w pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!
v shin'd the soul, unconquer'd, in the Tow'r!
w can I Pult'ney, Chesterfield, forget,
hile Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit!
gyle, the state's whole thunder born to wield, nd shake alike the senate and the field:
r Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne,
The master of our passions and his own.
Names which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain,
Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with their
And if yet higher the proud list should end, [train;
Still let me say, no foll'wer, but a friend.
Yet think not friendship only prompts my lays;
I follow Virtue; where she shines, I praise:
Point she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory.
I never (to my sorrow I declare)
Din'd with the Man of Ross, or my Lord May❜r.
Some, in their choice of friends (nay, look nof grave) Have still a secret bias to a knave:
To find an honest man I beat about,
And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.
F. Then why so few commended?
Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse.
But random praise---the task can ne'er be done;
Each mother asks it for her booby son,
Each widow asks it for the best of men,
For him she weeps, for him she weds agen.
Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the ground;
The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of these days
To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.
Are they not, rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend?
What Richlieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain.
No pow'r the Muse's friendship can command;
No pow'r, when Virtue claims it, can withstand.
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line;
O let my country's friends illumine mine!.
---What are you thinking?. F. Faith the thought's no
I think your friends are out, and would be in.
P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out,
The way they take it strangely round about.
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 slave,
And Lyttleton a dark, designing 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, besides, a tvrant to his wife.
But pray, when others praise him do I blame? call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine, 1
Oh all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine?
What! shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay,
Or each new-pension'd sycophant pretend
To break my windows, if I treat a friend;
Then wisely plead to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure if I spare the minister, no rules
Of honour bind me not to maul his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said,
His saws are toothless, and his hatchets lead,
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To see a footman kick'd that took his pay;
But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave, 155 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 rest;
Which not at present having time to do---
F. Hold, Sir! for God's sake; where's th' affront to Against your Worship when had S---k writ? [you? Or P---ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit? Or grant the bard whose distich all commend (In pow'r a servant, out of pow'r'a friend) To W---le guilty of some venial sin, What's that to you, who ne'er was out nor in?
The priest whose flattery bedropp'd the crown How hurt he you? he only stain❜d the gown.
And how did, pray, the florrid 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 House did afterwards the same.
Let courtly wits to wits afford supply,
As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly:
If one, thro' Nature's bounty, or his lord's,
Has what the frugal dirty soil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mess almost as it came in ;
The blessed 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 simile, this beastly line,
Quite turns my stomach---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 must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own?
Must never patriot then declaim at gin
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse,
Without a staring reason on his brows?
And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult's not on man, but God?
Ask you what provocation I have had ?
The strong 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 profess'd to false pretence,
Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense;
Mine as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.
P. So proud, I am no slave;
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 see
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 sacred weapon! left for truth's defence,
Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
To all but heav'n-directed hands deny'd,
The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide:
"Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal,
To rouse the watchman of the public weal,
To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate slumb'ring in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day,
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship sings,
All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings;
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press,
Like the last Gazette, or the last Address.
When black Ambition stains a public cause,
A monarch's sword when mad Vain-glory draws,
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