But, reverend doctor, you we know Could never condefcend fo low;

The vice-roy, whom you now attend,

Would, if he durft, be more your friend;
Nor will in you those gifts despise,
By which himself was taught to rise:
When he has virtue to retire,

He'll grieve he did not raise you higher,
And place you in a better station,
Although it might have pleas'd the nation.
This may be true-fubmitting ftill
To Walpole's more than royal will;
And what condition can be worse?
He comes to drain a beggar's purse;
He comes to tie our chains on fafter,
And fhew us, England is our master:
Careffing knaves, and dunces wooing,
To make them work their own undoing.
What has he else to bait his traps,
Or bring his vermin in, but scraps?
The offals of a church distrest;
A hungry vicarage at best;

Or fome remote inferior post,
With forty pounds a year at most?
But here again you interpose-
Your favourite lord is none of those
Who owe their virtues to their stations,
And characters to dedications:

For keep him in, or turn him out,
His learning none will call in doubt;

His learning, though a poet said it
Before a play, would lofe no credit;
Nor Pope would dare deny him wit,
Although to praise it Phillips writ.
I own, he hates an action base,
His virtues battling with his place;
Nor wants a nice discerning spirit
Betwixt a true and fpurious merit;
Can fometimes drop a voter's claim,
And give up party to his fame.
I do the most that friendship can ;
I hate the vice-roy, love the man.

But you
who, till your fortune 's made,
Must be a fweetener by your trade,
Should fwear he never meant us ill;
We fuffer fore against his will;
That, if we could but fee his heart,
He would have chofe a milder part:
We rather should lament his cafe,
Who must obey, or lose his place.

Since this reflexion flipt your pen,
Infert it when you write again :
And, to illuftrate it, producé
This fimile for his excufe:

"So to deftroy a guilty land

*

"An angel fent by heaven's command,

"While he obeys almighty will,

"Perhaps may feel compaffion ftill;

"So when an angel by divine command," &c.

ADDISON'S Campaign.

"And

"And wish the task had been affign'd
"To Spirits of lefs gentle kind."
But I, in politicks grown old,

Whose thoughts are of a different mould,
Who from my foul fincerely hate
Both kings and minifters of fate,

Who look on courts with stricter eyes
To fee the feeds of vice arife,

Can lend you an allufion fitter,

Though flattering knaves may call it bitter;
Which, if you durft but give it place,
Would fhew you many a statesman's face :
Fresh from the tripod of Apollo

I had it in the words that follow
(Take notice, to avoid offence,
I here except his excellence).

"So, to effect his monarch's ends,
"From hell a vice-roy devil afcends;
"His budget with corruptions cramm'd,
"The contributions of the damn'd;
"Which with unfparing hand he strows
Through courts and senates as he
goes;
"And then at Beelzebub's black ball
Complains his budget was too fmall."
Your fimile may better fhine
In verfe; but there is truth in mine.
For no imaginable things

Can differ more than gods and kings:
And fatefmen by ten thousand odds
Are angels juft as kings are gods.

то D R.

DELAN Y,

ON THE

LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM.

AS

66

Tanti tibi non fit opaci

“Omnis arena Tagi.”

Juv.

S fome raw youth in country bred,
To arms by thirft of honour led,
When at a fkirmish firft he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears,
Will duck his head afide, will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart,
Till fcaping oft' without a wound
Leffens the terror of the found;
Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
He runs into a cannon's chops.
An author thus, who pants for fame,
Begins the world with fear and fhame;
When first in print you fee him dread
Each pop-gun level'd at his head:
The lead yon critic's quill contains,
Is deftin'd to beat out his brains:
As if he heard loud thunders roll,
Cries, Lord, have mercy on his foul!
Concluding, that another shot

Will ftrike him dead upon

the spot.

But, when with fquibbing, flafhing, popping,
He cannot fee one creature dropping;

That,

That, miffing fire, or miffing aim,
His life is fafe, I mean his fame;

The danger past, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critic in the face.

Though fplendor gives the faireft mark
To poifon'd arrows from the dark,.
Yet, in yourself when smooth and round,
They glance afide without a wound.

'Tis faid, the gods try'd all their art,
How pain they might from pleasure part;
But little could their ftrength avail;
Both ftill are faften'd by the tail.
Thus fame and censure with a tether
By fate are always link'd together.
Why will you aim to be preferr'd
In wit before the common herd;
And yet grow mortify'd and vex'd
the penalty annex'd ?

To

pay

'Tis eminence makes envy rise;
As faireft fruits attract the flies.
Should ftupid libels grieve your mind,
You foon a remedy may find;

Lie down obfcure like other folks
Below the lash of fnarlers' jokes.
Their faction is five hundred odds;
For every coxcomb lends them rods,
And fneers as learnedly as they,
Like females o'er their morning tea.
You fay, the Mufe will not contain,
And write you must, or break a vein.
VOL. II.

K

Then,