Others with softer smiles, and subtle art, Can sap the principles, or taint the heart; With more address a lover's note convey, Or bribe a virgin's innocence away : Well may they rise, while I, whose rustic tongue Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy, Live unregarded, unlamented die.

For what but social guilt the friend endears? Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortune shares. But thou, should tempting villany present All Marlb’rough hoarded, or all Villiers spent, Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful eye, Nor sell for gold, what gold could never buy, The peaceful slumber, self-a oving day, Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay.

The cheated nation's happy fav’rites, see ! Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me! London ! the needy villain's gen'ral home, The common-sewer of Paris and of Rome; With eager thirst, by folly or by fate, Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state. Forgive my transports on a theme like this, I cannot bear a French metropolis.

Illustrious Edward! from the realms of day, The land of heroes and of saints survey; Nor hope the British lineaments to trace, The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace ; But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau; Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away, Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey.

All that at home no more can beg or steal, Or like a gibbet better than a wheel : Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the courty Their air, their dress, their politics, import; Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay, On Britain's fond credulity they prey. No gainful trade their industry can 'scape, They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a

clap:
All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows,
And, bid him go to Hell, to Hell he goes.

Ah! what avails it, that, from slav'ry far,
I drew the breath of life in English air ;
Was early taught a Briton's right to prize,
And lisp the tale of Henry's victories ;
If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain,
And flattery prevails when arms are vain ?

Studious to please, and ready to submit;
The supple Gaul was born a parasite :
Still to his int'rest true, where'er he goes,
Wit, brav'ry, worth, his lavish tongue bestows :
In ev'ry face a thousand graces shine,
From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine.
These arts in vain our rugged natives try,
Strain out with fault'ring diffidence a lie,
And get a kick for awkward Aattery.

Besides, with justice, this discerning age
Admires their wond'rous talents for the stage:

Well may they venture on the mimic's art, Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part; Practis'd their master's notions to embrace, Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face;

With ev'ry wild absurdity comply,
And view each object with another's eye;
To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear,
To pour at will the counterfeited tear;
And, as their patron hints the cold or heat,
To shake in dog-days, in December sweat.

How, when competitors like these contend,
Can surly virtue hope to fix a friend ;
Slaves that with serious impudence beguile,
And lie without a blush, without a smile:
Exalt each trifle, ev'ry vice adore,
Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a whore;
Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear
He gropes

his breeches with a monarch's air. For arts like these preferr'd, admir'd, caress’d, They first invade your table, then your breast; Explore your secrets with insidious art, Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart; Then soon your ill-plac'd confidence repay, Commence your lords, and govern or betray.

By numbers here from shame or censure free, All crimes are safe but hated poverty. This, only this, the rigid law pursues, This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse. The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke; With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze, And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd, Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest ; Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart, Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.

Has Heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor, No pathless waste, or undiscovered shore? No secret island in the boundless main ? No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain ? Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, And bear oppression's insolence no more. This mournful truth is every where confess’d, Slow rises worth by poverty depressid: But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold, Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold : Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor’d, The groom retails the favours of his lord. (cries

But hark! th' affrighted crowd's tumultuous Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies : Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth and

pow'r,
Some pompous palace or some blissful bower,
Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight
Sustain th' approaching fire's tremendous light;
Swift from pursuing horrours take your way,
And leave your little all to flames a prey ;
Then thro’ the world a wretched vagrant roam,
For where can starving merit find a home?
In vain your mournful narrative disclose,
While all neglect, and most insult your woes.
Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth

confound,
And spread his flaming palace on the ground,
Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies,
And public mournings pacify the skies;
The laureat tribe in venal verse relate,
How virtue wars with persecuting fate;

With well-feign'd gratitude the pension’d band
Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.
See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,
And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome;
The price of boroughs and of souls restore ;
And raise his treasures higher than before :
Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great,
The polish'd marble and the shining plate,
Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire,
And hopes from angry Heav'n another fire.

Could'st thou resign the park and play content,
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;
There might'st thou find some elegant retreat,
Some hireling senator's deserted seat ;
And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land,
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;

thy walk, support thy drooping

flowers,
Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers;
And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford,
Despise the dainties of a venal lord :
There ev'ry bush with Nature's music rings,
There ev'ry breeze bears health upon its wings;
On all thy hours security shall smile,
And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.
Prepare for death if here at night you roam,
And sign your will before you sup from home.
Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,
Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man;
Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast,
Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.
Yet ev'n these heroes, mischievously gay ;
Lords of the street and terrours of the way;

There prune