But paft the Senfe of human Miferies,

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 Heav'n forbid, that I should blast their
glory,'

Who know how like Whig Minifters to Tory, And, when three Sov'reigns dy'd, could fcarce be

vext,

Confid'ring 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, shall I fret,
Who ftarves a Sifter, or forfwears a Debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boaft;
But fhall the Dignity of Vice be loft?

Ye Gods! fhall Cibber's Son, without rebuke,
Swear like a Lord, or Rich outwhore a Duke?
A Fav'rite's Porter with his Master vie,

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

Shall Ward draw Contracts with a Statesman's skill?
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?

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

This calls the Church to deprecate our Sin,
And hurls the Thunder of the Laws on Gir.

Let modeft Fofter, if he will, excell Ten Metropolitans in preaching well; A fimple Quaker, or a Quaker's Wife, Outdo Landaff in Doctrine,-yea in Life: Let humble Allen, with an aukward Shame, Do good by stealth', and blush to find it Fame. Virtue may chufe the high or low Degree, "Tis juft alike to Virtue, and to me; Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King, She's still the fame belov'd, contented thing. Vice is undone, if the forgets her birth, And ftoops from Angels to the Dregs of Earth: But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a Whore; Let Greatness own her, and she's mean no more. Her Birth, her Beauty, Crouds and Courts confefs Chafte Matrons praise her, and grave Bishops bless; In golden Chains the willing World she draws, And hers the Gospel is, and hers the Laws; Mounts the Tribunal, lifts her fcarlet head, And fees pale Virtue carted in her stead. Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal Car, Old England's Genius, rough with many a Scar, Dragg'd in the duft! his arms hang idly round, His Flag inverted trails along the ground! Our Youth, all liv'ry'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

Hear her black Trumpet thro' the Land proclaim,
That NOT TO BE CORRUPTED IS THE SHAME.
In Soldier, Churchman, Patriot, Man in Pow'r,
"Tis Av'rice 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 'scape, 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.

EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES, V. 2. p. 34b.

RIDICULE.

YES, I am proud; I must be proud to fee Men not afraid of God, afraid of me;

Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne, Yet touch'd and sham'd by Ridicule alone.

O facred weapon! left for Truth's defence, Sole dread of Folly, Vice, and Infolence! To all but Heav'n-directed hands deny'd, The Mufe may give thee, but the Gods must guide: Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honeft zeal, To roufe the Watchmen of the Public Weal; To Virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall, And goad the Prelate flumb'ring in his Stall.

Ye

Ye tinfel infects! whom a Court maintains,
That count your Beauties only by your Stains,
Spin all your Cobwebs o'er the Eye of Day,
The Mufe's wing shall brush you all away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordfhip fings,
All that makes Saints of Queens, and Gods of
Kings:

All, all but Truth, drops dead-born from the

Prefs,

Like the laft Gazette, or the laft Address.

IBID. P. 355.

DULLNESS.

IN eldest time, ere mortals writ or read,

Ere Pallas iffu'd from the Thund'rer's head,
Dullness o'er all poffefs'd her ancient right,
Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night:
Fate in their dotage this fair Idiot gave,
Grofs as her fire, and as her mother grave,
Laborious, heavy, bufy, bold, and blind,
She rul❜d, in native Anarchy, the mind,
Still her old Empire to restore she tries;
For, born a Goddess, Dullness never dies.
DUNCIAD, V. 3. p. 69.

CLOSE to thofe walls where Folly holds her

throne,

And laughs to think Monroe would take her down,

Where

Where o'er the gates, by his fam'd father's hand, Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers ftand; One Cell there is, conceal'd from vulgar eye, The Cave of Poverty and Poetry.

Keen, hollow winds howl thro' the bleak recefs,
Emblem of Mufic caus'd by Emptiness.

Hence Bards, like Proteus, long in vain ty'd down,
Escape in Monsters, and amaze the Town.
Hence Mifcellanies fpring, the weekly boaft
Of Curl's chafte prefs, and Lintot's rubric post:
Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac Lines,

Hence Journals, Medleys, Merc'ries, MAGA

ZINES;

Sepulchral Lies, our holy walls to grace,
And New-year Odes, and all the Grub-street race.

In clouded Majefty here Dullness fhone; Four guardian Virtues, round, fupport her throne: Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears Of hiffes, blows, or want, or lofs of ears;

Calm Temperance, whofe bleffings those partake Who hunger, and who thirst for scribbling fake: Prudence, whofe glass presents th'approaching jail : Poetic Juftice, with her lifted scale,

Where, in nice balance, truth with gold the weighs, And folid pudding against empty praise.

Here the beholds the Chaös dark and deep, Where nameless Somethings in their causes sleep, 'Till genial Jacob, or a warm Third Day, Call forth each mass, a Poem, or a Play:

How