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And fits aloft on Pindus' head,
Despising slaves that cringe for bread,


True politicians only pay
For folid work, but not for play;
Nor ever chuse to work with tools
Forge'd up in colleges and schools.
Consider 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 shew your skill in Grecian story;
But they can manage Whig and Tory :
You, as a critic, are so curious
To find a verse in Virgil fpurious ;
But they can smoke the deep designs,
When Bolingbroke with Pultney dines.

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Besides, your patron may upbraid ye,
That you have got a place already ;
An office for your talents fit,
To flatter, carve, and shew your wit ;
To snuff the lights, and stir the fire,
And get a dinner for your hire.
What claim have you to place or pension?
He over pays in condefcenfion

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But, Rev'rend Doctor, you we know
Could never condescend fo low;
The viceroy, whom you now attend,
Would, if he durst, be more your friend;
Nor will in you thofe gifts despise,
By: whích 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.

I 20




This may be true-submitting still
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 faster,
And shew us, England is our master :
Carefsing 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 fcraps ?
The offals of a charch diftrest;
A hungry vicarage at best;
Or some remote inferior poft,
With forty pounds a-year at most.

But here again you interpose;
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 said 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 discerning spirit
Betwixt a true and fpurious merit;
Can sometimes drop a voter's claim,
And give up party to his fame.
I do the most that friendship can;
I hate the viceroy, love the man.

But you, who till your fortune's made,
Must be a sweet'ner by your trade,
Should swear he never meant us ill;
We suffer fore against his will ;






That if we could but see his heart,
He would have chose a milder part:
We rather should lament his case,
Who must obey, or lose his place.


Since this reflection slipt your pen,
Insert it when you write again:
And, to illustrate it, produce
This fimile for his excuse.



“ So, to destroy a guilty land, An angel * fent by heav'n's command, “ While he obeys almighty will,

Perhaps may feel compaflion ftill ;
« And with the task had been assign'd
“ To spirits of less gentle kind."

But I, in politics grown old,
Whose thoughts are of a diff'rent mould,
Who from my soul fincerely hate
Both k and ministers of state,
Who look on courts with stricter eyes
To see the feeds of vice arise,
Can lend you an allusion fitter,
Though flatt'ring knaves may call it bitter;
Which, if you durft but give it place,
Would shew you many a statefman'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 viceroy dev'l afcends; “ His budget with corruption cramm'd, “ The contributions of the damn'd;

* So when an angel by divine command,

Adi ifen's Campaign.

66 Which


" Which with unsparing hand he strows
“ Through courts and senates as he goes;
" And then at Belzebub's black hall,

Complains his budget was too finall.”

Your fimile may better thine
In verse ; but there is truth in mine ,
For no imaginable things
Can differ more than gods and kes:
And statesinen by ten thousand odds
Are angels just asks are gods.



Written in the year 1729.


TWo-face'd Janus, god of time !

Be my Phæbus while I rhyme :
To oblige your crony Swift,
Bring our dame a new-year's gift :
She has got but half a face ;
Janus, since thou hast a brace,
To my Lady once be kind;
Give her half thy face behind.

God of time, if you be wife,
Look not with


eyes ;
What imports thy forward fight?
Well, if you could lose it quite.
Can you take delight in viewing
This poor isle's * approaching ruin,
When thy retrospection vast
Sees the glorious ages past?



* Ireland.



Happy nation! were we blind,
Or had only eyes behind.
Drown your morals, Madam crics,
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 thougla gravely told,

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.




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 house five hundred more.
Sir Arthur + too shall have his will.
And call the mansion Drapier's Hill:
That when a nation long inflay'd,
Forgets by whom it once was fav'd ;


* The Dean gave this name to a farm called Drumlick, which he took of Sir rthur Acheson, whose feat lay between that and MarketHill, and intended to build an house upon it, but afterwards changed his mind. + Sir Arthur Acheson, from whom the purchase was made.

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