Dragg'd in the duft! his arms hang idly round, 155 And offer Country, Parent, Wife, or Son! See, all our Nobles begging to be Slaves ! The Wit of Cheats, the Courage of a Whore, 165 Are what ten thousand envy and adore: All, all look up, with reverential Awe, At crimes that 'scape, 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 disdain. 170 EPILOGUE FR." TO THЕ SATIRE S. T IS all a Libel-Paxton (Sir) will fay. And for that very cause I print to-day. F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; 5 1Ο P. How, Sir! not damn the Sharper, but the Dice? Ye Tradesmen, vile, in Army, Court, or Hall! Who Who ftarv'd a Sifter, who forefwore a Debt, I never nam'd; the Town's enquiring yet. 20 The poisoning Dame -F. You mean― P. I don't.F. You do. P. See, now I keep the Secret, and not you! P. I fain would please you, if I knew with what; F. A Dean, Sir? no; his Fortune is not made, You hurt a man that's rifing in the Trade. P. If not the Tradefman who fet up to-day, Much lefs the 'Prentice who to-morrow may. 25 30 35 Down, down, proud Satire! though a Realm be spoil'd, 40 Go drench a Pickpocket, and join the Mob. Have The poor and friendless Villain, than the Great? 45 Scarce hurts the Lawyer, but undoes the Scribe. Then Then better fure it Charity becomes To tax Directors, who (thank God) have Plums; May pinch ev'n there-why lay it on a King. 50 P. Muft Satire, then, nor rife nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no Rogues at all. F. Yes, ftrike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years ago: Who now that obfolete Example fears? Ev'n Peter trembles only for his Ears. F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad, P. Do I wrong the Man? Ev'n in a Bishop I can fpy Defert; But does the Court a worthy Man remove? 60 65 70 75 I fhun his Zenith, court his mild Decline; I study'd Shrewsbury, the wife and great : Carleton's calm Senfe, and Stanhope's noble Flame, 80 Compar'd, and knew their generous End the fame : How pleafing Atterbury's softer hour! How shin'd the Soul, unconquer'd in the Tower; How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield forget, While Roman Spirit charms, and Attic Wit: 85 Argyll, the State's whole Thunder born to wield, Or Wyndham, just to Freedom and the Throne, Names, which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain, 90 Train; And if yet higher the proud Lift should end, I never (to my forrow I declare) 95 Din'd with the Man of Rofs, or my Lord Mayor. Some, in their choice of Friends (nay, look not grave) Have ftill a fecret Byafs to a Knave: To find an honeft man, I beat about; And love him, court him, praise him, in or out. F. Then why fo few commended? P. Not |