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, il 1 spare the minister, no rules

Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind; of honour bind me, not to maul his cools; And mine as man, who feel for all mankind. Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said

F. You're strangely proud. His laws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.

P. So proud, I am no Lave: It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, 150 So impudent, I own myself no knave : To see a footman kick'd that took his pay : So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave, Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Knew one a man of honour, one a knave, Men not afraid of God, afraid of me : The prudent general turn'd it to a jest ;

Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, 210 And begg'd, he'd take the pains to kick the rest: Yet touch'd and fham'd by ridicule alone. Which not at present having time to dom

O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence, F. Hold, Sir! for God's fake, where's th' affront Sole dread of folly, vice, and infolence ! to you?

To all but heaven-directed hands deny'd, Against your worship when had S-k writ? The muse may give thee, but the gods must guide: Ur Pege pour'd forth thc torrent of his wit ? Reverend I touch thee! but with honest zeal; Or grant the bard whose diftich all commend 166 To rouze the watchmen of the public weal, [ln power a servant, out of power a friend] To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, To W-le guilty of some venial sin;

And goad the prelate Numbering in his stall. What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in? Ye tinsel insecis! whom a court maintains,

The priest whose flattery bedropt the crown, That counts your beauties only by your stains, How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown. Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! And how did, pray, the forid youth offend, The mufe's wing shall brush you all away: Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend? All his grace preaches, all his lordship fings, P.Faith it imports not much from whom it came; All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings. Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame, All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, Since the whole houfe did afterwards the fame. Like the last gazette, or the last address. Let courtly wits to wits afford fupply, 171 When black ambition stains a public cause, As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly;

A monarch's sword when mad vain-glory draws, If one, through nature's bounty or his lord's, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, Has what the frugal dirty foil affords,

Not Boileau turn the feather to a star. 231 From him the next receives it, thick or thin, Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine, As pure a mess almost as it came in ;

Touch'd with the flame that breaks from virtue's The blessed benefit, not there confin'd,

shrine Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind ; Her priestless muse forbids the good to die, From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse : And opes the temple of eternity. 'The Lalt full fairly gives it to the house. 180 There, other trophies deck the truly brave, F. This filthy fimile, this beally line

Than such as Anstis cafts into the grave; Quite turns my stomach

Far other stars than * and ** wear, P. So does flattery mine : And may descend to Mordington from Stair; And all your courtly civet-cats can vent, (such as on Houghs unfully'd mitre shine, 240 Perfume to you, to me is excrement.

Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine) But hear my father-Japhet, 'tis agreed, Let envy howl, while heaven's whole chorus fings, Weit not, and Chartres scarce could write or read, And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings; In all the courts of Pindus guildless quite ;

Let flattery sickening see the incense rise, But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write; Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies: And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown, Truth guards the poet, fanctifies the line, Because the deed he forg'd was not my own ? 190 And makes immortal verse' as mean as mine. Mult never patriot then declaim at gin,

Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, Unless, good man! he has been fairly in? When truth stands trembling on the edge of law; No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse,

Here, last of Britons ! let your names be read; Without a staring reason on his brows?

Are none, none living ? let me praise the dead, And each blafphemer quite escape the rod, And for that cause which made your fathers shine, Because the insult's not on man, but God? Fall by the votes of their degenerate line. Af you what provocation I have had

F. Alas, alas! pray end what you began, The ftrong antipathy of good to bad.

And write next winter more Essays on Man. When truth or virtue an affront endures, Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be

After ver. 227, in the MS. yours. Miue, as a soe profess’d to false pretence,

Where's now the far that lighted Charles to rise? Who think a coxcombs honour like his sense;

-With that which follow'd Julius to the skies.
Angels, that watch'd the Royal Oak so well,

How chanc'd ye nod, when luckless Sorel fell?

Hence, lying miracles ! reduc'd so low Ver, 185, in the MS.

As to the regal touch and papal toe ; grant it, Sir; and further 'tis agreed,

Hence haughty Edgar's title to the Main, Japhet writ Rot, and Chartres scarce could read Britain's to France, and thine to India, Spaia!





'Tis true, my lord, I gave my word,
I would be with you, June the third ;
Chang'd it to Auguft, and (in short)
Have kept it as you do at court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic?
In town, what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every freet,
And funerals blackening all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:
And what a dus in every place!
And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W* and H** both in town!

The dog-days are no more the case." 'Tis true, but winter comes apace : Then fouthward let your bard retire, Hold out some months 'twixt fun and fire, And you shall see, the first warın weather, Me and the butterflies together.

My lord, your favours well I know; 'Tis with distinction you beftow; And not to every one that comes, Just as a Scotsman does his plums. "Pray take them, Sir--Enough's a feast : “ Eat some, and pocket up the rest”What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues ! “ No, Sir, you'll leave them to the hogs." Thus foo's with compliments beficge ye, Contriving never to oblige ye. Scatter your favours on a fop, Ingratitude's the certain crop; And 'tis but juft, I'll tell you wherefore, You give the things you never care for. A wise man always is or should Be mighty ready to do good; But makes a difference in his thought Betwixt a guinca and a groat.

Now this l'll say, you'll find in me A fale companion and a free;

But if you'd have me always nearA worr), pray, in your honour's ear. I hope it is your resolution To give me back my conftitution ! The sprightly wit, the lively eye, Th' engaging smile, the gaiety, That laugh'd down many a summer sus, And kept you up so oft till one : And all that voluntary vein, As when Belinda rais'd my strain.

A weazel once made shift to flink In at a corn-loft through a chink; But having amply stuff'd his skin, Could not get out as he got in; Which one belonging to the house ('Twas not a man, it was a mouse) Oblerving, cry'd, You 'scape not so, " Lean as you came, Sir, you must go."

Sir, you may spare your application, l'ni no such beast, nor his relation; Nor one that temperance advance, Cramm'd to the throat with Ortolans : Extremely ready to resign All that may make me none of mine. South Sea subscriptions take who please, Leave me but liberty and ease. 'I'was what I said to Craggs and Child, Who prais'd my modesty, and smil'd. Give me, I cry'd, (enough for me) My bread, and independency ! So bought an annual rent or two, And liv'd just as you see I do ; Near fifty, and without a wife, I trust that linking fund, my life. Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well, Shrink back to my paternal cell, A little house, with trees a-row, And, like its master, very low. There dy'd my father, no man's debtor, And there I'll die, nor worse aor better. To set this matter full before ye, Our old friend Swift will tell his story. “ Harley, the nation's great rappore" But you may read it, i Nop fort.

Que ça

But let it (in a word) be said, THL LATTER PART OF SATIRE VI'.

The moon was up, and men a-bed,

The napkin's white, the carpet red : O charming noons! anil nights divine !

The guests withdrawn had left the treat, Or when tsup, or when I dine,

And down the mice sat,“ tête à tête." My friends above, my folks below,

Our courtier walks from dish to dish,

Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish;
Chatting and laughing all-a-row,
The beans and bacon set before 'em,

Tells all their names, lays down the law,

eft bon! Ah goûtez ça ! The grace-cup serv'd with all decorum: Each willing to be pleas'd, and please,

“ That jelly's rich, this malmfey healing, And even the very dogs at ease!

“ Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in.' Here no man prates of idle things,

Was ever such a happy fwain ? How this or that Italian sings,

He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's,

“ I'm quite asham'd'eis mighty rude Or what's in either of the houses :

" To cae so much- but all's so good.

“ I have a thousand thanks to give Bat something much more our concern, And quite a scandal not to learn :

“ My lord alone knows how to live." Which is the happier, or the wiser,

No sooner said, but from the hall A man of merit, or a miser!

Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all : Whether we ought to choose our friends,

“ A rat, a rat! clap to the door" For their own worth, or our own ends?

The cat comes bouncing on the floor. What good, or better, we may call,

O for the heart of Homer's mice, And what, the very best of all ?

Or gods to save them in a trice ! Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)

(It was by providence they think, A tale extremely " à propos :"

For your damn'd stucco has no chink). Name a town life, and in a trice

“ An't please your honour, quoth the peasant, He had a story of two mice.

“ This same desert is not so pleasant: Once on a time (fo runs the fable)

“ Give me again my hollow tree, A country mouse, right hospitable,

“ A crust of bread, and liberty!"
Received a town mouse at his board,
Jul as a farmer might a lord.
A frugal mouse, upon the whole,
Yet lov'd his friend, and had a soul,

Knew what was handsome, and would do't,
On just occasion, “ coûte qui coûte."
He brought him bacon (nothing lean ;)
Pudding, that might have pleas'd a dean; AGAIN? new tumults in my breast?
Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,

Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me rett: But with'd it Stilton for his sake;

I am not now, alas ! the man Yet , to his guest though no way sparing,

As in the gentle reign of my Queen Anne. He eat himself the rind and paring.

Ah, found no more thy soft alarms, Our courtier scarce could touch a bit,

Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms! But show'd his breeding and his wit;

Mother too fierce of dear desires ! He did his bett to seem to eat,

Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires. And cry'd, “ I vow you're mighty neat.

To number five dire direct your doves, * But lord, my friend, this favage scene !

There spread round Murray all your bloom"For G-d's fake, come, and live with men : .

ing loves; Conúder mice, like men, must die,

Noble and young, who strikes the heart " Both small and great, both you and I :

With every sprightly, every decent part; " Then spend your life in joy and sport,

Equal, the injur'd to defend, "(This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court.") To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. The verieft hermit in the nation

He, with a hundred arts refin'd, May yield, God knows, to strong temptation. Shall ftretch thy conquests over half the kind : Away they came, through thick and thin, To him each rival shall submit, To a tall house near Lincoln's-Inn :

Make but his riches equal to his wit. ('Twas on the night of a debate,

Then fall thy form the marble grace, When all their lordlips had sat late).

(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face ; Behold the place, where if a poet

His house, embosom'd in the grove, Shin'd in description, he might how it;

Sacred to social life and social love, Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls, Shall gliiter o'er the pendent green, And tips with the liver all the walls;

Where Thames reflects the visionary scene : Palladian walls, Vere:ian doors,

Thither the filver-sounding lyres Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:

Shall call the smiling loves, and young desires,

There, every grace and muse hall throng. * See tbe fire part in Swift's Pooms.

Exalt the dance, or animate the song:


There youths and nymphs in confort gay, PART OF THE NINTI ODE OF THE TOURTE BOOK:

Shall hail the rising, close the parting day.
With me, alas ! those joys are o'er;

For me the vernal garlande bloom no more. Lest you should think that verse shall die,
Adieu ! fond hope of mutual fire,

Which sounds the filver Thames along,
The still-believing, still renew'd defire; Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

Above the reach of vulgar song;
And all the kind deceivers of the soul!

Though daring Milton sits sublime,
But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!
Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tcar?

In Spenser native muses play;
Why words so flowing, thoughts fo free,

Nor yet fhall Waller yield to mine,

Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay-
Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee?
Thee, dress'a in fancy's airy beam,

Sages and chiefs long since had birth
Absent I follow through th' extended dream;

Ere Cæsar was, or Newton nan'd; Now, now I cease, I clasp thay charms,

Then rais'd new empires o'er the earth, And now you burt (ah cruel!) from my arms;

And those, new heavens and systems fram d. And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Vain was the chief's, the fage's pride! Or softly glide by the canal,

They had no poet, and they died : Now shown by Cynthia's filver ray,

In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled! And not on rolling waters snatch'd away. They had no poet, and are dead.

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Yes, I beheld th' Athenian queen

Descend in all her fober charnis; " And cake (she said, and smil'd serene)

" Take at this hand celestial arms.

Secure the radiant weapons wield; “ This golden lance shall guard desert, " And if a vice dares keep the field,

" This steel shall stab it to the heart."

Ar’d, en my bended knees I fell,

Receiv'd the weapons of the sky; And dipp'd them in the fable well,

The fount of fame or infamy. * What well? what weapon? (Flavia cries)

* A standith, steel and golden pen! " It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;

* I gave it you to write again. But, friend, take heed whom you attack; ** You'll bring a house (I mean of peers) Red, blue, and green, nay white and black,

and all about your ears.

Such were the notes thy once-lov'd poet sung,
Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld, and lost: admir'd, and mourn'd!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, bleft in every Itrain !
Dear to the muse! to Harley dear--in vain !

For him, thou oft haft bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him, despis'd the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wise and great;
Dextrous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'scape from Battery to wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A figh the absent claims, the dead a tear)
Recal those nights that clos'd thy toilfome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of intereft, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or. deeming meaneft what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure, if aught below the seats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine :
A foul supreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all pain, and passion, and all pride,
The rage of power, the blaft of public breath,
The lult of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
The muse attends thee to thy silent shade:
'Tis her's, the brave man's lateft steps to trace,
Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When interest calls off all her sneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain ;
She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now, she shades thy evening-walk with bays
(No hireling she, no prostitute to praise);


* You'd write as smooth again on glass,

" And run, on ivory, so glib, * As not to stick at seol or ass,

“ Nor stop at flattery or fib. " Athenian queen! and sober charms!

"I tell you, fool, there's nothing in't : « 'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;

“ In Dryden's Virgil see the print. " Come, if you'll be a quiet soul,

" That dares tell neither truth nor lies, " I'll list you in the harmless roll

" Of those that sing of these poor eyes.”

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