But, they can Smoke the deep defigns,
When Bolingbroke with Pult'ney dines.
BESIDES; your patron may upbraid ye,
That you have got a place already;
An office for your talents fit,
To flatter, carve, and fhew your wit;
To fnuff the lights and stir the fire,
And get a dinner for your hire.
What claim have you to place or penfion?
He overpays in condefcenfion.
BUT, rev'rend Doctor, you we know,
Cou'd never condefcend fo low:
The Viceroy, whom you now attend,
Wou'd, if he durft, be more your friend
Nor will in you those gifts despise,
By which himself was taught to rise :
When he has virtue to retire,
He'll grieve he did not raise you higher,
And place you in a better station,
Although it might have pleas'd the nation.
THIS may be true-fubmitting ftill
To Walpole's more than Royal will.
And what condition can be worse?
He comes to drain a beggar's purse:
He comes to tie our chains on faster,
And fhew us, England is our mafter :
Careffing knaves, and dunces wooing,
To make them work their own undoing.
What has he elfe to bait his traps,
Or bring his vermin in, but fcraps?
The offals of a church diftreft,
A hungry Vicarage at beft;
Or fome remote inferior poft,
With forty pounds a-year at moft.
BUT, here again you interpose:
Your favourite Lord is none of those,
Who owe their virtues to their stations,
And characters to dedications:
For, keep him in, or turn him out,
His learning none will call in doubt
His learning, though a Poet faid it
Before a play, wou'd lofe no credit:
Nor Pope wou'd dare deny him wit,
Although to praise it Philips writ
I own, he hates an action base,
His virtues battling with his place;
Nor wants a nice difcerning fpirit,
Betwixt a true and spurious merit:
Can fometimes drop a voter's claim,
And give up party to his fame.
I do the most that friendship can;
I hate the Viceroy, love the man.
BUT you, who, 'till your fortune's made,
Must be a Sweet'ner by your trade,
Should fwear he never meant us ill
We fuffer fore against his will;
That, if we cou'd but see his heart,
He would have chose a milder part:
We rather should lament his case,
Who must obey, or lofe his place.
SINCE this reflexion flipt your pen,
Infert it when you write agen
And to illuftrate it produce
This fimile for his excuse.
"So, to deffroy à guilty land, "An Angel fent by heav'n's command, "While he obeys Almighty will, "Perhaps may feel compaffion ftill; "And wish the task had been affign'd "To Spirits of lefs gentle kind.".
BUT I, in politicks grown old,
Whose thoughts are of a diff'rent mold,
Who, from my foul, fincerely hate
Both Kand Minifters of State:
Who look on courts with ftricter eyes,
To fee the feeds of vice arife,
Can lend you an allufion fitter,
Though flatt'ring knaves may call it bitter
Which, if you durft but give it place,
Would fhew you many a flatefman's face.
Fresh from the tripod of Apollo,
I had it in the words that follow.
(Take notice to avoid offence,
I here except his Excellence).
So, to effect his Monarch's ends, From bell a viceroy DEV'L afcends,
His budget with corruptions cramm'd,
The contributions of the damn'd;
Which, with unfparing hand, he ftrows
Through courts and fenates as he goes;
And then at Belzebub's Black-hall,
Complains his budget was too fmall.
YOUR fimile may better fhine
In verfe; but there is truth in mine.
For, no imaginable things
Can differ more than GoD and K-
And ftatefmen, by ten thousand odds,
Are ANGELS, juft as K-s are GODS.
To Dr. DELANY, on the LIBELS writ against him.
Tanti tibi non fit opaci
Omnis arena Tagi.
Written about the Year 1729%
S fome raw youth in country bred,
To arms by thirst of honour led
When at a skirmish first he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears;
Will duck his head, afide will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart :
Till 'fcaping oft without a wound.
Leffens the terror of the sound:
Fly, bullets, now as thick as hops,
He runs into a cannon's chops.
An author thus, who pants for fame,
Begins the world with fear and shame,
When first in print, you fee him dread
Each pot-gun levell'd at his head :
The lead, yon criticks quill contains,
Is deftin'd to beat out his brains.
As if he heard loud thunders roul,
Cries, Lord, have mercy on his foul;
Concluding, that another shot
Will strike him dead upon
But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping He cannot fee one creature dropping:
That miffing fire, or miffing aim,
His life is fafe, I mean his fame;
The danger paft, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critick in the face.
THOUGH fplendor gives the fairest mark
To poison'd arrows from the dark.
Yet, in your self when smooth and round,
They glance afide without a wound.
"Tis faid, the Gods try'd all their art,
How pain they might from pleasure part;
But little could their strength avail;
Both still are faften'd by the tail.
* In feipfo totus teres atque rotundus,
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