Find you the Virtue, and I'll find the Verfe.
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 the weeps, and him she weds again.
Praise cannot ftoop, 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 Cenfure, 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 fcarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wifh'd, but wish'd in vain.
No Power the Mufe's Friendship can command;
No Power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil paid one honeft line;
O let my Country's Friends illumine mine!
-What are you thinking? F. Faith the thought's no fin,
I think your Friends are out, and would be in.
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 thofe 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 Lyttelton a dark, defigning 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, befides, a Tyrant to his Wife.
But pray when others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolfey, any odious name?
Why rail they then, if but a Wreath of mine,
Oh all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy fhrine?
What? fhall each spur-gall'd Hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double Pots and Pay,
Or each new-penfion'd Sycophant, pretend
To break my Windows if 1 treat a Friend;
Then wifely plead, to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my Guest at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure, if I fpare the Minifter, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to maul his Tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be faid
His Saws are toothless, and his Hatchets Lead.
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To fee a Footman kick'd that took his pay:
But when he heard th' Affront the Fellow gave,
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 do
F. Hold Sir! for God's fake, 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 fome venial fin;
What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?
The Priest whofe Flattery bedropt the Crown,
How hurt he you? he only stain'd the Gown.
And how did, pray, the florid Youth offend,
Whofe 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 fame ?
Let Courtly Wits to Wits afford fupply,
As Hog to Hog in huts of Weftphaly;
If one, through Nature's Bounty or his Lord's,
Has what the frugal, dirty foil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mefs almost as it came in ;
The bleffed benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;
From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse:
The laft full fairly gives it to the House.
F. This filthy fimile, this beaftly line Quite turns my stomach
P. So does Flattery 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 would write or read,
In all the Courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But Pens can forge, my Friend, that cannot write;
I grant it, Sir; and further 'tis agreed,
Japhet writ not, and Chartres fcarce could read.
And muft no Egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the Deed he forg'd was not my own?
Muft never Patriot then declaim at Gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous Paftor blame a failing Spouse,
Without a staring Reafon on his brows?
And each Blafphemer quite efcape the rod,
Because the infult's not on Man, but God?
Afk 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 fhould be yours.
Mine, as a Foe profefs'd to falfe Pretence,
Who think a Coxcomb's Honour like his Senfe;
Mine, as a Friend to every worthy mind;
And mine as Man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're ftrangely 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 fee
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me :
Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne,
Yet touch'd and fham'd by Ridicule alone.
O facred weapon! left for Truth's defence,
Sole Dread of Folly, Vice, and Infolence!
To all but Heaven-directed hands deny'd,
The Mufe may give thee, but the Gods muft guide:
Reverent I touch thee! but with honeft zeal;
To rouze the Watchmen of the public Weal,
To Virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall,
And goad the Prelate flumbering in his Stall.
Ye tinfel Infects! whom a Court maintains,
That counts your Beauties only by your Stains,
Spin all
your Cobwebs o'er the Eye of Day!
'The Mufe's wing shall brush all
you away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship fings,
All that makes Saints of Queens, and Gods of Kings. All, all but Truth, drops dead-born from the Prefs, Like the laft Gazette, or the last Address.
When black Ambition ftains a public Cause,
A Monarch's Sword when mad Vain-glory draws,
Not Waller's Wreath can hide the Nation's Scar, 230
Not Boileau turn the Feather to a Star.
Not fo, when, diadem'd with rays divine,
Touch'd with the Flame that breaks from Virtue's Shrine,
Her Priestess Mufe forbids the Good to die,
And opes the Temple of Eternity.
There, other Trophies deck the truly brave,
Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the Grave;
After ver. 227. in the MS.
Where's now the Star that lighted Charles to rife?
-With that which follow'd Julius to the skies.
Angels, that watch'd the Royal Oak fo well,
How chanc'd ye nod, when luckless Sorel fell?
Hence, lying miracles! reduc'd fo low
As to the regal-touch and papal-toe;
Hence haughty Edgar's title to the Main,
Britain's to France, and thine to India, Spain !
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