Epistle to lord Bathurst
Muft never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unless, good man! he hath been fairly in?
No zealous paftor blame a failing spouse,
Without a staring reafon on his brows?
And each blafphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the infult's not on man, but God?
Afk you what provocation I have had ?
The ftrong antipathy of good to bad.
When Truth or Virtue an affront endures,
Th' affront is mine, my friend, and fhould be yours. 200
Mine, as a foe profefs'd to falfe pretence,
Who think a coxcomb's honour like his fense;
Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're ftrangely proud.
P. So proud I am no flave:
So impudent, I own myself no knave:
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud: I must be proud to fee
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me:
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and fham'd by ridicule alone.
O facred weapon! left for Truth's defence,
Sole dread of folly, vice, and infolence!
To all but heav'n-directed hands deny'd,
The Muse may give thee, but the gods muft guide: 215
Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honeft zeal;
To rouze the watchmen of the public weal,
To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate flumb'ring in his stall.
Ye tinfel infects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your ftains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The Mufe's wing fhall brush you all away :
All his grace preaches, all his lordship fings,
All that makes faints of queens, and gods of kings. 225
Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit and the Throne,
Yet l'ouchd and shamd by Ridicule alone??
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