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Whilft base betrayers are themselves betray'd, Can be so loft ; nor can the worst of all
Which c'en in hell must be a work of time.
Lift to my voice-be honest, if you can,
One having err'd, persists in error still,
Which I would stamp as false, tho' on the tongue Of Satire, pouring down in fullest tide,
Of angels the injurious Nander hung. May spread wide vengeance round, yet all the while Dup'd by thy vanity (that cunning elf Justice behuld the ruin with a smile;
Who fnares the coxcomb to deceive himself) Whilft I, thy foc misdeem'd cannot condemn, Or blinded by that rage, did'I thou believe Nor disapprove that rage I with to item,
That we, too, coolly, would ourselves deceive? Wilt thou, degen’rate and corrupted, chuse That we as iterling falfhood would admit, To foil the credit of thy haughty Muse?
Because 'twas feason'd with some little wit? With fallacy, most infamous, to stain
When fi&tion rises plealing to the eye, Her truth, and render all her anger vain ?
Men will believe, because they love the lie ; When I beheld thee incorrect, but bold,
But Truth herself, if clouded with a frown, A various comment on the stage unfold ;
Must have fome folemn proof to pafs her down. When play’rs on play'rs before thy fatire fell, Hait thou, maintaining that which muit disgrace And poor Reviews conspir’d thy wrath to swell ; And bring into contempt the human race, When states and ttatesmen next became thy care, Halt thou, or can'ft thou, in Truth's sacred court, And only kings were safe if thou waft there ; To save thy credit, and thy cause support, Thy ev'ry word I weigh'd in Judgment's scale, Produce one proof, make out one real ground And in thy ev'ry word found truth prevail,
On which so great, so gross a charge to fo:ind ! Why doft thou now to fallhood meanly fly? Nay, do'it thou know one man (let that af pear Not even Candour can forgive a lye.
From wilful fallhood I'll proclaim thee clear)
From whom this gen’ral charge, thy rashness drew ? Crimes, which existing only in thy mind,
On this foundation ihalt thou stand or fall — Weak spleen brings forth to blacken all mankind. Prove that in One, which you have charg'd on Ali. By pleasing hopes we lure the human heart
Reason determines, and it must be done ; To practise virtue, and improve in art;
'Mongst men, or past, or present, náme me One. To thwart these ends, (which proud of honest fame, Hogarth- I take thee, Candour, at thy word, A noble Mufe would cheriih and enflame)
Accept thy proffer'd terms, and will be heard ; Thy drudge contrives, and in our full career
Thee have I heard with virulence declaim, Sick lies our hopes with the pale hue of fear ; Nothing retain'd of Candour but the name ; Tells us that all our labours are in vain ;
By thee have I been charg'd in angry strains That what we seek, we never can obtain;
With that mean falshood which my soul difdains That dead to Virtue, loft to Nature's plan,
Hogarth stand forth-Nay hang not thus aloof Envy postesses the whole race of man;
Now, Candour, now thou shalt receive such proof, That worth is criminal, and danger lies,
Such damning proof, that henceforth thou shalt fear Danger extreme, in being good and wise.
To tax my wrath, and own my conduct clear 'Tis a rank falihood; search the world around, Hogarth itand forth-I dare thee to be tried There cannot be so vile a monster found,
In that great court, where Conscience must preside ; Not one fo vile, on whom suspicions fall
At that molt folemn bar hold up thy hand; Of that gross guilt, which you impute to all. Think before whom, on what account you itandApprov'd by those who disobey her laws,
Speak, but consider well--from first to last Virtuc from Vice itself extorts applause.
Review thy life, weigh ev'ry action pastHer very foes bear witness to her state ;
Nay, you shall have no reason to complainThey will not love her, but they cannot hate. Take longer time, and view them o'er again Hate Virtue for herself, with fpite pursue
Can'ft thou remember from thy earliest youth, Merit for merit's sake! Might this be true, And as thy God must judge thée, speak the truth, I would renounce my Nature with disdain,
A single instance where, jef laid aside, And with the beasts that perish graze the plain : And justice taking place of fear and pride, Might this be true, had we so far fill'd up
Thou with an equal eye did'nt Genius view, The measure of our crimes, and from the cup And give to merit what was merit's due ? Of guilt fo deeply drank, as not to find,
Genius and merit are a sure offence, Thirsting for sin, one drop, one dreg behind, And thy soul fickens at the name of sense. Quick ruin mait involve this flaming ball,
Is any one so foolish to succeed, And Providence in justice crush us all.
On Envy's altar he is doom'd to bleed ? None but the damn'd, and amongst them the worst, Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes, Those who for double guilt are doubly curs de The place of executioner supplies.
See how he glotes, enjoys the sacred feaft, When Liberty, all trembling and aghaft,
Fear'd for the future, krowing what was part ; Whilst the weak artist to thy whims a slave, When ev'ry breaft was chill'd with deep despair, Would bury all those pow’rs which Nature gave. Till reason pointed out that Pratt was there ; Would suffer blank concealment to obscure
Lurking, moft ruffian-like, behind a sercen, Those rays, thy jealousy could not endure ;
So plac'd all things to see, himself unseen, To feed thy vanity would rust unknown,
Virtue, with due contempt, saw Hogarth stand, And to secure thy credit blaft his own,
The murd'rous pencil in his palfied hand.
What was the cause of Liberty to him,
With all the symptoms of assur’d decay,
With age and sickness pinch'd, and worn away, No friend in thee, could such a rebel know ; Pale quiv'ring lips, lank checks, and fault'ring He had desert, and Hogarth was his fre.
toogue, Souls of a tim'rous caft, of petty name
The spirits out of tune, the nerves unftrung, In Envy's court, not yet quite dead to shame, Thy body shrivell'd up, thy dim eyes funk May some remorse, some qualms of conscience feel, Within their sockets deep, thy weak hams shrunk And suffer honour to abate their zeal ;
Thy body's weight unable to sustain, But the man truly and compleatly great,
The stream of life scarce trembling thro' the vein, Allows no rule of action but his hate ;
More than half-kill'd by honest truths, which fell, Thro'ev'ry bar he bravely breaks his way,
Thro' thy own fault, from men who wish'd thee Paffion his principle, and parts his prey.
well, Mediums in vice and virtue speak a mind
Can't thou, e'en thus, thy thoughts to vengeance Within the pale of temperance confin'd;
give, The daring spirit scorns her narrow schemes,
And, dead to all things elle, to malice live ? And, good, or bad, is always in extremes.
Hence, dotard, to thy clofet, shut thee in. Man's practice duly weigh’d, thro' ev'ry age By deep repentance wasb away thy fin, On the same plan hath Envy form'd her rage : From haunts of men to shame and sorrow fly, 'Gainst those whom fortune hath our rivals made And, on the verge of death, learn how to die. la way of Science, and in way of Trade,
Vain exhortation ! Wath the Ethiop white, Stung with mean jealousy she arms her spite, Discharge the leopard's spots, turn day to night, Fift works, then views their ruin with delight. Controul the course of Nature, bid the deep Our Hogarth here a grand improver shines,
Hush at thy pigmy voice her waves to Neep, And nobly on the gen'ral plan refines;
Perform things paffing strange, yet own thy art He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound ; Too weak to work a change in such a heart. Worth is his mark, wherever worth is found. That Envy which was woven in the frame Should painters only his vast wrath fuffice ?
At first, will to the last remain the same. Genius in ev'ry walk is lawful prize.
Reason may droop, may die, but Envy's rage 'Tis a gross insult to his o’ergrown ftate ;
Improves by time, and gathers strength from age. His love to merit is to feel his hate.
Some, and not few, vain triflers with the pen, When Wilkes, our countryman, our common Unread, unpractis'd in the ways of men, friend,
Tell us that Envy, who with giant stride
Stalks thro' the vale of life by Virtue's fide,
Worth may be hears'd, but Envy cannot die;
vain, Malice (wbo, disappointed of her end,
Thyself the idol thy aukward strain, Whether to work the band of foe or friend,
Thro' the dull measure of a summer's day, Press on herself, and driven to the stake,
In phrase most vile, prate long long hours away, Gives Virtoe that revenge the scorns to take) Whilft friends with friends all gaping fit, and gaze Had kill'd thee, tott'ring on life's utmost verge, To hear a Hogarth babble Hogarth's praise. Had Wilkes and Liberty escap'd thy scourge. But if athwart thee interruption came, When that great Charter, which our fathers and mentioned with respect fome ancient's name, bought
Some ancient's name, who in the days of yore With their best blood, was into question brought ; The crown of Art with greatest honour wore, When, big with ruin, o'er each English hend How have I seen thy coward cheek turn pale, Vile Nav'ry hung suspended by a thread;
And blank confusion seize thy mangled tale!
How hath thy jealousy to midness grown,
Whilf a dear country, and an injur'd friend, And decm'd his praise injurious to thy own! Urge my strong anger to the bitter'it end; Then without mercy did thy wrath make way, Whilit honest trophies to revenge are rais'd, And Arts and Artists all became thy prey ;
Let not one real virtue pass unprais'd : Then did'it thou trample on establish d rules, Justice with cqual course bids Satire flow, And proudly levell'd all the ancient schools,
And loves the virtue of her greatest foe. Condemn’d those works, with praise through ages 0! that I here could that rare Virtuc mean, gracid,
Which scorns the rule of Envy, Pride, and Spleen, Which
had never seen, or could not tafte. Which springs not from the labour'd works of Art, “ But would mankind have true perfection fhcwn, But hath its rise from Nature in the heart, “ It must be found in labours of my own.
Which in itself with happiness is crown'd, “ I dare to challenge in one single piece,
And spreads with joy the blelling all around ! “ Th’united force of Itvy and Greecc.". But Truth forbids, and in these timple lays, Thy eager hand the curtain then undrew,
Contented with a diff'rent kind of praise,
May make us great, but cannot make us good ; Poor Sigismunda ; what a fate is thine!
That praise be Hog.rth's ; freely let him wear Dryden, the great High-Priest of all the Nine, The wreath which Genius sove, and planted there. Reviv'd thy mme, gave what a Muse could give, Foe as I am, should Envy tear it down, And in his numbers bade thy mem'ry live ; Myself would labour to replace the crown. Gave thee those sofe sensations, which might move In walks of humour, in that cast of style, And warm the coldest anchorite to love ;
Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us (mile ; Gave thee that virtue which could curb desire, In Comedy, his nat'ral road to fame, Refine and confecrate love's headstrong fire ; Nor let me call it by a meaner name, Gave thee those griefs which made the stoic feel, Where a beginning, middle, and an end And call'd compassion forth from hearts of steel ; Are aptly join'd; where parts on pirts depend, Gave thee that firmness which our sex may shame, Each made for each, as bodies for their soul, And make Man bow to Woman's juster claim, So as to form one true and perfect whole. So that our tears, which from compassion flow, Where a plain itory to the eye is told, Seem to debase thy dignity of woe.
Which we conceive the moment we behold, But o, how much unlike ! how fallen ! how chang'd! Hogarth unrivall'd stands, and fall engage How much from Nature and herself estrang'd ! Unrivall’d praise to the most distant age. How totally depriv'd of all the pow'rs
How could'It thou then to the perversely run, To Thew her feelings, and awaken ours,
And tread that path which Nature bade thee Thun? Doth Sigismunda now devoted stand,
Why did Ambition overleap her rules,
And thy vast parts become the sport of fools ?
But where is he who can do all things well ?
Pride ftruck thee with the phrenzy of Sublime. Why is it not resum'd ? Thy friends at court, But, when the work was finith'd, could thy mind Men all in place and pow'r, crave thy support ; So partial be, and to herself so blind, Be grateful then for once, and thro' the field What with contempt all view'd, to view with awe, of politics, thy Epic pencil wield,
Nor see those faults which cv'ry blockhead saw ? Maintain the cause, which they, good lack! avow, Blush, thou vain man, and if desire of fame. And would maintain too, but they know not how. Founded on real Art, thy thoughts inflame, Thro' ev'ry Pannel let thy virtue tell
To quick destruction Sigismunda give, How Bute prevail'd, How Pitt and Temple fell ! And let her mem'ry die, that thine may live. How England's fons (whom they conspir'd to bless But should fond Candour, for her mercy fakes Against our will, with insolent success)
With pity view, and pardon this mistake ; Approve their fall, and with addresses run,
Or should oblivion, to thy with most kind, How got, God knows, to hail the Scottish fun! Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind ; Point out our fame in war, when vengeance, hurl'd Of Arts despis'd, of Artists by thy frown From the strong arm of Justice, shook the world ; Aw'd from just hopes, of rising worth kept down, Thine, and thy country's honour to encrease, Of all thy meanness thro' this mortal racc, Point out the honours of succeeding peace ;
Can'st thou the living memory erase ? Our moderation, christian-likc, display,
Or shall not vengeance follow to the grave, Shew what we got, and what we gave away. And give back just that measure which you gave ? In colours, dull and heavy as the tale,
With so much merit, and so much success, Let a State-chaos thro' the whole prevail.
With so much power to curse, so much to bless, But, of events regardless, whilst the Muse, Would he have been man's friend instead of foc Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues ; Hogarth had been a little God below. Whilst her quick spirits rouse at Freedom's call, Why then, like savage giants, fam'd of old, And ev'ry drop of blood is turn'd to gall;
Of whom in scripture story we are told,
Doft thou in cruelty that Atrength employ,
And from the planets, wand'ring spheres Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy ?
T'extort the number of our years, Why doft thou, all in horrid pomp array'd, And whether all those years shall flow Sit grinning o'er the ruins thou hast made
Serenely smooth, and free from woe, Moit rank IIl-nature must applaud thy art ;
Or rude misfortune shall deform
Our life, with one continual storm;
Affords sublistence to the sage,
Who, free from this world and its cares, We see how men to dissolution pale.
Holds an acquaintance with the stars, Thou wretched Being, whom, on Reason's plan, From whom he gains intelligence so chang'd, so loft, I cannot call a man,
Of things to come some ages hence, What could persuade thee, at this time of life, Which unto friends, at easy rates, To launch afreih into the sea of Arife ?
He readily communicates. Better for thee, scarce crawling on the earth,
At its first rise, which all agree on, Almost as much a child as at thy birth,
This noble science was Chaldean, To have refign'd in peace thy parting breath, That ancient people, as they fed. And funk unnotic'd in the arms of Death.
Their Aocks upon the mountains head, Why would thy grey, grey hairs resentment brave, Gaz'd on the stars, ubserv'd their motions, Thus to go down with forrow to the grave ?
And surk'd in astrologic notions, Now, by my soul, it makes me blush to know Which they so eagerly pursue, My spirits could defcend to such a foe.
As folks are apt whate'er is new, Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke, That things below at random rove, It seems rank cowardice to give the ftroke
Whilst they're consulting things above ; Sure 'tis a curse which angry Fates impose, And when they now fo poor were grown, To mortify man's arrogance, that those
That they'd no houses of their own,
And prudently made use of theirs.
Th' exotic Science roon itruck root,
The holy art of Divination. To drive out whole years of ideot breath,
Nobles themselves, for at that time And fit the monuments of living death!
Knowledge in Nobles was no crime, 0, galling circumstance to human pride !
Could talk as learned as the priest,
And prophecy as much at least.
Who, in vile tatters, with smirch'd face,
To gratify their friend's desires, In heat of blood, in full career of pride,
From Bampfield Carew to Moll Squires, Poffessid of Genius, with unhallow'd rage,
Are rightly term’d Egyptians all ; Mock the infirmities of rev'rend age.
Whom we, miftaking, Gypsies call. The greateft Genius to this fate may bow ;
The Grecian Sages borrow'd this,
From fertile Egypt, tho' the loan
And to all comers gave their answers :
All men the voice of Fate might hear ;
Each subtle priest on three-legg'd stool, FOUR BOOKS. To take in wise men, play'd the fool. во ок І.
A mystery, fo made for gain,
E'en now in fashion must remain. TITH eager search to dart the soul,
Enthufiafts never will let drop
What brings such business to their shop, TOL. VII
And that great saint we Whitfield call,
Among the Romans, not a bird
England, a happy land we know, Where follies naturally grow; Where without culture they arise, And tow'r above the common fize ; England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast; Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of Tea ; Who vers'd in ev'ry modeft lore, Can a loft maidenhead restore, Or, if their pupils rather chuse it, Can shew the readiest way to lose it ; Gypsies, who ev'ry ill can cure, Except the ill of being poor ; Who charms 'gainst Love and Agues fell, Who can in hen-rooft set a spell, Prepar'd by arts, to them best known, To catch all feet except their own ; Who as to fortune can unlock it, As easily as pick a pocket ; Scotchmen who, in their country's right, Possess the gift of second-fight, Who (when their barren heaths they quit, Sure argument of prudent wit, Which reputation to maintain, They never venture back again) By lies prophetic heap up riches, And boat the luxury of breeches.
Amongst the rest, in former years,
Of Scottish race, in Highlands born,
This Sage deceas'd, for all muft die,
Seated in garret, for you know,
The Butler, hanging down his head,
The Court-bred Woman of Condition
The Hero (who for brawn and face