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His life, though long, to sickness past unknown,
His death was instant, and without a groan.
Oh grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I.
Oh friend, may each domestic bliss be thine!
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine:
Me let the tender office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing age,
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death,
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep a while one parent from the sky!
On cares like these, if length of days attend,
May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend;
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
And just as rich as when he served a queen!
A. Whether that blessing be denied or given,
Thus far was right-the rest belongs to Heaven.
Fr. 'Tis all a libel-Paxton (sir) will say.
P. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow 'faith it may; And for that very cause I print to-day. How should I fret to mangle every line, In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine ! Vice with such giant strides comes on amain, Invention strives to be before in vain; Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong, Some rising genius sins up to my song.
F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; E’en Guthry saves half Newgate by a dash. Spare then the person, and expose the vice.
P. How, sir! not damn the sharper, but the dice? Come on, then, satire! general, unconfined, Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind;
Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all!
Ye tradesmen, vile in army, court, or hall! (who?
Ye reverend Atheists. F. Scandal! name them,
P. Why, that's the thing you bid me not to do.
Who starved a sister, who forswore a debt,
I never named; the town's inquiring yet.
The poisoning dame-F. You mean-P. I don't.
F. You do. P. See, now I keep the secret, and not you! The bribing statesman-F. Hold, too high you go. P. The bribed elector-F. There you stoop too
low. P. I fain would please you, if I knew with what; Tell me, which knave is lawful game, which not? Must great offenders, once escaped the crown, Like royal harts, be never more run down? Admit your law to spare the knight requires, As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires ? Suppose I censure-you know what I mean, To save a
shop, may I name a dean? F. A dean, sir ? no; his fortune is not made; You hurt a man that's rising in the trade.
P. If not the tradesman who set up to-day,
Much less the 'prentice who to-morrow may.
Down, down, proud satire! though a realm be spoild,
Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild;
Or, if a court or country's made a job,
Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob.
But, sir, I beg you (for the love of vice !),
The matter's weighty, pray consider twice;
Have you less pity for the needy cheat,
The poor and friendless villain, than the great ?
Alas! the small discredit of a bribe
Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.
Then better sure it charity becomes
To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums;
Still better ministers; or, if the thing
May pinch ev'n there-why, lay it on a king,
F. Stop! Stop!
Must satire, then, nor rise nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all. F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow.
P. Strike? why, the man was hang'd ten years ago : Who now that obsolete example fears? Ev'n Peter trenibles only for his ears.
F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad.
You make men desperate if they once are bad:
Else might he take to virtue some years hence-
P. As S-k, if he lives, will love the prince.
F. Strange spleen to S-k!
Do I wrong the man?
God knows I praise a courtier where I can.
When I confess there is who feels for fame,
And melts to goodness, need I Scarborough name?
Pleased let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove
(Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love),
The scene, the master, opening to my view,
I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew!
Evin in a bishop I can spy desert :
Secker is decent; Rundell has a heart;
Manners with candour are to Benson given;
To Berkley, every virtue under heaven.
But does the court a worthy man remove ?
That instant, I declare, he has my love:
I shun his zenith, court his mild decline :
Thus Somers once, and Halifax, were mine.
Oft, in the clear, still mirror of retreat,
I studied Shrewsbury, the wise and great ;
Carleton's calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame,
Compared, and knew their generous end the same :
How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!
How shined the soul, unconquer'd, in the Tower!
How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield forget,
While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit:
Argyll, the state's whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the senate and the field :
Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne,
The master of our passions and his own?
Names which I long have loved, nor loved 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 follower, 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)
Dined with the Man of Ross or my Lord Mayor.
Some, in their choice of friends (nay, look not 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 ?
Not so fierce;
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 again.
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 Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wish’d, but wish'd in vain.
No power the Muse's friendship can command ;
No power, when virtue claims it, can withstand :
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line ;
Oh 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. (sin,
P. If merely to come in, sir, they go out,
The way they take is 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 mighty 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 praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine,
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 the affront the fellow gaye, Knew one a man of honour, one a knave, The prudent general 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 doF. Hold, sir! for God's sake, where's th' affront
to you? Against your worship when had S-k writ, Or P-ge pour’d forth the torrent of his wit? Or grant the bard whose distich all commend [In power a servant, out of power 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.