By you, your bubbled master's taught,
Time-serving tools, not friends, are bought."1

(1) Dishonesty is always insecure, and the dealer with knaves; for falsehood is never sure that these last have not, like Snake, in the "School for Scandal," "received a greater bribe for speaking the truth." The hypocrisy with which each venal rogue rails against wickedness, yet allows a "fiat" to his own sins; the severity, too, with which, as Lear says, "the usurer hangs the cozener,' or attacks the very faults in another, which are rampant in self, are human to a hair, and now as ever,

"Clodius accusat mæchos, Catilina Cethegum."

Honesty, indeed, is the best policy in every case, but especially for courtiers and ministers of state, since the quality being least expected in them, would, when employed, serve to mask their designs, better than all the arts of deception, since who would ever suspect them of speaking the truth?

THOUGH Courts the practice disallow,
A friend at all times I'll avow.
In politics I know 'tis wrong-
A friendship may be kept too long;
And what they call the prudent part,
Is to wear interest next the heart:
As the times take a different face,
Old friendships should to new, give place.

That owning you, is sharing those;
That every knave in every station,
Of high and low denomination,

For what you speak, and what you write,
Dread you at once,
and bear
you spite.1
Such freedoms in your works are shown,
They can't enjoy what's not their own.
All dunces, too, in church and state,
In frothy nonsense show their hate; 2
With all the petty scribbling crew,
(And those pert sots are not a few,)
'Gainst you and Pope, their envy spurt:
The booksellers alone are hurt.

Good gods! by what a powerful race
(For blockheads may have power and place)
Are scandals raised, and libels writ,
To prove your honesty and wit!
Think with yourself: those worthy men,
You know, have suffer'd by your pen:
From them you've nothing but your due.
From hence, 'tis plain, your friends are few,

Except myself, I know of none,
Besides the wise and good alone.
To set the case in fairer light,

My Fable shall the rest recite,

(1) Censure is the tax which excellence pays for being eminent. How eager, also, envy is to make every hole, in one's coat, a rent, Swift knew well; but some of his foibles courted, as they merited, abhorrence.

(2) And servile dulness, gets on with the great, especially in the Church, far better than upright merit. Thin-skinned dunces, too, in power, hate satire, to use Sidney Smith's simile, for the same reason as "fleas detest tooth-combs," because they cannot escape it.

Which (though unlike our present state)
I, for the moral's sake, relate.

A Bee of cunning, not of parts,
Luxurious, negligent of arts,
Rapacious, arrogant, and vain,
Greedy of power, but more of gain,—
Corruption sow'd throughout the hive:
By petty rogues, the great ones thrive.
As power and wealth his views supplied,
'Twas seen in overbearing pride.
With him, loud impudence had merit;
The Bee of conscience wanted spirit;
And those who follow'd honour's rules,
Were laugh'd to scorn, for squeamish fools.
Wealth claim'd distinction, favour, grace,
And poverty alone, was base.

He treated industry with slight,
Unless he found his profit by 't.
Rights, laws, and liberties, gave way,
To bring his selfish schemes in play.
The swarm forgot the common toil,
To share the gleanings of his spoil.
"While vulgar souls, of narrow parts,
Waste life in low mechanic arts;
Let us," says he, "to genius born,
The drudgery of our fathers, scorn.
The Wasp and Drone, you must agree,
Live with more elegance, than we.
Like gentlemen, they sport and play;
No business interrupts the day:
Their hours to luxury, they give,
And nobly on their neighbours live."

A stubborn Bee, among the swarm,
With honest indignation warm,

Thus from his cell with zeal replied:

"I slight thy frowns, and hate thy pride.
The laws our native rights protect;
Offending thee, I those respect.
Shall luxury corrupt the hive,
And none against the torrent strive?
Exert the honour of your race;
He builds his rise on your disgrace.
'Tis industry our state maintains;
"Twas honest toil and honest gains
That raised our sires to power and fame—
Be virtuous; save yourselves from shame.
Know that in selfish ends pursuing,

You scramble for the public ruin."

He spoke; and, from his cell dismiss'd,

Was insolently scoff'd and hiss'd:

With him a friend or two resign'd,

Disdaining the degenerate kind.

"These Drones," says he, "these insects vile, (I treat 'em in their proper style,) May, for a time, oppress the state: They own our virtue by their hate. By that, our merits they reveal, And recommend our public zeal; Disgraced by this corrupted crew,

We're honour'd by the virtuous few."1

(1) A galaxy of glorious intellect, not only surrounded Swift with the radiance of talent, but warmed him with the glow of friendship. Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot, Sheridan, appear to have loved him in spite of his moroseness, and almost for his very weaknesses, whilst a whole country honoured "The Drapier" for his inflexible courage, and exposure of court injustice. Swift's letters are redolent of the very