Virtue alone, had the been there,
The mighty found, unmov'd, could bear.
Up from the gorgeous bed, where Fate
Dooms annual fools to fleep in state,
To fleep fo found that not one gleam
Of fancy can provoke a dream,
Great Dullman ftarted at the found,
Gap'd, rubb'd his eyes, and ftar'd around.
Much did he wish to know, much fear
Whence founds fo horrid ftruck his ear,
So much unlike thofe peaceful notes,
That equal harmony which floats
On the dull wing of City air,
Grave prelude to a feaft or fair:
Much did he inly ruminate
Concerning the decrees of Fate,
Revolving, tho' to little end,

What this fame trumpet might portend.

Could the French-no-that could not be

Under Bute's active ministry,

Too watchful to be fo deceiv'd..
Have ftolen hither unperceiv'd?
To Newfoundland, indeed, we know,
Fleets of war unobferv'd may go ; -
Or, if obferv'd, may be fuppos'd,
At intervals when Reafon doz'd,
No other point in view to bear

But pleafure, health, and change of air.
But Reason ne'er could fleep fo found
To let an enemy be found

In our Land's heart, ere it was known
They had departed from their own.
Or could his fucceffor (ambition
Is ever haunted with suspicion)
His daring fucceffor elect,

All customs, rules, and forms reject,
And aim, regardless of the crime,
To feize the chair before his time?
Or (deeming this the lucky hour,
Seeing his countrymen in pow'r,
Thofe countrymen, who, from the first,
In tumults and rebellion nurs'd,
How'er they wear the mask of art,
Still love a Stuart in their heart)
Could Scottish Charles-

That mental Ignis Fatuuss
Led his poor brains a weary dance

Conjecture thus,

From France to England, hence to France, "Till Information (in the shape

Of Chaplain learned, good Sir Crape,
A lazy, lounging, pamper'd priest,
Well known at ev'ry City feast,
For he was feen much oft'ner there
Than in the Houfe of God at Pray'r ;
Who always ready in his place,
Ne'er let God's creatures wait for grace,
Tho', as the best historians write,
Lefs fam'd for Faith than Appetite,
His difpofition to reveal,

The grace was fhort, and long the meal;
Who always would excefs admit,
If Haunch or Turtle came with it,
And ne'er engag'd in the defence
Of felf-denying abstinence,
When he could fortunately meet
With any thing he lik'd to eat ;

Who knew that Wine, on Scripture plan,
Was made to chear the heart of man;
Knew too, by long experience taught,
That chearfulness was kill'd by thought;
And from thofe premises collected,
(Which few perhaps would have fufpected)
That none, who with due fhare of fenfe
Obferv'd the ways of Providence,
Could with fafe confcience leave off drinking,
'Till they had loft the pow'r of thinking;
With eyes
half-clos'd came waddling in,
And,, having ftrok'd his double chin,
(That chin, whofe credit to mantain
Against the fcoffs of the profane,
Had coft him more than ever State

Paid for a four Electorate,

Which after all the coft and rout
It had been better much without)
Briefly, (for breakfast, you must know,
Was waiting all the while below)
Related, bowing to the ground,.
The cause of that uncommon found;
Related too, that at the door,
Pompofo, Plaufible, and Moore*,
Begg'd that Fame might not be allow'd
Their fhame to publish to the crowd;
That fome new laws he would provide,
(If old could not be mifapplied,
With as much cafe and fafety there,
As they are mifapplied elsewhere)
By which it might be conftrued treafon
In Man to exercise his reafon ;
Which might ingenuously devife
One punishment for truth and lies;
And fairly prove, when they had done,"
That Truth and Falfhood were but one;
Which Juries must indeed retain,
But their effect fhould render vain,
Making all real pow'r to rest
In one corrupted rotten breast,
By whofe falfe glofs the very Bible
Might be interpreted a libel.

Moore, (who, his rev'rence to fave,
Pleaded the Fool to fcreen the Knave,
Tho' all, who witness'd on his part,
Swore for his head against his heart)
Had taken down, from firft to laft,
A juft account of all that past;
But, fince the gracious will of Fate,
Who mark'd the child for wealth and state
E'en in the cradle, had decreed

The mighty Dullman ne'er fhould read,
That office of difgrace to bear
The fmooth-lipp'd Plaufible was there.
From H***** e'en to Clerkenwell
Who knows not smooth-lipp'd Plaufible?
A preacher deem'd of greateft note,
For preaching that which others wrote.

Had Dullman now (and fools we see
Seldom want curiofity)

Confented (but the mourning hade
Of Gascoyne + haften'd to his aid,
And in his hand, what could he more?
Triumphant Canning's picture bore)

*Clergyman, who unluckily involved himself in the Cock-Lane Gholt impofition.

+Sir Crifp Gascoyne.

That our three heroes fhould advance,
And read their comical romance,
How rich a fealt, what royal fare
We for our readers might prepare!
So rich, and yet fo fafe a feaft,
That no one foreign blatant beast,
Within the purlieus of the law
Shou'd dare thereon to lay his paw,
And, growling, cry, with furly tone,
Keep off-this feaft is all my own.

Bending to earth the downcaft eye
Or planting it against the sky,
As one immers'd in deepest thought,
Or with fome holy vifion caught,
His hands to aid the traitor's art,
Devoutly folded o'er his heart,

Here Moore, in fraud well skill'd, fhould go,
All Saint, with folemn ftep and flow.

O that Religion's facred name,
Meant to infpire the purest flame,
A prostitute should ever be
To that arch fiend Hypocrify,
Where we find ev'ry other vice
Crown'd with damn'd fneaking cowardice!
Bold fin reclaim'd is often feen;
Paft hope that man, who dares be mean.
There full of flesh, and full of grace,
With that fine round unmeaning face
Which Nature gives to fons of earth
Whom the defigns for ease and mirth,
Should the prim Plaufible be feen,
Obferve his stiff affected mien;
'Gainft Nature, arm'd by Gravity,
His featurcs too in buckle fee;
See with what fanctity he reads,
With what Devotion tells his beads!
Now Prophet, fhew me, by thine art,
What's the Religion of his heart;
Shew there, if truth thou can'ft unfold,
Religion center'd all in gold:
Shew him, nor fear correction's rod,
As falfe to friendship, as to God.
Horrid, unwieldy, without form,
Savage, as ocean in a storm,
of fixe prodigious, in the rear,
That poft of honour, fhould appear
Pompofo; Fame around fhould tell
How he a flave to int'reft fell;
How, for integrity renown'd,
Which bookfellers have often found,
He for fubfcribers baits his hook,

And takes their cash-but where's the book?

No matter where-Wise fear, we know,
Forbids the robbing of a foe;

But what, to serve our private ends,
Forbids the cheating of our friends?
No man alive, who would not fwear
All's fafe, and therefore honeft there.
For fpite of all the learned fay,
If we to truth attention pay,
"The word Dishonesty is meant
For nothing else but punishment.

Fame too fhould tell, nor heed the threat
Of rogues, who brother rogues abet,
Nor tremble at the terrors hung
Aloft, to make her hold her tongue,
How to all principles untrue,
Not fix'd to old friends, nor to new,
VOL. VIII.

He damns the penfion which he takes,
And loves the Stuart he forfakes.
Nature (who juftly regular

Is very feldom known to err,
But now and then in fportive mood,
As fome rude wits have understood,
Or through much work required in haftes
Is with a random ftroke difgrac'd)
Pompofo, form'd on doubtful plan,
Not quite a beaf, nor quite a man,
Like God knows what--for never yet
Could the most fubtle human wit
Find out a monfter, which might be
The fhadow of a fimile.

THESE

THESE THREE, THESE GREAT,
Nor can the Poet's truth agree, [MIGHTY THREE,
Howe'er report hath done him wrong,
And warp'd the purpose of his fong,
Amongst the refuse of their race,
The fons of infamy, to place
That open, gen'rous, manly mind
Which we with joy in Aldrich find.
Thefe Three, who now are faintly shewn,
Juft ftretch'd, and scarcely to be known,
If Dullman their request had heard,
In ftronger colours had appear'd;
And friends, tho' partial at first view,
Shudd'ring, had own'd the picture true.

But had their journal been display'd,
And the whole process open laid,
What a vaft unexhaufted field
For mirth must such a Journal yield!
In her own anger strongly charm'd,

'Gainft hope, 'gainst fear, by conscience arm'd,
Then had bold Satire made her way,
Knights, Lords, and Dukes, her destin'd prey.

But Prudence, ever facred name
To those who feel not Virtue's flame,
Or only feel it at the best
As the dull dupe of intereft,
Whifper'd aloud (for this we find
A custom current with mankind,
So loud to whisper, that each word
May all around be plainly heard,
And Prudence fure would never miss
A custom fo contriv'd as this

Her candour to fecure, yet aim

Sure death against another's fame)

Knights, Lords, and Dukes-mad wretch, forbear,
Dangers unthought of ambush there;

Confine thy rage to weaker flaves,

Laugh at fmall fools, and lash small knaves,

But never, helpless, mean, and poor,

Rufh on, where laws cannot secure;

Nor think thyfelf, miftaken youth,

Secure in principles of truth.

Truth! Why, fhall ev'ry wretch of letters
Dare to speak truth against his betters!

Let ragged Virtue ftand aloof,

Nor mutter accents of reproof;

Let ragged Wit a mute become,

When wealth and pow'r would have her dumb.
For who the devil doth not know,

That titles and estates bestow
An ample stock, where'er they fall,
Of graces which we mental call?
Beggars, in ev'ry age and nation,
Are rogues and fools by fituation;

G

The rich and great are understood
To be of courfe both wife and good.
Confult then int'reft more than pride,
Difcreetly take the stronger fide;
Defert in time the fimple few,
Who Virtue's barren path purfue ;
Adopt my maxims-follow me-
To Baal bow the prudent knee;
Deny thy God, betray thy friend,
At Baal's altars hourly bend;
So fhalt thou rich and great be feen;
To be great now, you must be mean.

Hence, Tempter, to fome weaker soul,
Which fear and intereft controul;
Vainly thy precepts are addrefs'd,
Where Virtue steels the steady breast.
Thro' meannefs wade to boasted pow'r,
Thro' guilt repeated ev'ry hour;
What is thy gain, when all is done,
What mighty laurels haft thou won ?
Dull crowds, to whom the heart's unknown,
Praise thee for virtues not thy own;
But will, at once man's fcourge and friend,
Impartial Confcience too commend?
From her reproaches can't thou fly?
Can'ft thou with worlds her filence buy!
Believe it not-her ftings fhall find
A paffage to thy coward mind.
There fhall the fix her sharpeft dart,
There fhew thee truly, as thou art,
Unknown to those by whom thou'rt prix'd ;
Known to thyfelf to be despis'd.

The man who weds the facred Mufe,
Difdains all mercenary views,

And he who Virtue's throne would rear,
Laughs at the phantoms rais'd by fear.
Tho' Folly, rob'd in purple, fhines,
Tho' Vice exhaufts Peruvian mines,
Yet fhall they tremble, and turn pale,
When Satire wields her mighty flail ;
Or fhould they, of rebuke afraid,
With Melcombe feek hell's deepest shade,
Satire, ftill mindful of her aim,
Shall bring the cowards back to fhame.

Hated by many, lov'd by few,
Above each little private view,
Honeft, tho' poor, (and who fhall dare
To difappoint my boafting there)
Hardy and refolute, tho' weak,
The dictates of my heart to speak,
Willing I bend at Satire's throne;
What pow'r I have, be all her own.
Nor fhall yon' lawyer's fpecious art,
Confcious of a corrupted heart,
Create imaginary fear,

To damp us in our bold career.

Why should we fear? and what? The laws?
They all are arm'd in Virtue's caufe;
And aiming at the self-fame end,
Satire is always Virtue's friend :

Nor fhall that Mufe, whofe honest rage,
In a corrupt degen'rate age,
(When dead to ev'ry nicer fenfe,
Deep funk in vice and indolence,
The fpirit of old Rome was broke
Beneath the tyrant fiddler's yoke)
Banish'd the rofe from Nero's cheek,
Under a Brunfwick fear to speak.

Drawn by Conceit from Reafon's plan,
How vain is that foor creature, Man!
How pleas'd is ev'ry paltry elf
To prate about that thing himself!
After my promise made in rime,
And meant in earneft at that time,
To jog, according to the mode,
In one dull pace, in one dull road,
What but that curfe of heart and head
To this digreffion could have led,
Where plung'd, in vain I look about,
And can't stay in, nor well get out.
Could I, whilft Humour held the quill.
Could I digress with half that skill,
Could I with half that fkill return,
Which we fo much admire in Sterne;
Where each digreffion feeming vain,
And only fit to entertain,

Is found on better recollection,
To have a juít and nice connection,
To help the whole with wond'rous art
Whence it seems idly to depart;
Then fhould our readers ne'er accuse
Thefe wild excurfions of the Mufe,
Ne'er backward turn dull pages o'er
To recollect what went before;
Deeply imprefs'd, and ever new,
Each image paft should start to view,
And we to Dullman now come in,
As if we ne'er had abfent been.

Have you not feen, when danger's near,
The coward cheek turn white with fear?
Have you not feen, when danger's fled,
The felf-fame cheek with joy turn red?
Thefe are low fymptoms which we find
Fie only for a vulgar mind,

Where honeft features, void of arts
Betray the feelings of the heart:
Our Dullman with a face was blefs'd

Where no one paffion was exprefs'd;
His eye, in a fine ftupor caught,
Imply'd a plenteous lack of thought;
Nor was one line that whole face feen in,
Which could be justly charg'd with meaning.
To Avarice by birth ally'd,
Debauch'd by marriage into pride,
In age grown fond of youthful fports,
Of pomps, of vanities, and courts,
And by fuccefs too mighty made
To love his country as his trade,
Stiff in opinion (no rare cafe
With blockheads in or out of place
Too weak, and infolent of foul,
To fuffer Reafon's juft controul,
But bending, of his own accord,
To that trim tranfient toy, My Lord;
The dupe of Scots (a fatal race,
Whom God in wrath contriv'd to place,
To fcourge our crimes, and gall our pride,
A conftant thorn in England's fide;
Whom firft, our greatnefs to oppofe,
He in his vengeance mark'd for foes;
Then, more to ferve his wrathful ends,
And more to curfe us, mark'd for friends)
Deep in the State, if we give credit
To him, for no one elfe e'er faid it ;
Sworn friends of great ones not a few,
Tho' he their titles only knew,

And thofe (which envious of his breeding
Book-worms have charg'd to want of reading)
Merely to fhew himself polite,

He never would pronounce aright;
An Orator with whom a hoft

Of those which Rome and Athens boast,
In all their pride might not contend;
Who, with no pow'rs to recommend,
Whilft Jackey Hume, and Billy Whitehead,
And Dickey Glover fat delighted,
Could fpeak whole days in Nature's spite,
Juft as thofe able Verje-men write,
Great Dullman from his bed arofe-
Thrice did he fpit-thrice wip'd his nofe-
Thrice ftrove to fmile-thrice ftrove to frown-
And thrice look'd up-and thrice look'd down-
Then filence broke-Crape, who am I?
Crape bow'd, and smil'd ah arch reply.
Am I not, Crape-I am, you know,
Above all those who are below.
Have I not knowledge? and for wit,
Money will always purchase it ;
Nor, if it needful fhould be found,
Will I grudge ten, or twenty pound,
For which the whole stock may be bought
Of fcoundrel wits not worth a groat.
But left I fhould proceed too far,
I'll feel my friend the Minifter,

(Great men, Crape, muft not be neglected)
How he in this point is affected;
For, as I ftand a magistrate,

To ferve him first, and next the State.
Perhaps he may not think it fit
To let his magiftrates have wit.

Boast I not, at this very hour,

Those large effects which troop with pow'r ?
Am I not mighty in the land?
Do not I fit, whilst others ftand ?
Am I not with rich garments grac'd,
In feat of honour always plac'd ?
And do not Cits of chief degree,
Tho' proud to others, bend to me?

Have I not, as a Justice ought,

The laws fuch wholesome rigour taught,
That Fornication, in difgrace,
Is now afraid to fhew her face,
And not one whore these walls approaches,
Unless they ride in our own coaches?
And fhall this Fame, an old poor ftrumpet,
Without our licence found her trumpet,
And, envious of our City's quiet,
In broad day-light blow up a riot?
If infolence like this we bear,
Where is our ftate? our office where ?
Farewell all honours of our reign,
Farewell the neck-ennobling Chain,
Freedom's known badge o'er all the globe,
Farewell the folemn-fpreading Robe,
Farewell the Sword-farewell the Mace,
Farewell all Title, Pomp, and Place.
Remov'd from men of high degree,
(A lofs to them, Crape, not to me)
Banifh'd to Chippenham, or to Frome,
Dullman once more fhall ply the Loom.
Crape, lifting up his hands and eyes,
Dullman-the Loom-at Chippenham-eries,
If there be Pow'rs which greatness love,
Which rule below, but dwell above,

Thofe Pow'rs united all shall join
To contradict the rafh defign.
Sooner fhall ftubborn Will lay down
His oppofition with his gown,
Sooner fhall Temple leave the road
Which leads to Virtue's mean abode,
Sooner fhall Scots this country quit,
And England's foes be friends to Pitt,
Than Dullman from his grandeur thrown,
Shall wander out-caft, and unknown,
Sure as that cane (a cane there ftood
Near to a table, made of rvood,
Of dry fine wood a table made,
By fome rare artist in the trade,
Who had enjoy'd immortal praise
If he had liv'd in Homer's days)
Sure as that cane, which once was feen,
In pride of life all fresh and green,
The banks of Indus to adorn ;
Then, of its leafy honours fhorn,
According to exactest rule,
Was fafhion'd by the workman's tool,
And which at prefent we behold
Curiously polish'd, crown'd with gold,
With gold well-wrought; fure as that cane
Shall never on its native plain
Strike root afresh, shall never more
Flourish in tawny India's fhore,
So Sure fhall Dullman and his race
To latest times this ftation grace.
Dullman, who all this while had kept
His eye-lids clos'd as if he slept,
Now looking fted faftly on Crape,
As at fome God in human shape-
Crape, I proteft, you feem to me
To have difcharged a prophecy;
Yes-from the firft it doth appear,
Planted by Fate, the Dullmans here
Have always held a quiet reign,
And here fhall to the laft remain.

Crape, they're all wrong about this Ghost
Quite on the wrong fide of the post-
Blockheads, to take it in their head
To be a meffage from the dead,
For that by million they defign,
A word not half fo good as mine,
Crape-here it is-start not one doubt-
A plota plot-I've found it out.

O God!-cries Crape, how bleft the nation, Where one fon boafts fuch penetration!

Crape, I've not time to tell you now
When I difcover'd this, or how;
To Stentor go-if he's not there,
His place let Bully Norton bear-
Our Citizens to council call-
Let all meet-'tis the cause of all
Let the three witneffes attend
With allegations to befriend,
To fwear juft fo much, and no more,
As we inftruct them in before.

Stay-Crape-come back-what, don't
Th' effects of this discovery?
Dullman all care and toil endures-

The profit, Crape, will all be yours.
A Mitre (for, this arduous tafk
Perform'd, they'll grant what'er I ask)
A Mitre (and perhaps the best)
Shall thro' my intereft make thee bleft.

you fee

And at this time, when gracious Fate
Dooms to the Scot the reins of State,
Who is more fit (and for your use
We could fome inftances produce)
Of England's Church to be the Head,
Than you, a Prefbyterian bred?
But when thus mighty you are made,
Unlike the brethren of thy trade,
Be grateful, Crape, and let me not,
Like old Newcastle, be forgot.

But an affair, Crape, of this fize
Will afk from Conduct vaft fupplies;
It must not, as the vulgar fay,
Be done in hugger-mugger way.
Traitors indeed (and that's difcreet)
Who hatch the plot, in private meet;
They thould in public go, no doubt,
Whofe bufinefs is to find it out.

To-morrow-if the day appear
Likely to turn out fair and clear-
Proclaim a grand Proceffionade-
Be all the City pomp display'd,

Let the Train-bands-Crape fhook his head→→→
They heard the trumpet and were filed-
Well-cries the Knight-if that's the cafe,
My fervants fhall supply their place-
My fervants-mine alone-no more
Than what my fervants did before-
Doft not remember, Crape, that day,
When, Dullman's grandeur to display,
As all too fimple, and too low,
Our City friends were thruft below,
Whilft, as more worthy of our love,
Courtiers were entertain'd above?
Tell me, who waited then? and how?
Aly fervants-mine-and why not now?
In hafte then, Crape, to Stentor go-
But fend up Hart, who waits below;
With him, till you return again,
(Reach me my fpectacles and cane)
I'll make a proof how I advance in
My new accomplishment of dancing.

Not quite fo faft as lightning flies,
Wing'd with red anger, thro' the skies
Not quite fo faft as, fent by Jove,

And bears aloft, with terrors hung,
The honours of the vulgar tongue.

Here Stentor, always heard with awe,
In thund'ring accents deals out law.
Twelve furlongs off each dreadful word
Was plainly and diftinctly heard,
And ev'ry neighbour hill around
Return'd and fwell'd the mighty found.
The loudest Virgin of the stream,
Compar'd with him, would filent feem;
Thames, (who enrag'd to find his courfe
Oppos'd, rolls down with double force,
Against the Bridge indignant roars,
And lashes the refounding fhores)
Compar'd with him, at lowest tide,
In fofteft whispers feems to glide.
Hither directed by the noise,
Swell'd with the hope of future joys,
Thro' too much zeal and hafte made lame,
The rev'rend flave of Dullman came.
Stentor-with fuch a serious air,
With fuch a face of folemn care,
As might import him to contain
A nation's welfare in his brain-
Stentor-cries Crape-I'm hither fent
On business of moft high intent,
Great Dullman's orders to convey;
Dullman commands, and I obey.

Big with those throes which patriots feel,
And lab'ring for the common weal,
Some fecret which forbids him reft,
Tumbles and toffes in his breast,
Tumbles and toffes to get free;
And thus the chief commands by me.
To-morrow, if the day appear
Likely to turn out fair and clear-
Proclaim a grand Proceffionade-
Be all the City pomp difplay'd-
Our Citizens to council call-
Let all meet-'tis the caufe of all.

END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

Iris defcends on wings of Love;

Not quite fo faft as Terror rides,

When he the chafing winds bestrides;

Crape hobbled-but his mind was good

Cou'd he go fafter than he cou'd ?

Near to that Tozu'r, which, as we're told,

The mighty Julius rais'd of old,
Where to the block by Juftice led,
The rebel Scot hath often bled,
Where arms are kept fo clean, fo bright,
"Twere fin they should be foil'd in fight,
Where brutes of foreign race are fhewn
By brutes much greater of our own;
Faft by the crowded Thames, is found
An ample fquare of facred ground,
Where artless Eloquence prefides,
And Nature ev'ry fentence guides.

Here Female Parliaments debate
About Religion, Trade, and State ;
Here ev'ry Naiad's patriot's foul,
Difdaining foreign base controul,
Defpifing French, defpiting Erfe,
Pours forth the plain old English curfe,

NOXCOMBS, who vainly make pretence To fomething of exalted sense

C

'Bove other men, and, gravely wife,
Affect those pleasures to defpife,
Which, merely to the eye confin'd,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp: They would not ga
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent-Garden, where,
Without a head for play or play'r.
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one play'r to second it,
They muft, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere fhow, or not at all.

With thefe grave fops, who (blefs their brains)

Moft cruel to themselves, take pains