And fits aloft on Pindus' head,
Defpifing flaves that cringe for bread.

True politicians only pay
For folid work, but not for play;
Nor ever chufe to work with tools
Forge'd up in colleges and fchools.
Confider how much more is due.
To all their journeymen; than you ::
At table you can Horace quote ;
They at a pinch can bribe a vote:
You fhew
your fkill in Grecian story;
But they can manage Whig and Tory :
You, as a critic, are fo curious-
To find a verse in Virgil fpurious;
But they can fmoke the deep defigns,
When Bolingbroke with Pultney dines.

Befides, your patron may upbraid ye,
That you have got a place already;
An office for your talents fit,
To flatter, carve, and fhew your wit;
To fnuff the lights, and ftir the fire,
And

get a dinner for your hire.

What claim have you to place or penfion?
He overpays in condefcenfion.

But, Rev'rend Doctor, you we know

Could never condescend so low;
The viceroy, whom you now attend,
Would, if he durft, be more your friend;
Nor will in you thofe gifts defpife,
By which himself was taught to rife:
When he has virtue to retire,

He'll grieve he did not raife you higher,
And place you in a better station,
Although it might have pleas'd the nation.

This may be true-fubmitting still
To Walpole's more than royal will;
And what condition can be worfe?
He comes to drain a beggar's purfe;
He comes to tie our chains on faster,
And fhew us, England is our master:
Careffing knaves, and dunces wooing,
To make them work their own undoing.
What has he elfe to bait his traps,

Or bring his vermin in, but fcraps?
The offals of a charch diftreft;
A hungry vicarage at beft;
Or fome remote inferior poft,
With forty pounds a-year at most.

125

130

But here again you interpofe;

135

Your fav'rite Lord is none of thofe

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 faid it
Before a play, would lose no credit;
Nor Pope would dare deny him wit,
Although to praife it Philips writ.
I own he hates an action base,
'His virtues battling with his place;
Nor wants a nice difcerning fpirit
Betwixt a true and fpurious merit;
Can fometimes drop a voter's claim,
And give up party to his fame.
I do the moft that friendship can;
I hate the viceroy, love the man.

140

145

150

But you, who till your fortune's made,

Must be a sweet'ner by your trade,
Should fwear he never meant us ill;
We fuffer fore against his will;

155

That

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 lofe his place.

Since this reflection flipt your pen,

Infert it when you write again:

And, to illuftrate it, produce
This fimile for his excufe.

"So, to deftroy a guilty land,

*

"An angel fent by heav'n's command,

"While he obeys almighty will,

66

Perhaps may feel compaffion ftill;

"And with the task had been affign'd "To fpirits of lefs gentle kind."

But I, in politics grown old,

Whofe thoughts are of a diff'rent mould,
Who from my foul fincerely hate

160

1.65

170

Which, if you durft but give it place,

Would fhew you many a ftatefman's face:
Fresh from the tripod of Apollo

18Q

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 viceroy dev'l afcends; "His budget with corruption cramm'd, "The contributions of the damn'd;

So when an angel by divine command,

18.5

Adifen's Campaign.

"Which with unsparing hand he strows
Through courts and fenates as he goes;
"And then at Belzebub's black hall,
Complains his budget was too finall."
Your fimile may better thine

In verfe; but there is truth in mine;
For no imaginable things

Can differ more than gods and k—s :
And ftatefinen by ten thousand odds
Are angels juft as k-s are gods.

190

195

To JANUS, on NEW-YEAR'S-DAY.

Written in the year 1729.

TWo-face'd Janus, god of time!

Be my Phoebus while I rhyme:

To oblige your crony Swift,
Bring our dame a new-year's gift:
She has got but half a face;
Janus, fince thou haft a brace,
Το my Lady once be kind;
Give her half thy face behind.

God of time, if you be wife,
Look not with your future eyes;
What imports thy forward fight ?
Well, if you could lofe it quite.
Can you take delight in viewing
This poor ifle's approaching ruin,
When thy retrospection vaft
Sees the glorious ages paft?

*

* Ireland.

Happy nation! were we blind,
Or had only eyes behind.
Drown your morals, Madam cries,
I'll have none but forward eyes;
Prudes decay'd about may tack,
Strain their necks with looking back;
Give me time, when coming on:
Who regards him when he's gone?
By the Dean though gravely told,
New years help to make me old;
Yet I find a new-year's lace
Burnishes an old-year's face:
Give me velvet and quadrille,
I'll have youth and beauty still.

20

25

30

DRAPIER's HILL*.

Written in the year 1729.

WE give the world to understand,

Our thriving Dean has purchas'd land;
A purchase which will bring him clear
Above his rent four pounds a-year ;
Provided, to improve the ground,
He will but add two hundred pound,
And from his endless hoarded store
To build a houfe five hundred more.
Sir Arthur too fhall have his will.
And call the manfion Drapier's Hill:
That when a nation long inflav'd,
Forgets by whom it once was fav'd;

5

10

*The Dean gave this name to a farm called Drumlack, which he took of Sir Arthur Achefon, whofe feat lay between that and MarketHill, and intended to build an houfe upon it, but afterwards changed his mind.

Sir Arthur Achefon, from whom the purchase was made.