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From him the Tartar and Chinese,
Short by the knees entreat for peace * ;
The consort of his throne and bed,
A perfect goddess born and bred,
Appointed sovereign judge to sit
On learning, eloquence, and wit.
Our eldest hope, divine lülus,
(Late, very late, O may he rule us !)
What early manhood has he shown,
Before his downy beard was grown!
Then think what wonders will be done
By going on as he begun;
An heir for Britain to secure
As long as sun and moon endure.
The remnant of the royal blood
Comes pouring on me like a flood;
Bright goddesses, in number five;
Duke William, sweetest prince alive!
Now sing the minister of state +, Who shines alone without a mate. Observe with what majestic port This Atlas stands to prop the court, Intent the public debts to pay, Like prudent Fabius , by delay. Thou great vicegerent of the king ! Thy praises every Muse shall sing. In all affairs thou sole director, Of wit and learning chief protector! Though small the time thou hast to spare, The church is thy peculiar care. Of pious prelates what a stock You choose, to rule the sable flock!
+ Genibus minor, &c.
+ Sir Robert Walpole, afterwards Earl of Orford,
Unus homo nobis cunetando restituit rem.
You raise the honour of the peerage,
Proud to attend you at the steerage.
You dignify the noble race,
Content yourself with humbler place.
Now learning, valour, virtue, sense,
To titles give the sole pretence.
St. George beheld thee with delight
Vouchsafe to be an azure knight,
When on thy breast and sides Herculean
He fix'd the star and string cerulean.
Say, poet! in what other nation
Shone ever such a constellation !
Attend, ye Popes! and Youngs ! and Gays!
And tune your harps, and strow your bays;
Your panegyrics here provide ;
You cannot err on flattery's side:
Above the stars exalt your style,
You still are low ten thousand mile.
On Lewis all his bards bestow'd
Of incense many a thousand load ;
But Europe mortified his pride,
And swore the fawning rascals lied :
Yet what the world refused to Lewis,
Applied to George, exactly true is.
Exactly true! invidious poet!
'Tis fifty thousand times below it.
Translate me now some lines if you can, From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan; They could all power in heaven divide, And do no wrong to either side : They teach you how to split a hair, Give rge and Jove an equal share *. Yet why should we be laced so strait? I'll give my monarch butter-weight.
* Divisam imperium cum Jove Cæsar habet.
And reason good; for many a year
Jove never intermeddled here;
Nor, though his priests be duly paid,
Did ever we desire his aid :
We now can better do without him,
Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him.
THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.
LOGICIANS have but ill defined,
As rational, the humankind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocination specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione præditum,
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em,
And must, in spite of them, maintain
That man and all his ways are vain,
And that this boasted lord of Nature
Is both a weak and erring creature ;
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason-boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est animo brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute?
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O’er plains they ramble unconfined,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court:
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster-row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets or poetasters
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts it is confess'd the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion ;
But both in malice and grimaces
A courtier any ape surpasses :
Bebold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors :
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators;
At court the porters, lackeys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.
EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.
BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES,
Advertisement. This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years
since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of poblishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune (the authors of • Verses to the Imitator of Horace,' and of an · Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a nobleman at Hampton Court'] to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings (of which, being public, the public is jodge) but my person, morals, and fainily; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided be. tween the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment: and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to
offend, the vicions or the ungenerous. Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a
circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at
if they please. I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request
of the learned and candid friend, to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.
P. 'Shut, shut the door, good John! (fatigued
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.'
The dogstar rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out: