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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, besides, a tyrant to his wife.


But pray, when others praife him do I blame? Call Verres, Wolfey, any odious name? Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine, Oh, all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine! What! fhall each fpur-gall'd hackney of the day, 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 wisely plead to me they meant no hurt,


But 'twas my gueft at whom they threw the dirt? 145
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 toothless, 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; 155 Which not at prefent having time to do



F. Hold, Sir! for God's fake; where's th' affront to Against your Worthip 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 or in? The priest whofe flattery be-dropp`d 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.

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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 almost 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 laft full fairly gives it to the House.
F. This filthy fimile, this beatly 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 Chatres fcarce could write or read;
In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;

But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write;
And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own?
Muft never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous paftor blame a failing spouse
Without a staring reas'ning on his brows?
And each blafphemer quite efcape the rod,
Because the infult's not en 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 should be your's. Mine as a foe profefs'd to falfe pretence,


Who think a coxcomb's honour like his fenfe;

Mine as a friend to ev'ry 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 myfelf 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 sham'd by ridicule alone.



O facred weapon! loft for truth's defence, Sole dread of folly, vice, and infolence! To all but heav'n directed hands deny'd, The Mufe may give thee, but the gods must guide: Rev'rend I touch thee! but with honeft zeal, To roufe the watchmen of the public weal, To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, And goad the prelate slumb’ring in his stall. Ye tinfel infects! whom a court maintains, That.counts your beauties only by your stains, 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; All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the prefs, Like the loft Gazette or the last Address.

When black Ambition ftains a public cause, A monarch's fword when mad vain-glory draws, Not Waler's wreath can hide the nation's fcar, Not Boileau turn the feather to a star.




Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's

Not fo when diadem'd with rays divine,

Her prieftefs Mufe forbids the good to die,

And opes the temple of Eternity.

There other trophies deck the truly brave

Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the grave;

Far other ftars then * and * * wear,

And may defcend to Mordington from Stair! [Such as on Hough's unfully'd mitre fhine,



Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine,]
Let Envy howl, while heav'n's whole chorus fings,
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let Flatt'ry fick'ning fee the incenfe rife,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, fanctifies the line,
And makes immortal verfe as mean as mine.
Yes, the laft pen for freedom let me draw,
When Truth ftands trembling on the edge of law.




Here, laft of Britons! let your names be read :
Are none, none living! let me praise the dead;
And for that caufe which made your fathers fhine,
Fall by the votes of their degen rate line.

F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Effays on Man.





To Robert Earl of Oxford and Lord Mortimer.* were the notes thy once lov'd poet fung, Till death untimely ftopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, juft beheld and loft! admir'd and mourn'd! With foftest manners, gentlest arts, adorn'd! Blefs'd in each science! bless'd in ev'ry strain! Dear to the Mufe! to Harley dear—in vain!

For him thou oft' haft bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the ftatesman in the friend;
For Swift and him defpis'd the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wife and great
Dextrous the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'fcape from flattery to wit.

Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear,
(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear,)
Recall thofe nights that clos'd thy toilfome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of int'reft, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or, deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure if aught below the seats divine,
Can touch immortals, 'tis a foul like thine;
A foul fupreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all pain, all paffion, and all pride,
The rage of pow'r, the blaft of public breath,
The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to defarts thy retreat is made,
The Muse attends thee to thy filent shade:
'Tis her's the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When Int'reft calls off all her fneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain,








Sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell's Poems, published by our Author after the faid Eari's imprifonment in the Tower, and retreat into the country, in the year 1721.

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