Pour the full tide of cloquence along,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong,
Rich with the treasures of each foreign
tongue :

Prune the luxuriant, the unconth refine,
But shew no mercy to an empty line:
Then polish all with so much life and ease,
You think 'tis nature, and a knack to please:
"But ease in writing flows from art, not
chance;
[dance."
"As those move easiest who have learn'd to
If such the plague and pains to write by
rule,

Better (say I) be pleas'd, and play the fool:
Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease;
It gives men happiness or leaves them ease.
There liv'd in Primo Georgii (they record)
A worthy member, no small fool, a Lord;
Who, tho' the House was up, delighted sate,
Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate:
In all but this, a man of sober life,
Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife;
Not quite a madman, tho' a pasty fell,
And much too wise to walk into a well.

Him the damn'd doctors and his friends im-
mur'd,
they cur'd:

They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in short,
Whereat the gentleman began to stare--
My friends! he cried, p-x take you for your
care,

That from a patriot of distinguish'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a simple vote.
Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my
fate:

Wisdom, curse on it! will come soon or late.
There is a time when Poets will grow dull:
I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school:
To rules of poetry no more confin'd,
I'll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind;
Teach ev'ry thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal measure of the soul.

Soon as I enter at my country door,
My mind resumes the threat it dropp'd before;
Thoughts which at Hyde-park-corner I forgot,
Meet and rejoin me in the pensive grot;
There all alone, and compliments apart,
I ask these sober questions of my heart:

If, when the more you drink, the more you
crave,

You tell the Doctor; when the more you have,
The more you want, why not with equal case
Confess as well your folly as disease?
The heart resolves this matter in a trice:
"Men only feel the smart, but not the vice."
When golden angels cease to cure the evil,
You give all royal witchcraft to the devil;
When servile chaplains cry that birth and
place

Endue a Peer with honour, truth, and grace,

men,

Lords of fat E'sham, or of Lincoln-fen,
Buy ev'ry stick of wood that lends them heat:
Buy ev'ry pullet they afford to eat.

Yet these are wights who fondly call their own

Half that the devil o'erlooks from Lincoln town,

The laws of God, as well as of the land,
Abhor a perpetuity should stand:
Estates have wings, and hang in fortune's
pow'r,

Loose on the point of ev'ry wav'ring hour,
Ready, by force, or of your own accord,
By sale, at least by death, to change their lord.
Man? and for ever? wretch! what wouldst
thou have?

Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave.
All vast possessions (just the same the case
Whether you call them villa, park, or chase)
Alas, my Bathurst! what will they avail?
Join Cotswood hills to Saperton's fair dale;
Let rising granaries and temples here,
There mingled farms and pyramids appear;
Link towns to towns with avenues of oak;
Inclose whole towns in walls-'tis all a joke!
Inexorable death shall level all,

And trees, and stones, and farms, and farmer fall.

Gold, silver, iv'ry vases, sculptur'd high, Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye,

There are who have not-and, thank heaven! there are,

Why, of two brothers, rich and restless one Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun;

The other slights, for women, sports and wines,

All Townshend's turnips, and all Grosvenor's

mines:

Why one, like Bu- with pay and scorn content,

Bows, and votes on, in Court and Parliament;
One, driven by strong benevolence of soul,
Shall fly, like Oglethorp, from pole to pole;
Is known alone to that directing Pow'r
Who forms the genius in the natal hour;
That God of Nature, who, within us still,
Inclines our action, not constrains our will:
Various of temper, as of face or frame,
Each individual; his great end the same.
Yes, Sir, how smooth soever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy as well as keep.

My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace
A man so poor would live without a place;
But sure no statute in his favour says,
How free or frugal I shall pass my days;
I, who at some times spend, at others spare,
Divided between carelessness and care.
'Tis one thing madly to disperse my store;
Another, not to heed to treasure more;
Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,
And pleas'd if sordid want be far away.

What is 't to me (a passenger, God wot)
Whether my vessel be first-rate or not?
The ship itself may make a better figure,
But I that sail am neither less nor bigger;

1 neither strut with ev'ry fav'ring breath, Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth: In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune plac'd Belfind the foremost, and before the last.

"But why all this of avarice? I have none."
I wish you joy, Sir, of a tyrant gone;
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad-the avarice of pow'r?
Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appall?
Not the black fear of death that saddens all?
With terrors round, can reason hold her throne,
Despise the known, nor tremble at th' uns
known?

Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look be
hind,

And count each birth-day with a grateful

mind?

Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?
Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your business
done,

When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drauk your fill:

Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age

Comes titt'ring on, and shoves you from the

stage:

Leave such to trifle with more grace and case, Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please.

DIALOGUE I.

In Sappho touch the failings of the sex,

print;

And when it comes, the court see nothing in 't. You grow correct, that once with rapture writ;

And are, besides, too moral for a wit.
Decay of parts, alas! we all must feel-
Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal?
'Tis all from Horace; Horace, long before ye,
Said, "Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a
Tory;"

And taught his Romans, in much better metre, "To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter."

But Horace, Sir, was delicate, was nice; Bubo observes, he lash'd no sort of vice; Horace would say, Sir Billy serv'd the Crown; Blunt could do business, H-ggins knew the town ;

And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing, Who cropp'd our ears, and sent them to the king.

His sly, polite, insinuating style

Could please at court, and make Augustus

smile:

An artful manager, that crept between
His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen.
But, 'faith, your very friends will soon be

sore;

Patriots there are who wish you'd jest no

more

And where's the glory? 'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd you a groat.
Go see Sir Robert-

P. See Sir Robert!-humAnd never laugh for all my life to come?

Seen him I have, but in bis happier hour
Of social pleasure ill exchang`d for pow'r;
Seen him uncumber'd with a venal tribe,
Smile without art, and win without a bribe.
Would he oblige me? iet une only find

He does not think me what he thinks mankind. Come, come at all I laugh he laughs no doubt;

The only diffrence is-I dare laugh out.

F. Why, yes, with Scripture still you may
be free;

A horse laugh, if you please, at honesty;
A joke on Jekyl, or some odd old Whig,
Who never chang'd his principle or wig;
A patriot is a fool in ev'ry age,

Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the stage: These nothing hurts; they keep their fashion still,

And wear their strange old virtue as they will.
If any ask you, "Who's the man, so near
"His prince, that writes in verse, and has his
ear?"

Why answer, Lyttleton; and I'll engage
The worthy youth shall ne'er be in a rage:
But were his verses vile, his whisper base,
You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's case.
Sejanus, Wolsey, hurt not honest Fleury;
But well may put some statesman in a fury.

Laugh then at any but at fools or foes; These you but anger, and you mend not those. Laugh at your friends; and, if your friends are

sore,

So much the better, you may langh the more. To vice and folly to confine the jest,

Sets half the world, God knows, against the

rest;

Did not the sucer of more impartial men
At sense and virtue balance all again.
Judicious wits spread wide the ridicule,
And charitably comfort knave and fool.

P. Dear Sir, forgive the prejudice of youth:
Adieu distinction, satire, warmth, and truth!
Come harmless characters that no one hit;
Come Henley's oratory, Osborne's wit!
The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,
The flow'rs of Bubo, and the flow of Y-ng!
The gracious dew of pulpit eloquence,
And all the well-whipp'd cream of courtly

sense,

The first was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then
The S-te's and then Hyy's once again.
O come, that easy, Ciceronian style,
So Latin, yet so English all the while,
As tho' the pride of Middl ton and Bland,
All boys may read, and girls may understand!
Then might I sing without the least offence,
And all I sung should be the nation's sense;
Or teach the melancholy muse to mourn,
Hang the sad verse on Carolina's urn,

And hail her passage to the realms of rest,
All parts perform'd, and all her children blest!
So satire is no more-I feel it dic-
No Gazetteer more innocent than 1-
And let, a God's name, ev'ry fool and knave
Be grac'd thro' life, and flatter'd in his grave.
F. Why so? if satire knows its time and

place,

You still may lash the greatest-in disgrace:
For merit will by turns forsake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all satire in all changes spare
Immortal S-k, and grave D-re.
Silent and soft as saints remov'd to heaven,
All ties dissolv'd, and ev'ry sin forgiven,
These may some gentle ministerial wing
Receive, and place for ever near a king!
There where no passion, pride, or shame trans-
port,

Lull'd with the sweet Nepenthe of a court;
There where no father's, brother's, friend's
disgrace
[place:

Once break their rest, or stir them from their
But past the sense of human miseries,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;
No check is known to blush, no heart to throb,
Save when they lose a question or a job.

P. Good Heaven forbid that I should blast

Considering what a gracious prince was next.
Have I in silent wonder seen such things,
As pride in slaves, and avarice in Kings;
And at a Peer or Peeress shall I fret,
Who starves a sister or forswears a debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
But shall th dignity of vice be lost?
Ye Gods! shall Cibber's son, without rebuke,
Swear like a Lord, or Rich outwhore a Duke?
A fav'rite's porter with his master vie,
Be brib'd as often, and as often lie;

Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's skill?

Is it for Bond or Peter (paltry things!)
To pay their debts, or keep their faith like
Kings?

If Blount dispatch himself, he play'd the man,
And so may'st thou illustrious Passerau!
But shall a Printer, weary of his life,
Learn from their books to hang himself and
wife?

This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not hear;
Vice thus abus'd demands a nation's care;
This calls the church to deprecate our sin,
And burls the thunder of the laws on gin,

Let modest Foster, if he will excel Ten metropolitans in preaching well;

A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife,
Ouido Landaff in doctrine-yea in life;
Let humble Alien, with an awkward shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.
Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
'Tis just alike to virtue and to me;
Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King,
She's still the same belov'd contending thing.
Vice is undone if she forgets her birth,

Aud stoops from angels to the dregs of earth:
But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore:
Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more.
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts cou-
fess,
[bless;
Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops
In golden chains the willing world she draws,
And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribanal, lifts her scarlet head,
And sees pale virtue carted in her stead.
Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,
Old England's genius, rough with many a scar,
Dragg'd in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
His flag inverted trails along the ground;
Our youth all livery'd o'er with foreign gold,
Before her dance; behind her crawl the old!
See thronging millions to the Pagod run,
And offer country, parent, wife, and son!
Hear her black trumpet thro' the land proclaim,
That not to be corrupted is the shame.

In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in pow'r,
'Tis av'rice all, ambition is no more!
See all our nobles begging to be slaves!
See all our fools aspiring to be knaves!
The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore,
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 sacred now but villany."

Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) Shew there was one who beld it in disdain.

DIALOGUE II.

F. '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 ev'ry line,
In rev'rence to the sins of Thirty-nine!
Vice with such giant strides comes on amain,
Invention strives to be before in vain ;
Feigu 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;
Even 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?

Tell me which knave is lawful game, which not?

Must great offenders, once escap'd 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 meanTo save a Bishop may I name a Dean?

F. 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! tho' a realm be spoil'd,

Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild;
Or, if a court or country's inade 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 to charity becomes

The tax Directors, who, thank God, have plums;

Still better ministers; or if the thing
May pinch even there-why lay it on a King.
F. Stop! stop!

P. 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?
Even Peter trembles only for his ears.

F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you

mad;

You make men desp'rate, if they once are bad: