Whilft Virtue, check'd by the cold hand of Scorn,
Seems with'ring on the bed where she was born,
Philofophy steps in; with fteady hand
She brings her aid, the clears th' encumber'd land:
Too virtuous to spare Vice one stroke, too wife
One moment to attend to Pity's cries,
See with what godlike, what relentless pow'r
She roots up ev'ry weed
P. and ev'ry flow'r.
Philofophy, a name of meek degree,
Embrac'd, in token of humility,
By the proud fage, who, whilst he ftrove to hide,
In that vain artifice, reveal'd his pride:
Philofophy, whom Nature had defign'd
To purge all errors from the human mind,
Herfelf mifled by the philofopher,
At once her Priest and Master, made us err;
Pride, pride, like leaven in a mass of flour,
Tainted her laws, and e'en made Virtue four.
Had the, content within her proper sphere,
Taught leffons fuited to the human ear,
Which might fair Virtue's genuine fruits produce,
Made not for ornament, but real use,
The heart of man unrivall'd she had sway'd,
Prais'd by the good, and by the bad obey'd.
But when the, overturning Reafon's throne,
Strove proudly in its place to plant her own;
When the with apathy the bre:ft would steel.
And teach us, deeply feeling, not to feel;
When the would wildly all her force employ,
Not to correct our paffions, but destroy ;
When, not content our nature to restore,
As made by God, fhe made it all new o'er ;
When, with a strange and criminal excefs,
To make us more than men, she made us lefs
The good her dwindled pow'r with pity faw,
The bad with joy, and none but fools with awe,
Truth with a fimple and unvarnish'd tale
E'en from the mouth of N- might prevail,
Could the get there; but Falsehood's fugar'd ftrain
Should pour her fatal blandishments in vain,
Nor make one convert, tho' the firen hung,
Where the too often hangs, on M- tongue.
Should all the Sophs, whom in his courfe the fun
Hath feen, or paft or prefent, rife in one;
Should he, whilft pleasure in each fentence flows,
Like Plato, give us poetry in profe;
Should He, full orator at once, impart
Th' Athenian's genius with the Roman's art,
Genius and Art should in this instance fail,
Nor Rome tho' join'd with Athens here prevail :
'Tis not in man, 'tis not in more than man,
To make me find one fault in Nature's plan.
Plac'd low ourselves, we cenfure those above,
And, wanting judgment, think that the wants love;
Blame where we ought in reason to commend,
And think her moit a foe, when most a friend.
Such be Philofophers-their specious art,
Tho' Friendship pleads, fhall never warp my heart;
Ne'er make me from this breast one paffion tear,
Which Nature, my best friend, hath planted there.
F. Forgiving, as a friend, what, whilst I live,
As a Philofopher I can't forgive,
In this one point at last I join with you;
To Nature pay all that is Nature's due;
But let not clouded Reafon fink so low,
To fancy debts he does not, cannot owe
Bear, to full manhood grown, those shackles bear,
Which Nature meant us for a time to wear
As we wear leading-ftrings, which, useless grown,
Are laid afide, when we can walk alone.
But on thyfelf, by peevish humour sway'd,
Wilt thou lay burdens Nature never laid?
Wilt thou make faults, whilft Judgment weakly errs,
And then defend, mistaking them for her's?
Dar'ft thou to fay, in our enlighten'd age,
That this grand mafter paffion, this brave rage,
Which flames out for thy Country, was impreft
And fix'd by Nature in the human breast
If you prefer the place where you was born,
And hold all others in contempt and scorn
On fair comparison; if on that land
With lib'ral and a more than equal hand
Her gifts as in profufion Plenty fends :
If Virtue meets with more and better friends;
If Science finds a patron 'mongst the great;
If Honesty is Minifter of State;
If Pow'r, the guardian of our rights design'd,
Is to that great, that only end confin'd;
If riches are employ'd to blefs the poor;
If Law is facred, Liberty fecure ;
Let but these facts depend on proofs of weight,
Reafon declares, thy love can't be too great;
And in this light could he our Country view,
A very Hottentot must love it too.
But if, by Fate's decrees, you owe your birth
To fome most barren and penurious earth,
Where, ev'ry comfort of this Life denied,
Her real wants arefcantily fupplied,
Where Pow'r is Reason, Liberty a joke,
Laws never made, or made but to be broke;
To fix thy love on fuch a wretched spot,
Because in Lutt's wild fever there begot,
Becaufe, thy weight no longer fit to bear,
By chance, not choice, thy mother dropt thee
there,
Is, Folly, which admits not of defence ;
It can't be Nature, for it is not Senfe.
By the fame argument which here
you hold,
(When Falfehood's infolent let Truth be bold
If propagation can in torments dwell,
A Devil muft, if born there, love his hell.
P. Had Fate, to whofe decrees I lowly bend,
And e'en in punishment confess a friend,
Ordain'd my birth in fome place yet untry'd,
On purpose made to mortify my pride,
Where the Sun never gave one glimpse of day,
Where Science never yet could dart one ray;
Had I been born on fome bleak, blasted plain
Of barren Scotland, in a Stuart's reign;
Or in fome kingdom, where men, weak or worse,
Turn'd Nature's ev'ry bleffing to a curfe,
Where crowns of Freedom by the fathers won,
Dropp'd leaf by leaf from each degen'rate fon;
In fpite of all the wifdom you difplay,
All you have faid, and yet may have to fay,
My weakness here, if weaknefs, I confefs,
I, as my Country, had not lov'd her lefs.
Whether strict Reafon bears me out in this,
Let thofe who, always seeking, always mifs
The ways of Reafon, doubt with precious zeał;
Their's be the praise to argue, mine to feel.
With we to trace this paffion to the root,
We, like a tree, may know it by its fruit,
From its rich ftem ten thousand virtues spring,
Ten thousand bleffings on its branches cling;
Yet in the circle of revolving years,
Not one misfortune, not one vice appears.
Hence then, and what you Reafon call adore ;
This, if not Reason, must be fomething more.
But, (for I with not others to confine,
Be their opinions unrestrain'd as mine)
Whether this love's of good or evil growth,
A viee, a virtue, or a fpice of both,
Let men of nicer argument decide:
If it is virtuous, foothe an honeft pride
With lib'ral praife, if vicious, be content,
It is a vice I never can repent;
A vioe which, weigh'd in heav'n, fhall more avail
Than ten cold virtues in the other fcale.
F. This wild, untemper'd zeal (which after all
We, Candour unimpeach'd, might madness call)
Is it a virtue? That you scarce pretend :
Or can it be a vice, like Virtue's friend,
Which draws us off from and diffolves the force
Of private ties, nay ftops us in our course
To that grand object of the human foul,
That nobler love which comprehends the whole?
Coop'd in the limits of this petty ifle,
This nook, which fcarce deferves a frown or fmile,
Weigh'd with Creation, you, by whim undone,
Give all your thoughts to what is scarce worth one.
The gen'rous Soul, by Nature taught to foar,
Her ftrength confirm'd in philofophic lore,
At one grand view takes in a world with eafe,
And, feeing all mankind, loves all the fees.
P. Was it moft fure, which yet a doubt endures,
Not found in Reafon's creed, tho' found in yours,
That these two fervices, like what we're told
And know of God's and Mammon's, cannot hold
And draw together; that however loth,
We neither ferve, attempting to serve both;
I could not doubt a moment which to chufe,
And which in common reafon to refufe.
Invented oft for purposes of art,
Born of the head, tho' father'd on the heart,
This grand love of the world must be confeft
A barren fpeculation at the best.
Not one man in a thoufand, fhould he live
Beyond the ufual term of life, could give,
So rare occafion comes, and to fo few,
Proof whether his regards are feign'd or true.
The love we bear our Country, is a root
Which never fails to bring forth golden fruit;
'Tis in the mind an everlasting spring
Of glorious actions, which become a King,
Nor lefs become a fubject; 'tis a debt
Which bad men, tho' they pay not, can't forget;
A duty, which the good delight to pay,
And ev'ry man can practise ev'ry day.
Nor, for my life (fo very dim my eye,
Or dull your argument), can I defcry
What you with faith affert, how that dear love
Which binds me to my Country can remove,
And make me of neceffity forego,
That gen'ral love which to the world I owe.
Thofeties of private nature, fmall extent,
In which the mind of narrow caft is pent,
Are only steps on which the gen'rous foul
Mounts by degrees 'till fhe includes the whole.
That fpring of love, which in the human mind,
Founded on felf, flows narrow and confiņ'd,
Enlarges as it rolls, and comprehends
The focial charities of blood, and friends,
'Till smaller streams included, not o'erpaft,
It rifes to our Country's love at laft;
And he, with lib'ral and enlarged mind,
Who loves his Country, cannot hate mankind.
F. Friend as you would appear to Common Senfe
Tell me, or think no more of a defence,
Is it a proof of love by choice to run
A vagrant from your Country?
P. Can the fort, (Shame, fhame, on all fuch fons) with ruthless
And heart more patient than the flint, ftand by,
And by fome ruffian, from all fhame divorc'd,
All virtue, fee his honour'd mother forc'd!
Then, no, by Him that made me, not e'en then,'
Could I with patience, by the worst of men,
Behold my Country plunder'd, beggar'd, loft
Beyond redemption, all her glories crofs'd
E'en when occafion made them ripe, her fame
Fled like a dream, while fhe awakes to fhame.
F. Is it not more the office of a friend,
The office of a patron, to defend
Her finking ftate, than bafely to decline,
So great a caufe, and in despair refign?
P. Beyond my reach, alas! the grievance lies,
And, whilft more able patriots doubt, the dies.
From a foul fource, more deep than we fuppofe,
Fatally deep and dark, this grievance flows.
"Tis not that Peace our glorious hopes defeats,
"Tis not the voice of Faction in the streets,
'Tis not a grofs attack on Freedom made,
"Tis not the arm of Privilege difplay'd
Against the fubject, whilst the wears no sting
To difappoint the purpose of a King;
There are no ills, or trifles, if compar'd
With thofe, which are contriv'd, tho' not declar'd,
Tell me, Philofopher, is it a crime,
To pry into the fecret womb of Time;
Or, born in ignorance, must we despair
To reach events, and read the future there?
Why, be it fo-ftill 'tis the right of man,
Imparted by his Maker, where he can,
To former times and men his eye to caft,
And judge of what's to come, by what is past
Should there be found in fome not diftant year
(O how I wish to be no prophet here),
Amongst our British Lords fhould there be found
Some great in pow'r, in principles unfound,
Who look on Freedom with an evil-eye,
In whom the fprings of loyalty are dry;
Who wish to foar on wild Ambition's wings,
Who hate the Commons, and who love not Kings
Who would divide the People and the Throne
To fet up fep'rate int'refts of their own;
Who hate whatever aids their wholesome growth,
And only join with, to destroy them both;
Should there be found fuch men in after-times,
May Heav'n in mercy to our grievous crimes
Allot fome milder vengeance, nor to them
And to their rage this wretched land condemn.
Thou God above, on whom all States depend, Who knoweft from the first their rife and end, If there's a day mark'd in the Book of Fate When ruin muft involve our equal State; When law, alas! must be no more, and we, To Freedom born, must be no longer free ;
Let not a mob of tyrants feize the helm,
Nor titled upitarts league to rob the realm:
Let not, whatever other ills affail,
A damned Ariftocracy prevail.
If, all too fhort, our courfe of Freedom run,
is thy good pleafure we should be undone,
=Let us, fome comfort in our griefs to bring,
Be flaves to one, and be that one a King.
F. Poets, accuftom'd by their trade to feign,
Oft fubftitute creations of the brain
For real fubftance, and, themselves deceiv'd,
= Would have the fiction by mankind believ'd.
Such is your cafe. But grant, to foothe your pride,
That you know more than all the world befide,
Why deal in hints, why make a moment's doubt ?
Refolv'd, and like a man, at once speak out,
Shew us our danger, tell us where lies,
And, to enfure our fafety, make us wife.
P. Rather than bear the pain of thought, fools
ftray;
The proud will rather lose than ask their way;
To men of fense what needs it to unfold
And tell a tale which they must know untold?
In the Bad, int'reft warps the canker'd heart,
The Good are hood-wink'd by the tricks of art;
And whilst arch, fubtle hypocrites contrive
To keep the flames of discontent alive,
Whilft they, with arts to honeft men unknown,
Breed doubts between the People and the Throne,
Making us fear, where Reafon never yet
Allow'd one fear, or could one doubt admit,
Themselves pafs unfufpected in difguife,
And 'gainft our real danger feal our eyes.
But why, bewitch'd, to India turn thy eyes?
Cannot our Europe thy vaft wrath fuffice?
Cannot thy mifbegotten Mufe lay bare
Her brawny arm, and play the butcher there?
P. Thy counfel taken, what should Satire do ?
Where could the find an object that is new?
Thofe travell'd youths, whom tender mothers wean,
And fend abroad to fee and to be seen,
With whom, left they should fornicate, or worse,
A Tutor's fent, by way of a dry nurse,
Each of whom juft enough of spirit bears,
To fhew our follies, and to bring home their's,
Have made all Europe's vices fo well known,
They seem almost as natʼral as our own.
F. Will India for thy purpose better do?
P. In one refpect at least there's something news
F. A harmless people, in whom Náture speaks
Free and untainted; 'mongst whom Satire feeks,
But vainly feeks, fo fimply plain their hearts,
One bofom where to lodge her poifon'd darts.
P. From knowledge speak you this, or doubt on doubt
Weigh'd and refolv'd, hath Reason found it out?
Neither from knowledge, nor by Reafon taught,
You have faith ev'ry where but where you ought
India or Europe-What's there in a name?
Propenfity to vice in both the fame,
Nature alike in both works for man's good,
Alike in both by man himself, withstood.
Nabobs, as well as those who hunt them down,
Deferve a cord much better than a crown,
And a Mogul can thrones as much debase
As any polish'd Prince of Chriftian race.
F. Could you, a talk more hard than you fuppofe
F. Mark them, and let their names recorded Cou'd you, in ridicule whilst Satire glows,
ftand
On Shame's black roll, and ftink thro' all the land.
P. That might fome courage, but no prudence be;
No hurt to them, and jeopardy to me.
F. Leave out their names.
P. For that kind caution thanks;
But may not Judges fometimes fill up blanks?
F. Your Country's laws in doubt then you reject?
P. The laws I love, the lawyers I fufpect:
Amongst twelve Judges may not one be found,
(On bare, bare poffibility I ground
This wholesome doubt) who may enlarge, retrench,
Create and uncreate, and from the bench,
With winks, fmiles, nods, and fuch like paltry arts,
May work and worm into a Jury's hearts;
Or, baffled there, may, turbulent of foul,
Cramp their high office, and their rights controul;
Who may, tho' Judge, turn Advocate at large,
And deal replies out by the way of charge,
Making interpretation all the way,
In spite of facts, his wicked will obey,
And, leaving law without the least defence,
May damn his conscience to approve his sense?
F. Whilft, the true guardians of this charter'd
land,
In full and perfect vigour, Juries ftand,
A Judge in vain fhall awe, cajole, perplex.
P. Suppose I fhould be tried in Middlesex?
F. To pack a Jury they will never dare.
P. There's no occafion to pack Juries there.
F. 'Gainft prejudice all arguments are weak,
Reafon herself without effect must speak.
Fly then thy Country, like a coward fly,
Renounce her int'reft, and her laws defy.
VOL. VIII.
Make all their follies to the life appear,
'Tis ten to one you gain no credit here.
Howe'er well-drawn, the picture after all,
Becaufe we know not the original,
Would not find favour in the public eye.
P. That, having your good leave, I mean to try,
And if your obfervations sterling hold,
If the piece fhould be heavy, tame, and cold,
To make it to the fide of Nature lean,
And, meaning nothing, fomething seem to mean,
To make the whole in lively colours glow,
To bring before us fomething that we know,
And from all honeft men applause to win,
I'll groupe the Company, and put them in.
F. Be that ungen rous thought by fhame fupprefs'd
Add not diftrefs to thofe too much diftrefs'd.
Have they not, by blind zeal, misled, laid bare
Thofe fores which never might endure the air?
Have they not brought their mysteries fo low,
That what the wife fufpected not, fools know?
From their first rife e'en to the prefent hour,
Have they not prov'd their own abuse of pow'r ;
Made it impoffible, if fairly view'd,
Ever to have that dang'rous pow'r renew'd;
Whilft unfeduc'd by Minifters, the Throne
Regards our intereft, and knows its own?
P. Should ev'ry other fubject chance to fail,
Those who have fail'd, and those who wish to fail
In the laft fleet, afford an ample field,
Which must beyond my hopes a harvest yield.
F. On fuch vile food Satire can never thrive.
P. She cannot starve, if there was only Clive.
HE time hath been, a boyish, blushing time, When modesty was fcarcely held a crime; When the most wicked had fome touch of grace, And trembled to meet Virtue face to face; When those, who, in the caufe of Sin grown grey, Had ferv'd her without grudging day by day, Were yet fo weak an aukward fhame to feel, And ftrove that glorious fervice to conceal ; We, better bred, and than our fires more wife, Such paltry narrowness of foul defpife, To virtue ev'ry mean pretence difclaim, Lay bare our crimes, and glory in our shame.
Time was, ere Temperance had fled the realm; Ere luxury fat guttling at the helm From meal to meal, without one moment's space Referv'd for bufinefs, or allow'd for grace; Ere Vanity had fo far conquer'd Senfe To make us all wild rivals in expence, To make one fool ftrive to outvie another, And every coxcomb dress against his brother; Ere banish'd Industry had left our shores, And Labour was by Pride kick'd out of doors; Ere Idleness prevail'd fole Queen in Courts, Or only yielded to a rage for sports; Ere each weak mind was with externals caught, And diffipation held the place of thought; Ere gambling Lords in vice fo far were gone To cog the die, and bid the fun look on; Ere a great nation not less just than free, Was made a beggar by economy;
Ere rugged honefty was out of vogue,
Ere Fashion ftamp'd her fanction on the rogue;
Time was, that men had confcience, that
Scruples to owe, what never could be paid.
Was one then found, however high his name,
So far above his fellows damn'd to fhame,
Who dar'd abuse and falfify his truft,
Who, being great, yet dar'd to be unjust;
Shunn'd like a plague, or but at diftance view'd,
He walk'd the crouded streets in folitude,
Nor could his rank, and station in the land,
Bribe one mean knave to take him by the hand.
Such rigid maxims (O, might fuch revive
To keep expiring Honefty alive)
Made rogues, all other hopes of fame deny'd,
Not just thro' principle, but juft thro' pride.
What is't to Faber ? Lordly as before,
He fits at eafe, and lives to ruin more.
Fix'd at his door, as motionlefs as stone,
Begging, but only begging for their own,
Unheard they ftand, or only heard by thofe,
Those flaves in livery, who only mock their woes.
What is't to Faber? He continues great,
Lives on in grandeur, and runs out in ftate.
The helpless widow, wrung with deep defpair,
In bitterness of foul, pours forth her pray'r,
Hugging her starving babes with ftreaming eyes,
And calls down vengeance, vengeance from the
fkies.
What is't to Faber? He ftands fafe and clear,
Heav'n can commence no legal action here,
And on his breaft a mighty plate he wears,
A plate more firm than triple brafs, which bears
The name of Privilege 'gainit vulgar awe;
He feels no Confcience, and he fears no Law.
Nor think, acquainted with small knaves alone,
Who have not fhame outliv'd, and grace outgrown,
The great world hidden from thy reptile view,
That on fuch men, to whom contempt is due,
Contempt fhall fall, and their vile author's name
Recorded ftand thro' all the Land of Shame.
No-to his porch, like Perfians to the fun,
Behold contending crowds of courtiers run;
See, to his aid what noble troops advance,
All fworn to keep his crimes in countenance.
Nor wonder at it-They partake the charge,
As fmall their confcience, and their debts as large.
Propp'd by fuch clients, and without controul
From all that's honeft in the human foul,
In grandeur mean, with infolence unjust,
Whilft none but knaves can praife, and fools will
Carefs'd and courted, Faber feems to stand
A mighty pillar in a guilty land,
And (a fad truth to which fucceeding times
Will scarce give credit, when 'tis told in rimes)
Did not ftrict Honour with a jealous eye
they Watch round the Throne, did not true Piety
(Who, link'd with Honour, for the noblest ends,
Ranks none but honeft men amongst her friends)
Forbids us to be crush'd with fuch a weight,
He might in time be Minister of State.
Our times, more polish'd, wear a diff'rent face; Debts are an honour; payment a difgrace. Men of weak winds, high-plac'd on Folly's lift, May gravely tell us trade cannot fubfift, Nor all thofe thousands who're in trade employ'd, If faith 'twixt man and man is once destroy'd. Why-be it foWe in that point accord; But what is trade and tradesmen to a Lord? Faber, from day to day, from year to year, Hath had the cries of tradesmen in his ear, Of tradesmen by his villainy betray'd, And, vainly fecking juftice, bankrupts made.
But why enlarge I on fuch petty crimes? They might have fhock'd the faith of former times, But now are held as nothing.-We begin Where our fires ended, and improve in fin, Rack our invention, and leave nothing new In vice and folly for our fons to do.
Nor deem this cenfure hard; there's not a place
Moft confecrate to purposes of grace,-
Which Vice hath not polluted; none so high,
But with bold pinion the hath dar'd to fly,
And build there for her pleasure; none fo low,
But the hath crept into it; made it know,
And feel her pow'r; in courts, in camps fhe reigns
O'er fober citizens, and fimple fwains;
E'en in our temples fhe hath fix'd her throne,
And 'bove God's holy altars plac'd her own.
More to increase the horror of our State,
To make her empire lasting as 'tis great,
To make us in full-grown perfection feel
Curfes which neither Art nor Time can heal,
All shame difcarded, all remains of pride,
Meannels fits crown'd, and triumphis by her fide;
Meannefs, who gleans out of the human mind
Thofe few good feeds which Vice had left behind,
Those feeds which might in time to virtue tend,
And leaves the foul without a pow'r to mend ;
Meannefs, at fight of whom, with brave disdain
The breaft of Manhood fwells, but fwells in vain,
Before whom Honour makes a forc'd retreat,
And Freedom is compell'd to quit her feat;
Meannefs which, like that mark by bloody Cain
Borne in his forehead for a brother flain,
God, in his great and all-fubduing rage,
Ordains the standing mark of this vile age.
The venal hero trucks his fame for gold,
The patriot's virtue for a place is fold,
The statesman bargains for his Country's fhame,
And for preferment priests their God disclaim.
Worn out with luft, her day of letch'ry o'er,
The mother trains the daughter which the bore
In her own paths; the father aids the plan,
And, when the innocent is ripe for man,
Sells her to fome old letcher for a wife,
And makes her an adulterefs for life,
Or in the Papers bids his name appear,
And advertises for a L-
;
Hutband and wife (whom Av'rice must applaud)
Agree to fave the charge of pimp and bawd;
These parts they play themselves, a frugal pair,
And share the infamy, the gain to share;
Well-pleas'd to find, when they the profits tell,
That they have play'd the whore and rogue fo well.
Nor are these things (which might imply a spark
Of shame still left) tranfacted in the dark.
No-to the public they are open laid,
And carried on like any other trade.
Scorning to mince damnation, and too proud
To work the works of darkness in a cloud,
In fullest vigour Vice maintains her sway;
Free are her marts, and open at noon-day.
Meannefs, now wed to Impudence, no more
In darkness skulks, and trembles, as of yore,
When the light breaks upon her coward eye;
Boldly fhe ftalks on earth, and to the sky
Lifts her proud head, nor fears left time abate,
And turn her husband's love to canker'd hate,
Since Fate, to make them more fincerely one,
Hath crown'd their loves with Montague their fon;
A fon fo like his dam, fo like his fire,
With all the mother's craft, the father's fire,
An image fo exprefs in every part,
So like in all bad qualities of heart,
That, had they fifty children, he alone
Would ftand as heir apparent to the throne.
With our own ifland vices not content,
We rob our neighbours on the continent,
Dance Europe round, and vifit ev'ry Court,
To ape their follies and their crimes import.
To diff'rent lands for diff'rent fins we roam,
And, richly freighted, bring our cargo home,
Nobly induftrious to make vice appear
In her full state, and perfect only here.
To Holland, where Politeness ever reigns,
Where primitive Sincerity remains,
And makes a stand, where Freedom in her courfe
Hath left her name, tho' fhe hath lost her force
In that, as other lands, where fimple Trade
Was never in the garb of Fraud array'd,
Where Av'rice never dar'd to shew his head,
Where, like a smiling cherub, Mercy, led
By Reafon, bleffes the fweet-blooded race,
And Cruelty could never find a place,
To Holland for that Charity we roam,
Which happily begins and ends at home.
France, in return for peace and pow'r reftor'd,
For all thofe countries, which the hero's sword
Unprofitably purchas'd, idly thrown
Into her lap, and made once more her own;
France hath afforded large and rich fupplies
Of vanities full-trimm'd, of polish'd lies,
Of foothing flatteries, which thro' the ears
Steal to and melt the heart of flavish fears
Which break the fpirit, and of abject fraud-
For which, alas! we need not fend abroad.
Spain gives us pride-which Spain to all the earth
May largely give, nor fear herself a dearth-
Gives us that jealousy, which, born of fear
And mean diftruft, grows not by nature here-
Gives us that fuperftition, which pretends
By the worst means to ferve the best of ends-
That cruelty, which, ftranger to the brave,
Dwells only with the coward, and the flave;
That cruelty, which led her christian bands
With more than favage rage o'er favage lands,
Bade her without remorfe whole countries thin,
And hold of nought but mercy as a fin.
India, nurfe of ev'ry fofter art,
Who, feigning to refine, unmans the heart,
Who lays the realms of Senfe and Virtue waste,
餐
Who mars whilft the pretends to mend our taste
Italia, to compleat and crown our shame,
Sends us a fiend, and Legion is his name,
The farce of greatness without being great,
Pride without pow'r, titles without estate,
Souls without vigour, bodies without force,
Hate without caufe, revenge without remorse,
Dark mean revenge, murder without defence,
Jealoufy without love, found without sense,
Mirth without humour, without wit grimace,
Faith without reafon, gofpel without grace,
Zeal without knowledge, without nature art,
Men without manhood, women without heart,
Half-men, who, dry and pithlefs, are debarr'd
From man's beft joys-no fooner made than marr'd-şə
Half-men, whom many a rich and noble dame,
To ferve her luft, and yet fecure her fame,
Keeps on high diet, as we capons feed,
To glut our appetites at laft decreed;
Women, who dance in postures so obfcene,
They might awaken shame in Aretine;
Who, when retir'd from the day's piercing light,
They celebrate the mysteries of night,
Might make the Mufes, in a corner plac'd
To view their monstrous lufts, decm Sappho chafte
These, and a thoufand follies rank as thefe,
A thoufand faults, ten thoufand fools, who please
Our pall'd and fickly tafte, ten thousand knaves,
Who ferve our foes as fpies, and us as flaves,
Who by degrees, and unperceiv'd, prepare
Our necks for chains which they already wear,
Madly we entertain, at the expence
Of Fame, of Virtue, Tafte, and Common Senfe.
Nor stop we here the foft luxurious East,
Where man, his foul degraded, from the beast
In nothing diff'rent but in shape we view,
They walk on four legs, and he walks on two. -
Attracts our eye; and flowing from that fource,
Sins of the blackeft character, fins worfe
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