When, with a strange and criminal excess,
To make us more than men, she made us less;
The good her dwindled pow'r with pity saw,
The bad with joy, and none but fools with awe.
Truth with a simple and unvarnish'd tale
E'en from the mouth of N- might prevail,
Could she get there; but Falschood's sugar'd strain
Should pour her fatal blandishments in vain,
Nor make one couvert, though the siren hung,
Where she too often hangs, on M▬▬▬▬ tongue.
Should all the Sophs, whom in his course the Sun
Hath seen, or past or present, rise in one;
Should he, whilst pleasure in each sentence flows,
Like Plato, give us poetry in prose;
Should he, full orator at once, impart
Th' Athenian's genius with the Roman's art,
Genius and Art should in this instance fail,
Nor Rome though join'd with Athens here prevail:
"Tis not in man, 'tis not in more than man,
To make me find one fault in Nature's plan.
Plac'd low ourselves, we censure those above,
And, wanting judgment, think that she wants love;
Blame where we ought in reason to commend,
And think her most a foe, when most a friend.
Such be philosophers-their specious art,
Though friendship pleads, shall never warp my heart;
Ne'er make me from this breast one passion tear,
Which Nature, my best friend, hath planted there.
F. Forgiving, as a friend, what, whilst I live,
As a philosopher I can't forgive,

In this one point at last I join with you;
To Nature pay all that is Nature's due;
But let not clouded Reason sink so low,
To fancy debts she does not, cannot owe.
Bear, to full manhood grown, those shackles bear,
Which Nature meant us for a time to wear
As we wear leading-strings, which, useless grown,
Are laid aside, when we can walk alone.
But on thyself, by peevish humour sway'd,
Wilt thou lay burthens Nature never laid?
Wilt thou make faults, whilst judgment weakly errs,
And then defend, mistaking them for her's?
Dar'st thou to say, in our enlighten'd age,
That this grand master passion, this brave rage,
Which flames out for thy country, was imprest
And fix'd by Nature in the human breast?

If you prefer the place where you was born,
And hold all others in contempt and scorn
On fair comparison; if on that land
With lib'ral and a more than equal hand
Her gifts as in profasion Plenty sends;

If Virtue meets with more and better friends;
If Science finds a patron 'mongst the great;
I Honesty is minister of state;

If Pow'r, the guardian of our rights design'd,
Is to that great, that only end coufia'd;
If riches are employ'd to bless the poor;
If Low is sacred, Lib rty secure;
Tet but these facts depend on proofs of weicht,
Reason declares, thy love can't be too great;
And in this light could he our country view,
A very Hottentot must love it too.

But if, by Tate's decrers, you owe your birth
To some most barren and penarious earth,
Where, ev'ry comfort of this life denied,
Her real wants are scantily supplied,
Where Pow'r is Reason, Liberty a joke,
Laws never made, or mide but to be broke;
To i thy love on such a wretched spot,
Became in Lust's wild over there begot,

Because, thy weight no longer fit to bear,

By chance, not choice, thy mother dropt thee there, Is folly, which admits not of defence;

It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.

By the same argument which here you hold,
(When Falsehood's insolent let Truth be bold)
If propagation can in torments dwell,
A devil must, if born there, love his Hell.

P. Had Fate, to whose decrees I lowly bend,
And e'en in punishment confess a friend,
Ordain'd my birth in some place yet untry'd,
On purpose made to mortify my pride,
Where the Sun never gave one glimpse of day,
Where Science never yet could dart one ray;
Had I been born on some bleak, blasted plain
Of barren Scotland, in a Stuart's reign;
Or in some kingdom, where men, weak or worse,
Turn'd Nature's ev'ry blessing to a curse,
Where crowns of freedom by the fathers won,
Dropp'd leaf by leaf from each degen'rate son;
In spite of all the wisdom you display,
All you have said, and yet may have to say,
My weakness here, if weakness, I confess,
I, as my country, had not lov'd her less.

Whether strict Reason bears me out in this,
Let those who, always seeking, always miss
The ways of Reason, doubt with precious zeal;
Their's be the praise to argue, mine to feel.
Wish we to trace this passion to the root,
We, like a tree, may know it by its fruit,
From its rich stem ten thousand virtues spring,
Ten thousand blessings on its branches cling;
Yet in the circle of revolving years,
Not one misfortune, not one vice appears.
Hence then, and what you Reason call adore;
This, if not Reason, must be something more.
But (for I wish not others to confine,
Be their opinions unrestrain'd as mine)
Whether this love's of good or evil growth,
A vice, a virtue, or a spice of both,
Let men of nicer argument decide:
If it is virtuous, sooth an honest pride
With lib'ral praise; if vicious, be content,
It is a vice I never can repent;

A vice which, weigh'd in Heav'n, shall more avail
Than ten cold virtues in the other scale.

F. This wild, untemper'd zcal (which after all We, candour unimpeach'd, might madness call) Is it a virtue? That you scarce pretend: Or can it be a vice, like Virtue's friend, Which draws us off from and dissolves the force Of private ties, nay stops us in our course To that grand obj ct of the human soul, That nobler love which comprehends the whole? Coop'd in the limits of this petty isle, This nook, which scarce deserves a frown or smile, Weigh'd with creation, you, by whim undone, Give all your thoughts to what is scarce worth one. The gen'rous soul, by Nature taught to soar, Her strength confirm'd in philosophic lore, At one grand view takes in a world with ease, And, sing all mankind, loves all she sets.

1. Was it most sure, which yet a dit endures, Not found in Reasons creed, though found in yours, That these two services, like what we're told And know of Gods and Mammon's, cannot hold And draw together; that however loth,

We neither serve, attempting to serve both;

I could not doubt a moment which to choose,

And which in common reason to refuse.

Invented oft for purposes of art,
Born of the head, though father'd on the heart,
This grand love of the world must be confest
A barren speculation at the best.
Not one man in a thousand, should he live
Beyond the usual term of life, could give,
So rare occasion comes, and to so few,
Proof whether his regards are feign'd or true.
The love we bear our country, is a root
Which never fails to bring forth golden fruit;
"Tis in the mind an everlasting spring
Of glorious actions, which become a king,
Nor less become a subject; 'tis a debt
Which bad men, though they pay not, can't forget;
A duty, which the good delight to pay,
And ev'ry man can practise ev'ry day.

Nor, for my life (so very dim my eye,
Or dull your argument) can I descry
What you with faith assert, how that dear love
Which binds me to my country can remove,
And make me of necessity forego,

That gen'ral love which to the world I owe.
Those ties of private nature, small extent,
In which the mind of narrow cast is pent,
Are only steps on which the gen'rous soul
Mounts by degrees till she includes the whole.
That spring of love, which in the human mind,
Founded on self, flows narrow and confin'd,
Enlarges as it rolls, and comprehends
The social charities of blood, and friends,
Till smaller streams included, not o'erpast,
It rises to our country's love at last;
And he, with lib'ral and enlarged mind,
Who loves his country, cannot hate mankind.

F. Friend as you would appear to common sense,
Tell me, or think no more of a defence,
Is it a proof of love by choice to run
A vagrant from your country?

P. Can the son,

(Shame, shame, on all such sons) with ruthless eye,
And heart more patient than the flint, stand by,
And by some ruffian, from all shame divorc'd,
All virtue, see his honour'd mother fore'd!
Then, no, by him that made ine, not e'en then,
Could I with patience, by the worst of men,
Behold my country plunder'd, beggar'd, lost
Beyond redemption, all her glories cross'd
E'en when occasion made them ripe, her fame
Fled like a dream, while she awakes to shame.
F. Is it not more the office of a friend,
The office of a patron, to defend
Her sinking state, than basely to decline
So great a cause, and in despair resign?

P. Beyond my reach, alas! the grievance lies, And, whils more able patriots doubt, she dies. From a foul source, more deep than we suppose, Fatally deep and dark, this grievance flows, 'Tis not that Peace our glorious hopes defeats, "Tis not the voice of Faction in the streets, 'Tis not a gross attack on Freedom inade, 'Tis not the arm of Privilege display'd Against the subject, whilst she wears no sting To disappoint the pupose of a king; These are no ills, or triths, if compar'd

With those, which are contriv'd, though not declar'd.

Tell me, philosopher, is it a crime To pry into the secret womb of Time; Or, born in ignorance, must we despair

To reach events, and read the future there?

Why, be it so-still 'tis the right of man,
Imparted by his Maker, where he can,
To former times and men his eye to cast,
And judge of what's to come, by what is past.

Should there be found in somne not distant year, (O how I wish to be no prophet here)

Amongst our British lords should there be found
Some great in pow'r, in principles unsound,
Who look on Freedom with an evil eye,
In whom the springs of loyalty are dry;
Who wish to soar on wild Ambition's wings,
Who hate the commons, and who love not kings;
Who would divide the people and the throne
To set up sep'rate int'rests of their own;
Who hate whatever aids their wholesome growth,
And only join with, to destroy them both;
Should there be found such men in after-times,
May Heav'n in mercy to our grievous crimes
Allot some milder vengeance, nor to them
And to their rage this wretched land condemn.
Thou God above, on whom all states depend,
Who knowest from the first their rise and end,
If there's a day mark'd in the book of Fate
When ruin must involve our equal state;
When law, alas! must be no more,
and we,
To freedom born, must be no longer free;
Let not a mob of tyrants seize the helm,
Nor titled upstarts league to rob the realm:
Let not, whatever other ills assail,

A damned aristocracy prevail.

If, all too short, our course of freedom run,
'Tis thy good pleasure we should be undone,
Let us, some comfort in our griefs to bring,
Be slaves to one, and be that one a king.

F. Poets, accustom'd by their trade to feign,
Oft substitute creations of the brain
For real substance, and, themselves deceiv'd,
Would have the fiction by mankind believ'd.
Such is your case. But grant, to soothe your pride,
That you know more than all the world beside,
Why deal in hints, why make a moment's doubt?
Resolv'd, and like a man, at once speak out,
Show us our danger, tell us where it lies,
And, to ensure our safety, make us wise.

P. Rather than bear the pain of thought, fools

stray;

The proud will rather lose than ask their way;
To men of sense what needs it to unfold
And tell a tale which they must know untold?
In the bad, int'rest warps the canker'd heart,
The good are hood-wink'd by the tricks of art;
And whilst arch, subtle hypocrites contrive
To keep the flames of discontent alive,
Whilst they, with arts to honest men unknown,
Breed doubts between the people and the throne,
Making us fear, where Reason never yet
Allow'd one fear, or could one doubt admit,
Themselves pass unsuspected in disguise,
And 'gainst our real danger seal our eyes.

F. Mark them, and let their names recorded stand
On Shame's black roll, and stink through all the land.
P. That night some courage, but no prudence be;
No hurt to them, and jeopardy to me.
F. Leave out their names.

P. For that kind caution thanks; But may not judges sometimes fill up blanks? F. Your country's laws in doubt then you reject? P. The laws I love, the lawyers I suspect: Amop st twelve judges may not one be found, (On Late, bare possibility I ground

In full and perfect vigour, juries stand,
A judge in vain shall awe, cajole, perplex.

P. Suppose I should be tried in Middlesex?
F. To pack a jury they will never dare.
P. There's no occasion to pack juries there.
F. 'Gainst prejudice all arguments are weak,
Reason herself without effect must speak.
Fly then thy country, like a coward fly,
Renounce her int'rest, and her laws defy.
But why, bewitch'd, to India turn thy eyes?
Cannot our Europe thy vast wrath suffice?
Cannot thy misbegotten Muse lay bare

Her brawny arm, and play the butcher there?
P. Thy counsel taken, what should Satire do?
Where could she find an object that is new?
Those travell'd youths, whom tender mothers wean,
And send abroad to see, and to be seen,
With whom, lest they should fornicate, or worse,
A tutor's sent, by way of a dry nurse,
Each of whom just enough of spirit bears,
To show our follies, and to bring home their's,
Have made all Europe's vices so well known,
They seem almost as nat'ral as our own.

F. Will India for thy purpose better do?
P. In one respect at least-there's something

new.

F. A harmless people, in whom Nature speaks Free and untainted; 'mongst whom Satire seeks, But vainly seeks, so simply plain their hearts, One bosom where to lodge her poison'd darts.

P. From knowledge speak you this, or doubt on doubt

Weigh'd and resolv'd, hath Reason found it out?
Neither from knowledge, nor by Reason taught,
You have faith ev'ry where but where you ought.
India or Europe-What's there in a name?
Propensity to vice in both the same,
Nature alike in both works for man's good,
Alike in both by man himself withstood.
Nabobs, as well as those who hunt them down,
Deserve a cord much better than a crown,
And a Mogul can thrones as much debase
As any polish'd prince of Christian race.

F. Could you, a task more hard than you sup-
pose,

Could you, in ridicule whilst Satire glows,
Make all their follies to the life appear,
'Tis ten to one you gain no credit here.
Howe'er well-drawn, the picture after all,
Because we know not the original,
Would not find favour in the public eye.

I. That, having your good leave, I mean to try.
And if your observations sterling hold,
If the piece should be heavy, tame, and cold,
To make it to the side of Nature lean,

Aud, meaning nothing, something seem to mean,

Add not distress to those too much distress'd.
Have they not, by blind zeal misled, laid bare
Those sores which never might endure the air?
Have they not brought their mysteries so low,
That what the wise suspected not, fools know?
From their first rise e'en to the present hour,
Have they not prov'd their own abuse of pow'r;
Made it impossible, if fairly view'd,

Ever to have that dang'rous pow'r renew'd;
Whilst unseduc'd by ministers, the throne
Regards our interest, and knows its own?

P. Should ev'ry other subject chance to fail,
Those who have sail'd, and those who wish to sail
In the last fleet, afford an ample field,
Which must beyond my hopes a harvest yield.

F. On such vile food Satire can never thrive. P. She cannot starve, if there was only Clive.

THE TIMES.

THE time hath been, a boyish, blushing time,
When modesty was scarcely held a crime;
When the most wicked had some touch of grace,
And trembled to meet Virtue face to face;
When those, who, in the cause of Sin grown grey,
Had serv'd her without grudging day by day,
Were yet so weak an aukward shame to feel,
And strove that glorious service to conceal;
We, better bred, and than our sires more wise,
Such paltry narrowness of soul despise,
To virtue ev'ry mean pretence disclain,
Lay bare our crimes, and glory in our shame.

Time was, ere Temperance had fled the realm;
Fre Luxury sat guttling at the helm
From meal to meal, without one moment's space
Reserv'd for business, or allow'd for grace;
Ere Vanity had so far conquer'd Sense
To make us all wild rivals in expense,
To make one fool strive to outvie another,
And ev'ry coxcomb dress against his brother;
Ere banish'd Industry had left our shores,
And Labour was by Pride kick'd out of doors;
Ere Idleness prevail'd sole queen in courts,
Or only yielded to a rage for sports;
Ere each weak mind was with externals caught,
And dissipation held the place of thought;
Ere gambling lords in vice so far were gone
To cog the die, and bid the Sun look on;
Ere a great nation, not less just than free,
Was made a beggar by economy;
Ere rugged Honesty was out of vogue,
Ere Fashion stamp'd her sanction on the rogue;
Time was,
that men had conscience, that they made
Scruples to owe, what never could be paid.
Was one then found, however high his name,
So far above his fellows damn'd to shame,
Who dar'd abuse and falsify his trust,
Who, being great, yet dar'd to be unjust;
Shunn'd like a plague, or but at distance view'd,
He walk'd the crowded streets in solitude,
Nor could his rank, and station in the land,
Bribe one mean knave to take him by the hand.