Whilft bafe betrayers are themselves betray'd,
And makers ruin'd by the thing they made;
Whilft C, falfe to God and man, for gold,
Like the old traitor who a Saviour fold,

To fhame his mafter, friend, and father gives;
Whilft Bute remains in pow'r, whilft Holland lives;
Can Satire want a subject, where Difdain,
By Virtue fir'd, may point her sharpest strain;
Where cloath'd with thunder, Truth may roll along,
And Candour juftify the rage of fong?

Such things! fuch men before thee! fuch an age!
Where Rancour, great as thine, may glut her rage,
And ficken e'en to furfeit, where the pride
Of Satire, pouring down in fulleft tide,
May fpread wide vengeance round, yet all the while
Juftice behold the ruin with a smile;
Whilft I, thy foc mifdeem'd cannot condemn,
Nor difapprove that rage I wish to ftem,
Wilt thou, degen'rate and corrupted, chufe
To foil the credit of thy haughty Mufe?
With fallacy, most infamous, to stain
Her truth, and render all her anger vain?
When I beheld thee incorrect, but bold,
A various comment on the stage unfold;
When play'rs on play'rs before thy fatire fell,
And poor Reviews confpir'd thy wrath to fwell;
When states and ftatesmen next became thy care,
And only kings were fafe if thou waft there;
Thy ev'ry word I weigh'd in Judgment's scale,
And in thy ev'ry word found truth prevail,
Why doft thou now to falfhood meanly fly?
Not even Candour can forgive a lye.

Bad as men are, why should thy frantic rimes
Traffic in flander, and invent new crimes ?
Crimes, which existing only in thy mind,
Weak fpleen brings forth to blacken all mankind.
By pleafing hopes we lure the human heart
To practife virtue, and improve in art ;

To thwart thefe ends, (which proud of honeft fame,
A noble Mufe would cherish and enflame)
Thy drudge contrives, and in our full career
Sick lies our hopes with the pale hue of fear;
'Tells us that all our labours are in vain ;
That what we feek, we never can obtain;
That dead to Virtue, loft to Nature's plan,
Envy poffeffes the whole race of man;
That worth is criminal, and danger lies,
Danger extreme, in being good and wife.

'Tis a rank falfhood; fearch the world around,
There cannot be so vile a monfter found,
Not one fo vile, on whom fufpicions fall
Of that grofs guilt, which you impute to all.
Approv'd by those who difobey her laws,
Virtue from Vice itself extorts applaufe.
Her very foes bear witnefs to her state;
They will not loye her, but they cannot hate.
Hate Virtue for herfelf, with fpite pursue
Merit for merit's fake! Might this be true,
I would renounce my Nature with disdain,
And with the beafts that perifh graze the plain:
Might this be true, had we fo far fill'd up
The measure of our crimes, and from the cup
Of guilt fo deeply drank, as not to find,
Thirsting for fin, one drop, one dreg behind,
Quick ruin muit involve this flaming ball,
And Providence in juftice crush us all.

None but the damn'd, and amongst them the worst,
Those who for double guilt are doubly curs'd,

Can be fo loft; nor can the worst of all
A: once into fuch deep damnation fall;
By painful flow degrees they reach this crime,
Which c'en in hell must be a work of time.
Ceafe then thy guilty rage, thou wayward fon,
With the foul gall of difcontent o'er-run,
Lift to my voice-be honeft, if you can,
Nor flander Nature in her fav'rite Man.
But if thy fpirit, refolute in ill,
One having err'd, perfifts in error still,
Go on at large, no longer worth my care,
And freely vent those blafphemies in air,
Which I would stamp as falfe, tho' on the tongue
Of angels the injurious flander hung.

Dup'd by thy vanity (that cunning elf
Who fnares the coxcomb to deceive himself)
Or blinded by that rage, did'st thou believe
That we, too, coolly, would ourselves deceive?
That we as fterling falfhood would admit,
Becaufe 'twas feafon'd with fome little wit?
When fiction rifes pleafing to the eye,
Men will believe, because they love the lie ;
But Truth herself, if clouded with a frown,
Muft have fome folemn proof to pafs her down.
Haft thou, maintaining that which must difgrace
And bring into contempt the human race,
Haft thou, or can't thou, in Truth's facred court,
To fave thy credit, and thy cause support,
Produce one proof, make out one real ground
On which fo great, so grofs a charge to found!
Nay, do'st thou know one man (let that appear
From wilful falfhood I'll proclaim thee clear)
One man fo loft, to Nature fo untrue,
From whom this gen'ral charge, thy rashness drew?
On this foundation fhalt thou stand or fall-
Prove that in One, which you have charg'd on All.
Reafon determines, and it must be done;
'Mongft men, or paft, or present, name me One.

Hogarth-I take thee, Candour, at thy word, Accept thy proffer'd terms, and will be heard; Thee have I heard with virulence declaim, Nothing retain'd of Candour but the name ; By thee have I been charg'd in angry strains With that mean falfhood which my foul difdainsHogarth stand forth-Nay hang not thus aloofNow, Candour, now thou shalt receive fuch proof, Such damning proof, that henceforth thou fhalt fear To tax my wrath, and own my conduct clearHogarth ftand forth-I dare thee to be tried In that great court, where Confcience must preside; At that most folemn bar hold up thy hand; Think before whom, on what account you standSpeak, but confider well-from first to laft Review thy life, weigh ev'ry action pastNay, you shall have no reason to complainTake longer time, and view them o'er againCan't thou remember from thy earliest youth, And as thy God must judge thee, speak the truth, A fingle inftance where, jelf laid aside, And juftice taking place of fear and pride, Thou with an equal eye did't Genius view, And give to merit what was merit's due? Genius and merit are a fure offence, And thy foul fickens at the name of sense. Is any one fo foolish to fucceed, On Envy's altar he is doom'd to bleed? Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes, The place of executioner fupplies.

How hath thy jealoufy to madness grown,
And deem'd his praife injurious to thy own!
Then without mercy did thy wrath make way,
And Arts and Artists all became thy prey;
Then did't thou trample on eftablish'd rules,
And proudly levell'd all the ancient fchools,
Condemn'd thofe works, with praise through ages
grac'd,

Which you had never feen, or could not tafte.
"But would mankind have true perfection fhewn,
"I must be found in labours of my own.
"I dare to challenge in one fingle piece,
"Th' united force of Italy and Greece."
Thy eager hand the curtain then undrew,
And brought the boasted mafter-piece to view.
Spare thy remarks-fay not a fingle word-
The picture feen, why is the painter heard?
Call not up fhame and anger in our cheeks;
Without a comment Sigifmunda fpeaks.

Poor Sigifmunda; what a fate is thine!
Dryden, the great High-Prieft of all the Nine,
Reviv'd thy nome, gave what a Muse could give,
And in his numbers bade thy mem`ry live;
Gave thee thofe fof fenfations, which might move
And warm the coldest anchorite to love;
Gave thee that virtue which could curb desire,
Refine and confecrate love's headstrong fire;
Gave thee thofe griefs which made the ftoic feel,
And call'd compaffion forth from hearts of steel;
Gave thee that firmnefs which our sex may shame,
And make Man bow to Woman's juster claim,
So that our tears, which from compaffion flow,
Seem to debafe thy dignity of woe.

But O, how much unlike! how fallen! how chang'd!
How much from Nature and herself estrang'd!
How totally depriv'd of all the pow'rs
To fhew her feelings, and awaken ours,
Doth Sigifmunda now devoted ftand,
The helpless victim of a Dauber's hand!

But why, my Hogarth, fuch a progress made,
So rare a pattern for the fign-poft trade,
In the full force and whirlwind of thy pride,
Why was Heroic painting laid afide ?

Why is it not refum'd? Thy friends at court,
Men all in place and pow'r, crave thy support;
Be grateful then for once, and thro' the field
Of politics, thy Epic pencil wield,
Maintain the caufe, which they, good lack! avow,
And would maintain too, but they know not how.
Thro' ev'ry Pannel let thy virtue tell
How Bute prevail'd, How Pitt and Temple fell!
How England's fons (whom they confpir'd to bless
Against our will, with infolent fuccefs)
Approve their fall, and with addreffes run,
How got, God knows, to hail the Scottish fun!
Point out our fame in war, when vengeance, hurl'd
From the strong arm of Justice, shook the world;
Thine, and thy country's honour to encrease,
Point out the honours of fucceeding peace;
Our moderation, christian-like, display,
Shew what we got, and what we gave away.
In colours, dull and heavy as the tale,
Let a State-chaos thro' the whole prevail.

But, of events regardless, whilft the Muse,
Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues ;
Whilft her quick spirits roufe at Freedom's call,
And ev'ry drop of blood is turn'd to gall;

Whilft a dear country, and an injur'd friend,
Urge my ftrong anger to the bitter'ft end;
Whilst honest trophies to revenge are rais'd,
Let not one real virtue país unprais'd:
Juftice with equal courfe bids Satire flow,
And loves the virtue of her greatest foe.

O that I here could that rare Virtue mean,
Which fcorns the rule of Envy, Pride, and Spleen,
Which fprings not from the labour'd works of Art,
But hath its rife from Nature in the heart,
Which in itself with happiness is crown'd,
And fpreads with joy the bleffing all around!
But Truth forbids, and in thefe fimple lays,
Contented with a diff'rent kind of praife,
Muft Hogarth ftand: that praife which Genius
gives,

In which to latest time the Artif lives,

But not the Man; which, rightly understood,
May make us great, but cannot make us good;
That praife be Hogarth's; freely let him wear
The wreath which Genius wove, and planted there.
Foe as I am, fhould Envy tear it down,
Myfelf would labour to replace the crown.

In walks of humour, in that cast of style,
Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us fmile;
In Comedy, his nat'ral road to fame,
Nor let me call it by a meaner name,
Where a beginning, middle, and an end
Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend,
Each made for each, as bodies for their foul,
So as to form one true and perfect whole.
Where a plain ftory to the eye is told,
Which we conceive the moment we behold,
Hogarth unrivall'd ftands, and shall engage
Unrivall'd praife to the moft diftant age.

How could't thou then to fhune perversely run,
And tread that path which Nature bade thee shun?
Why did Ambition overleap her rules,
And thy vaft parts become the fport of fools?
By diff'rent methods diff'rent men excel,
But where is he who can do all things well?
Humour thy province, for fome monstrous crime
Pride ftruck thee with the phrenzy of Sublime.
But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mind
So partial be, and to herself so blind,

What with contempt all view'd, to view with awe,
Nor fee thofe faults which ev'ry blockhead faw?
Blush, thou vain man, and if defire of fame.
Founded on real Art, thy thoughts inflame,
To quick deftruction Sigifmunda give,
And let her mem'ry die, that thine may live.

But fhould fond Candour, for her mercy fake,
With pity view, and pardon this mistake;
Or fhould oblivion, to thy with most kind,
Wipe off that ftain, nor leave one trace behind;
Of Arts defpis'd, of Artifts by thy frown
Aw'd from just hopes, of rifing worth kept down,
Of all thy meannefs thro' this mortal race,
Can't thou the living memory erafe?
Or fhall not vengeance follow to the grave,
And give back juft that measure which you gave?
With fo much merit, and fo much fuccefs,
With fo much power to curfe, fo much to blefs,
Would he have been man's friend instead of foe,
Hogarth had been a little God below.
Why then, like favage giants, fam'd of old,
Of whom in fcripture ftory we are told,

Doft thou in cruelty that ftrength employ,
Which Nature meant to fave, not to destroy?
Why doft thou, all in horrid pomp array'd,
Sit grinning o'er the ruins thou haft made?
Moft rank Ill-nature must applaud thy art ;
But even Candour muft condemn thy heart.

For me, who warm and zealous for my friend,
In fpite of railing thousands, will commend,
And, no lefs warm and zealous 'gainst my foes,
Spite of commending thousands, will oppose,
I dare thy worst, with fcorn behold thy rage,
But with an eye of pity view thy age;
Thy feeble age, in which, as in a glass,
We fee how men to dissolution pass.
Thou wretched Being, whom, on Reason's plan,
So chang'd, fo loft, I cannot call a man,
What could perfuade thee, at this time of life,
To launch afreth into the fea of ftrife?
Better for thee, fcarce crawling on the earth,
Almost as much a child as at thy birth,
To have refign'd in peace thy parting breath,
And funk unnotic'd in the arms of Death.
Why would thy grey, grey hairs resentment brave,
Thus to go down with forrow to the grave?
Now, by my foul, it makes me blush to know
My fpirits could defcend to fuch a foe.
Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke,
It seems rank cowardice to give the stroke

Sure 'tis a curfe which angry Fates impofe,
To mortify man's arrogance, that those
Who're fashion'd of fome better fort of clay,
Much fooner than the common herd decay.
What bitter pangs muft humble Genius feel,
In their laft hours, to view a Swift and Steele ?
How muft ill-boding horrors fill her breast,
When the beholds men, mark'd above the reft
For qualities moft dear, plung'd from that height,
And funk, deep funk, in fecond childhood's night?
Are men, indeed, fuch things, and are the best
More fubject to this evil, than the reft,
To drivel out whole years of ideot breath,
And fit the monuments of living death?
O, galling circumstance to human pride!
Abafing thought, but not to be denied!

With curious art the brain too finely wrought,
Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by thought.
Conftant attention wears the active mind,
Blots out her pow'rs and leaves a blank behind.
But let not youth, to infolence allied,
In heat of blood, in full career of pride,
Poffefs'd of Genius, with unhallow'd rage,
Mock the infirmities of rev'rend age.
The greatest Genius to this fate may bow;
Reynolds, in time, may be like Hogarth now.

And from the planets, wand'ring spheres
Textort the number of our years,
And whether all thofe years fhall flow
Serenely fmooth, and free from woe,
Or rude misfortune fhall deform
Our life, with one continual ftorm;
Or if the scene shall motley be,
Alternate joy and mifery;

Is a defire, which, more or lefs,
All men must feel, tho' few confefs.
Hence, ev'ry place and ev'ry age
Affords fubfiftence to the fage,
Who, free from this world and its cares,
Holds an acquaintance with the stars,
From whom he gains intelligence
Of things to come fome ages hence,
Which unto friends, at eafy rates,
He readily communicates.

At its first rife, which all agree on,
This noble fcience was Chaldean,
That ancient people, as they fed
Their flocks upon the mountains head,
Gaz'd on the ftars, obferv'd their motions,
And fuck'd in aftrologic notions,
Which they fo eagerly pursue,
As folks are apt whate'er is new,
That things below at random rove,
Whilft they're confulting things above;
And when they now so poor were grown,
That they'd no houfes of their own,
They made bold with their friends the stars,
And prudently made ufe of theirs.
To Egypt from Chaldee it travell'd,
And Fate at Memphis was unravell'd:
Th' exotic Science foon ftruck root,
And flourish'd into high repute.
Each learned prieft, O strange to tell!
Could circles make, and caft a spell;
Could read and write, and taught the nation
The holy art of Divination.

Nobles themselves, for at that time
Knowledge in Nobles was no crime,
Could talk as learned as the priest,
And prophecy as much at least.
Hence all the fortune-telling crew,
Whofe crafty skill mars Nature's hue,
Who, in vile tatters, with fmirch'd face,
Run up and down from place to place,
To gratify their friend's defires,
From Bampfield Carew to Moll Squires,
Are rightly term'd Egyptians all;
Whom we, mistaking, Gypfies call.

The Grecian Sages borrow'd this,
As they did other sciences,
From fertile Egypt, tho' the loan
They had not honefty to own,
Dodona's oaks, inspir'd by Jove,
A learned and prophetic grove,
Turn'd vegetable Necromancers,
And to all comers gave their answers:
At Delphos, to Apollo dear,
All men the voice of Fate might hear;
Each fubtle prieft on three-legg'd ftool,
To take in wife men, play'd the fool.
A mystery, fo made for gain,
E'en now in fashion must remain.
Enthufiafts never will let drop
What brings fuch business to their fhap,

E

And that great faint we Whitfield call,
Keeps up the Humbug Spiritual.

Among the Romans, not a bird
Without a prophecy was heard ;
Fortunes of empires often hung
On the magician magpie's tongue.
And ev'ry crow was to the state
A fure interpreter of Fate.
Prophets, embodied in a College,

(Time out of mind your feat of knowledge, For Genius never fruit can bear

Unless it firft is planted there,
And folid learning never falls
Without the verge of College walls)
Infallible accounts would keep
When it was beft to watch or fleep,
To eat or drink, to go or stay,
And when to fight or run away;
When matters were for action ripe,
By looking at a double tripe;
When Emperors would live or die,
They in an Afs's fcull could spy;
When gen'rals would their station keep,
Or turn their backs, in hearts of Sheep.
In matters, whether small or great,
In private families or state,
As amongst us, the holy Seer
Officiously would interfere,
With pious arts and rev'rend skill
Would bend Lay Bigots to his will,
Would help or injure foes or friends,
Juft as it ferv'd his private ends.
Whether in honeft way of trade,
Traps for virginity were laid,
Orif, to make their party great,
Defigns were form'd against the State.
Regardless of the common weal,
By int'reft led, which they call zeal,
Into the scales was always thrown
The will of Heav'n to back their own.
England, a happy land we know,
Where follies naturally grow;
Where without culture they arife,
And tow'r above the common fize ;
England a fortune-telling host,
As num'rous as the ftars, could boast;
Matrons, who tofs the cup, and fee
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 chufe it,
Can fhew the readiest way to lose it;
Gypfies, who ev'ry ill can cure,
Except the ill of being poor;

Who charms 'gainst Love and Agues fell,
Who can in hen-rooft fet 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 eafily as pick a pocket;
Scotchmen who, in their country's right,
Poffefs 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 boaft the luxury of breeches.

Amongst the reft, in former years,
Campbell, illuftrious name, appears
Great hero of futurity,

Who blind could every thing forefee,
Who dumb could ev'ry thing foretell,
Who, Fate with equity to fell,
Always dealt out the will of Heaven
According to what price was given.

Of Scottish race, in Highlands born,
Poffefs'd with native pride and scorn,
He hither came, by custom led,
To curfe the hands which gave him bread.
With want of truth, and want of fenfe
Amply made up by impudence,
(A fuccedaneum, which we find
In common ufe with all mankind)
Carefs'd and favour'd too by those,
Whose heart with patriot feelings glows;
Who foolishly, where'er difpers'd,
Still place their native country first;
(For Englishmen alone have fenfe,
To give a franger preference,
Whilft modeft merit of their own
Is left in poverty to groan)
Campbell foretold juft what he wou'd,
And left the stars to make it good;
On whom he had imprefs'd fuch awe,
His dictates current pafs'd for law;
Submiffive all his empire own'd;

No ftar durft fmile, when Campbell frown'd.
This Sage deceas'd, for all muft die,
And Campbell's no more fafe than I,
No more than I can guard the heart,
When Death fhall hurl the fatal dart,
Succeeded, ripe in art and years,
Another fav'rite of the spheres ;
Another and another came,

Of equal skill, and equal fame;
As white each wand, as black each gown,
As long each beard, as wife each frown;
In ev'ry thing fo like, you'd fwear,
Campbell himfelf was fitting there.
To all the happy Art was known,
To tell our fortunes, make their own.
Seated in garret, for you
know,
The nearer to the stars we go,

The greater we esteem his art,

Fools curious flock'd from ev'ry part.
The rich, the poor, the maid, the married,
And thofe who could not walk, were carried.

The Butler, hanging down his head,
By chamber-maid or cook-maid led,
Enquires, if from his friend the Moon,
He has advice of pilfer'd fpoon.

The Court-bred Woman of Condition
(Who to approve her difpofition
As much fuperior as her birth
To thofe compos'd of common earth,
With double fpirit muft engage
In ev'ry folly of the age)
The honourable arts would buy,
To pack the cards, and cog a die.

The Hero (who for brawn and face
May claim right honourable place
Amongst the chiefs of Butcher-Row,
Who might some thirty years ago,
If we may be allow'd to guess
At his employment by his dress,