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I never (to my sorrow I declare)
Din’d with the Man of Ross, or my LORD MAY'R.
Some, in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave)
Have still a secret bias to a knave :'

To find an honest man I beat about,
And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.
F. Then why so few commended ?

P. Not so fierce; Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse. 195 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 she weeps, for him she weds agen." Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the ground ; 110 The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd. ; Enough for half the greatest of these days, o To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?.. Dare they to hope a poet for their friend? 115 What RICHLIEU wanted, Louis scarce could gain, And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain. No pow'r the muse's friendship can command ; No pow'r, when virtue claims it, can withstand : To Cato, Virgil pay'd one honest line ; O let my country's friends illumine mine ! -What are you thinking? F. Faith the thought's no I think your friends are out, and would be in. [sin.

P. If Ver. 99. my LORD May’r.] Sir John Barnard, Lord Mayor in the year of the poem, 1738.


P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out,
The way they take is strangely round about: 125

F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow ?
P. I only call those 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 plave, 130
And LYTTELTON a dark designing 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, besides, a tyrant to his wife. 135

But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine,
Oh all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine ?

What ? shall each spurgall’d hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, 141
Or each new-pension’d sycophant, pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend ;


VER. 129. Spirit of Arnall!] Arnall was one of the writers for Sir Robert Walpole, and got by his writing, &c. a very large sum, an account of which may be seen in the notes to the Dunciad.

VER. 130. Polwartu) The Hon. Hugh Hume, son of Alexander Earl of Marchmont, grandson of Patric Earl of Marchmont, and distinguished, like them, in the cause of liberty.

VER. 143. To break my windows which was done when Lord Bolingbroke and Lord Bathurst were one day dining with him at Twickenham. All the great persons celebrated in these satires were in violent opposition to government.


Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt ? *
Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut; it may be said
His saws are toothless, and his hatchet's lead.
It anger'd TURENNE, once upon a day,

To see 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 gen'ral turn'd it to a jest,
And begg'd, he'd take the pains to kick the rest : 155
Which not at present having time to do (you?
F. Hold, Sir! for God's sake, where's th' affront to
Against your worship whep had S-k*writ?
Or Pege pour'd forth the torrent of his wit ?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend 160
[In pow'r a servant, out of pow'r a friend] -
To W-le t guilty of same venial sin;
What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in: -

The priest whose flattery be-dropt the crown, How hurt he you? he only stain’d the gown. 165 And how did, pray, the florid youth offend, Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?

P. Faith, Ver. 159. Or Page] Judge Page, who is said to have treated delinquents too roughly.

Ver. 164. The priest, &c.] Meaning Dr. Alured Clarke, who wrote a panegyric on Queen Caroline. . * Sherlock

* Walpole.


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 same. 170 Let courtly wits to wits afford supply, As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly; If one through nature's bounty or his lord's, .. Has what the frugal dirty soil affords, From him the next receives it, thick or thin, 175 As pure a mess almost as it came in; The blessed benefit, not there confin'd, Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind ; From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse : The last full fairly gives it to the house.

F. This filthy simile, this beastly line Quite turns my stomach

P. So does flatt'ry mine ; And all your courtly civet-cats can vent, Perfume to you, to me is excrement. But hear me further -Japhet, 'tis agreed, 185 Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read; In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite; But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write ; And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown, Because the deed he forg'd was not my own? 190

Must Ver. 166. Aorid youth] Lord Hervey, alluding to his painting himself. Ver. 185 in the MS.

I grant it, Sir; and further, 'tis agreed,

Japhet writ not, and Chartres scarce could read, VOL. III. :

Must never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in ?
No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse,
Without a staring reason on his brows?
And each blasphemer quite escape the rod, 195
Because the insult's not on man, but God?

Ask 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 should be yours.
Mine, as a foe profess'd to false pretence, 201
Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense ;
Mine, as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind. .
F. You're strangely 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 see Men not afraid of God, afraid of me: Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, 210 Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone..

O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence, Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence ! To all but Heav'n-directed hands deny'd, The Muse may give thee, but the Gods rrust guide : Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal; 216 To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,




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