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F. Why yes with Scripture ftill you may be free; A Horse-laugh, if you please, at Honesty;

A Joke on JEKYLL, or fome odd Old Whig,
Who never chang'd his Principle, or Wig;
A Patriot is a Fool in every age,

Whom all Lord Chamberlains allow the Stage:
These nothing hurts; they keep their Fashion still,
And wear their ftrange old Virtue, as they will.

If any afk you, "Who's the Man, fo near
"His Prince, that writes in Verfe, and has his ear?"
Why anfwer LYTTELTON, and I'll engage
The worthy Youth shall ne'er be in a rage:
But were his Verfes vile, his Whisper base:
You'd quickly find him in Lord Fanny's cafe.
Sejanus, Wolfey, hurt not honest FLEURY,
But well may put fome Statesmen in a fury.
Laugh then at any, but at Fools or Foes;
These you but anger, and you
mend not thofe.



Laugh at your Friends, and, if your Friends are fore, 55 So much the better, you may laugh the more.

To Vice and Folly to confine the jest,

Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest;
Did not the Sneer of more impartial men

At Senfe 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, Ofborn's Wit!

U 2




The honey dropping from Favonio's tongue,
The Flowers of Bubo, and the Flow of Young!
The gracious Dew of Pulpit Eloquence,
And all the well-whipt Cream of Courtly Senfe,
That firft was H-vy's, F-'s next, and then,
The S-te's, and then H-vy's once agen.
O come, that eafy Ciceronian ftyle,

So Latin, yet fo English all the while,

As, though the Pride of Middleton and Bland,
All Boys may read, and Girls may understand!
Then might I fing, without the leaft offence,
And all I fung should be the Nation's Sense;
Or teach the Melancholy Mufe to mourn,
Hang the fad Verfe on CAROLINA's Urn,
And hail her paffage to the Realms of Reft,
All parts perform'd, and all her Children bleft!
So-Satire is no more-I feel it die-

No Gazetteer more innocent than I

And let, a God's name, every Fool and Knave
Be grac'd through Life, and flatter'd in his Grave.
F. Why fo? if Satire knows its Time and Place,
You ftill may lafh the greatest-in Difgrace:

For Merit will by turns forfake them all;

Would you know when? exactly when they falt.
But let all Satire in all Changes spare
Immortal S-k, and grave -re.
Silent and foft, as Saints remov'd to Heaven,
All Ties diffolv'd, and every Sin forgiven,
These may fome gentle minifterial Wing
Receive, and place for ever near a King!








There, where no Paffion, Pride, or Shame transport,
Lull'd with the fweet Nepenthe of a Court,

There, where no Father's, Brother's, Friend's difgrace Once break their rest, or stir them from their Place: But past the Sense of human Miseries,

All Tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;

No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb,
Save when they lofe a Question, or a Job.

P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should blaft their glory,
Who know how like Whig Minifters to Tory,
And when three Sovereigns dy'd, could scarce be vext,
Confidering what a gracious Prince was next.
Have I, in filent wonder, feen fuch things
As Pride in Slaves, and Avarice in Kings;
And at a Peer, or Peerefs, fhall I fret,
Who starves a Sifter, or forfwears a Debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boaft;


But shall the dignity of Vice be loft?

Ye Gods! fhall Cibber's Son, without rebuke,


Swear like a Lord, or Rich outwhore a Duke?

A Favourite's Porter with his Master vie,

Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?

Shall Ward draw Contracts with a Statesman's fkill?

Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a Will?


Is it for Bond, or Peter, (paltry things)

To pay their Debts, or keep their Faith, like Kings?


Ver. 112. in fome editions,

Who ftarves a Mother


If Blount difpatch'd himself, he play'd the man,
And fo may'ft thou, illuftrious Pafferan !

But fhall a Printer, weary of his life,




Learn, from their Books, to hang himself and Wife?
This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear;
Vice thus abus'd, demands a Nation's care;
This calls the Church to deprecate our Sin,
And hurls the Thunder of the Laws on Gin.
Let modeft Fofter, if he will, excell
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A fimple Quaker, or a Quaker's Wife,
Outdo Landaffe in Doctrine, -yea in Life:
Let humble Allen, with an aukward Shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame,
Virtue may choose the high or low Degree,
'Tis juft alike to Virtue, and to me;
Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King,
She's ftill the fame belov'd, contented thing.
Vice is undone, if the forgets her Birth,
And stoops from Angels to the dregs of Earth :
But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a Whore ;
Let Greatnefs own her, and fhe's mean no more,
Her Birth, her Beauty, Crowds and Courts confefs,
Chafte Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless;
In golden Chains the willing World the draws,
And hers the Gospel is, and hers the Laws,
Mounts the Tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
And fees pale Virtue carted in her ftead.
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, or Son!



Hear her black Trumpet through the Land proclaim,
In Soldier, Churchman, Patriot, Man in Power,
'Tis Avarice all, Ambition is no more!
See, all our Nobles begging to be Slaves!
See, all our Fools afpiring 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 'fcape, or triumph o'er the Law: While Truth, Worth, Wisdom, daily they decry"Nothing is facred now but Villainy."

Yet may this Verfe (if fuch a Verse remain) Show there was one who held it in difdain.


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