As vile and profligate a villain,

As modern Scroggs,* or old Tresilian; †
Who long all justice has discarded,
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded;
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,
And make him of his zeal repent:
But Heaven his innocence defends,
The grateful people stand his friends;
Not strains of law, nor judge's frown,
Nor topics brought to please the crown,
Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd,
Prevail to bring him in convict.

"In exile, with a steady heart, He spent his life's declining part;

* Sir William Scroggs, chief justice of the king's bench in the reign of king Charles the Second, was a man of low birth, and raised himself as much by means of his debaucheries, as of his abilities in his profession. He was preferred for professing loyalty; but, Oates's plot coming forward, he exerted himself very much on the side of that informer, though he afterward changed again, and was equally violent against him. For some dirty jobs, which he did to oblige the court, he was impeached in parliament; but the matter never was proceeded upon. While at the bar, he was always necessitous; but, during his preferment, he took care to secure a good fortune for himself, having in that period purchased the manor of Brentwood, in Essex. He afterward died, in Essex street, of a polypus in the heart. N.

† Sir Robert Tresilian was chief justice of England in the time of Richard the Second. He was adviser of many illegal acts in that reign, for which he was impeached, with several other judges and some noblemen, in parliament. Being convicted of the offences he was charged with, he was executed, February 19, 1388. N.

In Ireland, which he had reason to call a place of exile: to which country nothing could have driven him but the queen's death, who had determined to fix him in England, in spite of the duchess of Somerset, &c. H.

Where

Where folly, pride, and faction sway,
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.
His friendships there, to few confin'd,
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank, a mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed:
Where titles give no right, or power,
And peerage is a wither'd flower;
He would have held it a disgrace,
If such a wretch had known his face.
On rural squires, that kingdom's bane,
He vented oft' his wrath in vain:
******* squires to market brought;
Who sell their souls and **** for nought.
The ******** go joyful back,

To *** the church their tenants rack,
Go snacks with *******

And keep the peace, to pick up fees;
In every job to have a share,
A gaol or turnpike to repair ;
And turn the tax for public roads,
Commodious to their own abodes.

66

Perhaps I may allow the Dean

Had too much satire in his vein;
And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet malice never was his aim ;

He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name:
No individual could resent,

Where thousands equally were meant ;
His satire points at no defect,
But what all mortals may correct;
For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe
Who call it humour when they gibe:

He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux.
True genuine dulness mov'd his pity,
Unless it offer'd to be witty.

Those who their ignorance confest,
He ne'er offended with a jest;
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace learn'd by rote.
"He knew a hundred pleasing stories,
With all the turns of whigs and tories:
Was cheerful to his dying day;
And friends would let him have his way.
"He gave the little wealth he had
To build a house for fools and mad ;
And show'd by one satiric touch,
No nation wanted it so much.

That kingdom he hath left his debtor,
I wish it soon may have a better."

SIR,

AN EPISTLE TO TWO FRIENDS.*

TO DR. HELSHAM.†

Nov. 23, at night, 1731.

WHEN I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice sick ;

I'm so full of pity, I never abuse sick;

*This medley (for it cannot be called a poem) is given as a specimen of those bagatelles for which the Dean hath perhaps been too severely censured. H.

† Richard Helsham, M. D. professor of physic and natural philosophy in the university of Dublin. See the Preface to Delany on Polygamy. N.

And

And the patientest patient ever you knew sick : Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew

sick.

I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick: She mended at first, but now she's anew sick. Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick.

Dean Cross, had he preach'd, would have made us all pew-sick.

Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew, sick?

Lady Santry got out of the church when she grew

sick,

And, as fast she could, to the deanery flew sick. Miss Morice was (I can you assure 'tis true) sick: For, who would not be in that numerous crew

sick?

Such musicwould make a fanatic or Jew sick,
Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick.
Nor is old Nanny Shales, whene'er she does brew,

sick.

My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick,

And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews

sick;

But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick:

And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick; For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick,

And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick.

Yet hop'd to find many (for that was your cue)

But

But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick,

And those to be sure, stuck together like glew

sick.

So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick;

You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick;

So am I, when tobacco, like Robin I chew, sick.

TO DR. SHERIDAN.

IF I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick.

This night I came home with a very cold dew

sick,

And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick; But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew

sick,

Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.

DR. HELSHAM'S ANSWER.

THE doctor's first rhyme would make any Jew sick:

I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick,
For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick,
Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew
sick :

Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick's did spew sick:

And