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Else might be take to virtue some years hence~!! Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground:
P. As S―k, if he lives, will love the Prince. The number may be hang'd, but not be
F. Strange spleen to S-k!

P. Do I wrong the man?
God knows I praise a courtier where I can.
When I confess there is who feels for fame,
And melts to goodness, need I Scarb'row name?
Pleas'd let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove
(Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love),
The scene, the master, op'ning to my view,
I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew!

Even in a Bishop I can spy desert;
Secker is decent, Rundel has a heart:
Manners with candour are to Benson given;
To Berkley ev'ry virtue under heaven.

But does the court a worthy man remove?
That instant, I declare, he has my love;
I shun bis zenith, court his mild decline;
Thus Somers once and Halifax were mine.
Oft in the clear still mirrour of retreat,
I studied Shrewsbury, the wise and great;
Carleton's calm sense and Stanhope's noble
Compar'd, and knew their genrous end the

And if yet higher the proud list should end,
Still let me say,-no follower but a friend.

Yet think not friendship only prompts my

I follow virtue; where she shines I praise;
Point she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory,
Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory.
I never (to my sorrow I declare)

Din'd with the Man of Ross or my Lord Mayor.
Some in their choice of friends (nay, look not


How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!
How shin'd the soul, unconquer'd in the Tow'r?
How can I Pultaey, Chesterfield forget,
While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit?
Argyle, the state's whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the senate and the field:
Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne,
The master of our passions and his own:
Names which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine,


Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with O all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine? their train;

What, shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day,


Have still a secret bias to a knave:

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Enough for half the greatest of these days,
To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.
Are they not rich? what more can they pre-


Dare they to hope a poet for their friend-
What Richlieu wanted, Louis scarce could
And what young Ammon wistid, but wish'd in
No pow'r the Muse's friendship can command;
No pow'r, when virtue claims it, can with-

Each mother asks it for her darling son:
Each widow asks it for the best of men;
For bim she weeps, for him she weds again.

To Cato, Virgil pay'd one honest line;
O let my country's friends illumine mine!
-What are you thinking? F. 'Faith, the
thought's no sin;

I think your friends are out, and would be in.
P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out,
The way they take is strangely round about.

F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow.
P. I only call those knaves who are so now,
Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply→
Spirit of Aruall! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwart is a slave ;
And Lyttleton a dark, designing knave;
St. John has ever been a wealthy fool;
But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull:
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife.

But pray, when other praise him, do I

Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules
Of honour bind me not to maul his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said
His saws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To see a footman kick'd that took his pay:

To find an honest man I beat about,

And love him, court him, praise him, in or out, But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave,

F. Then why so few commend?

P. Not so fierce; Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse. But random praise-the task can ne'er be


When Paxton gives him double pots and pay;
Or each new-pension'd sycophant, pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend;
Then wisely plead to me they meant no hurt;
But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the

Knew one a man of honour, one a knave;
The prudent gen'ral turn'd it to a jest,
And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the rest:
Which not at present having time to do→

F. Hold, Sir, for God's sake, where's th
affront to you?
Against your Worship when had S-k writ?
Or P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?

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Or grant the Bard whose distich all commend | Yes, I am proud, I must be proud to see
(In pow'r a servant, out of pow'r a friend)
To W-le guilty of some venial sin;
What's that to you, who ne'er was out nor in?
The Priest whose flattery bedropp'd the

Men not afraid of God afraid of me?
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne;
Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone.
O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence;
Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
To all but Heaven-directed hands denied,
The Muse may give thee! but the gods must

How hurt be you? he only stain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whose speech you took, and gave it to a

Rev'rent I touch thee' but with honest zeal;
To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,
To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate slumb'ring in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your

Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship sings,
All that makes saints of Queens, and gods of
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the
Like the last Gazette, or the last Address.

When black ambition stains a public cause,
A monarch's sword when mad vain-glory

P. 'Faith, it imports not much from whom it came ;

Whoever borrow'd could not be to blame,
Since the whole House did afterwards the


Let courtly wits to wits afford supply,

As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly;

If one thro' nature's bounty, or his lord's,

Has what the frugal dirty soil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mess almost as it came in ;

The blessed benefit, not there confiu'd,
Drops to the third, who nozzles close behind:
From tail to mouth they feed and they ca-


The last full fairly gives it the House.

F. This filthy simile, this beastly line
Quite turns my stomach--

P. So does flatt'ry mine:
And all your courtly Civet-cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
But hear me farther-Japhet, 'tis agreed,
Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or

In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot

And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not his own?
Must never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse,
Without a staring reason on his brows?
And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult's not on man, but God!
Ask you what provocation I have had ?
The strong antipathy of good to bad.
When truth or virtue an affront endures,
Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be

Mine, as a foe profest to false pretence,
Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense;
Mine, as friend to ev'ry worthy mind;
And mine, as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no slave
So impudent, I own myself no knave;
So add, my country's ruin makes me grave.


Not Veller's wreath can hide the nation's


Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.

Not so, when diadeni'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's shrine,

Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the ten.ple of Eternity.
There other trophies deck the truly brave,
Than such as An tice casts into the grave;
Far other stars then and
And may descend from Mornington to Stair;
(Such as on Hough's unsullied mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine),
Let Envy howl, while Heaven's whole chorus

And bark at honour not conferred by kings;
Let Flatt'ry sick ning see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the Poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal verse as mean as mine.

Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth stands trembling on the edge of law;

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Here, last of Britons! let your names be read;
Are none, none living! let me praise the dead;
And for that cause which made your fathers

Fall by the votes of their degen'rate line.

F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Essays on Man.




Is true, my Lord, I gave my word
I would be with you, June the third;
Chang'd it to August; 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 ev'ry street,
And fun'rals black'ning all the doers,
And yet more melancholy whores :
And what a dust in ev'ry place!
And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And Wand H-both in town!

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

My Lord, your favours well I know; 'Tis with distinction you bestow;

And not to ev'ry 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 fools with compliments besiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop ;
And 'tis but just, I'll tell you wherefore,
You give the things you never care for,
A wise man always is or shou'd

Bc mighty ready to do good ;
But make a difference in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll say; you'll find it in me
A safe companion, and a free;
But if you'd have me always near—
A word, pray, in your Honour's ear.
I hope it is your resolution
To give me back my constitution!
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' engaging smile, the gaiety,
That laugh'd down many a summer sun,
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 sliuk In at a corn-loft thro' 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) Observing, cried, "You 'scape not so; "Lean as you came, Sir, you must go."

Sir, you may spare your application, I'm no such beast, nor his relation; Nor one that temperance advance, Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans: Extremely ready to design

All that may make me none of mine.
South-sea subscriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease.
'Twas what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my modesty, and smil'd,
Give me, I cried (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 sinking 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 died my father, no man's debtor-
And there I'll die, nor worse nor better.

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But here a grievance seems to lie,

"All this is mine but till I die;

This bumbly offers me his case,
That begs my int'rest for a place :


'I can't but think 't would sound more clever, A hundred other men's affairs,

"To me, and to my heirs for ever.

"Ifl ue'er got or lost a great
"By any trick or any fault;
"And if I pray by reason's rules,
"And not like forty other fools,
"As thus:-" Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!
"To grant me this and t' other acre;
"Or if it be thy will and pleasure,
"Direct my plough to find a treasure;
"But only what my station fits,
"And to be kept in my right wits:
"Preserve, Almighty Providence!
"Just what you gave me, competence:
"And let me in these shades compose
"Something in verse as true as prose ;
"Remov'd from all th' ambitious scene,
"Nor puff'd by pride, nor sunk by spleen."
In short, I'm perfectly content,

Let me but live on this side Trent;
Nor cross the Channel twice a year,
To spend six months with statesmen here,
I must by all means come to town,
"Tis for the service of the crown.
"Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
"Send for him up, take no excuse."
The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or let it cost five hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found:
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne'er consider'd yet.
"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown,
"Let my Lord know you're come to town.'
I hurry me in haste away,

Not thinking it is levee-day;
And find his Honour in a pound,
Hemm'd by a triple circle round,
Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green;
How should I thrust myself between?
Some wag observes me thus perplex'd,
And smiling, whispers to the next,
"I thought the Dean had been too proud
"To jostle here among a crowd."
Another, in a surly fit,

Tells me I have more zeal than wit:
"So eager to express your love,
"You ne'er consider whom you shove,
"But rudely press before a Duke."
Jown I am pleas'd with this rebuke,
And take it kindly meant to shew
What I desire the world should know.

I get a whisper, and withdraw; When twenty fools I never saw Come with petitions fairly penn'd, Desiring I would stand their friend. La Belle Assemblée.-No. XLII.

Like bees, are humming in my ears.
"To-morrow my appeal comes on;
"Without your help the cause is gone→'
The Duke expects my Lord and you,
About some great affairs, at two-
"Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind,
"To get my warrant quickly sign'd:
66 Consider, 'tis my first request."
Be satisfied, I'll do my best:
Then presently he falls to tease,
"You may for certain, if you please;
"I doubt not, if his Lordship knew--
“And, Mr Dean, one word from you--,”
'Tis (let me see) three years and more
(October next it will be four)
Since Harley bid me first attend,
And chose me for au humble friend;
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And question me of this and that;

As, "What's o'clock," and "How's the wind?"
"Whose chariot's that we left behind?”
Or gravely try to read the lines

Writ underneath the country signs;
Or, "Have you nothing new to-day
"From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?"
Such tattle often entertains

My Lord and me as far as Staines;
As once a week we travel down
To Windsor, aud again to town,
Where all that passes inter nos
Might be proclaim'd at Charing Cross.

Yet some I know with envy swell,
Because they see me us'd so well:
"How think you of your friend the Dean?
"I wonder what some people mean;
"My Lord and he are grown so great,
"Always together tête-a-tête;
"What, they admire him for his jokes→
"See but the fortune of some folks!"
There flies about a strange report
Of some express arriv'd at court:
I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechis'd in ev'ry street.
“You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great
"Inform us, will the Emp'ror treat
"Or do the prints and papers he ??
Faith, Sir, you know as much as L
"Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!.
"Tis now no secret"-I protest
'Tis one to me-" Then tell us, pray,
"When are the troops to have their pay "
And, tho' I solemnly declare

I know no more than my Lord Mayor,
They stand amaz'd, and think me grown
The closest mortal ever known,


Thus, in a sea of folly tost, My choicest hours of life are lost; Yet always wishing to retreat, Oh, could I see my country-seat! There, leaning near a gentle brook, Sleep, or peruse some ancient book; And there in sweet oblivion drown Those cares that haunt the court and town. Oh charining noons and nights divine! Or when I sup, or when I dine, My friends above, my folks below, Chatting and laughing all a-row, The beans and bacon set before 'em, The grace-cup serv'd with all decorum: Each willing to be pleas'd, and please, And even the very dogs at ease! Here no man prates of idle things, How this or that Italian sings,

A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's, Or what's in either of the Houses :

But something much more our concern,
And quite a scandal not to learn :
Which is the happier, or the wiser,
A man of merit, or a miser?
Whether we ought to choose our friends
For their own worth, or our own ends?
What good, or better, we may call,
And what, the very best of all?

Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)
A tale extremely à-propos :
Name a town life, and in a trice
He had a story of two mice.
Once on a time, so runs the fable,
A country mouse, right hospitable,
Receiv'd a town mouse at his board,
Just 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, coute qui coute.
He brought him bacon (nothing lean),
Pudding that might have pleas'd a Dean;
Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,
But wish'd it Stilton for his sake;
Yet, to his guest tho' no way sparing,
He ate himself the rind and paring.
Our courtier scarce would touch a bit,
But shew'd his breeding and his wit:
He did his best to seem to eat,
And cried: "I vow you're mighty neat.
"But, Lord! my friend, the savage scene!
"For God's sake, come and live with men:
"Consider, mice like men must die,
"Both small and great, both you and I:
"Then spend your life in joy and sport;
"This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court."
The veriest hermit in the nation
May yield, God knows, to strong temptation.

Away they come, thro' thick and thin,
To a tall house near Lincoln's-Inn:
'Twas on the night of a debate,
When all their Lordships had sat late.

Behold the place where, if a poet
Shin'd in description he might shew it;
Tell how the moon beain trembling falls,
And tips with silver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:
But let it, in a word, be said,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkin white, the carpet red:
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the mice sat, tête à-tête.

Our courtier walks from dish to dish, Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law, "Que ça est bon! Ah, goutez ça!

"That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing; "Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in." Was ever such a happy swain ?

He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. "I'm quite asham'd-'tis mighty rude "To eat so much—but all's so good! "I have a thousand thanks to give"C My Lord alone knows how to live." No sooner said, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all : "A rat! a rat! clap to the door.”— The cat comes bouncing on the floor! O for the heart of Homer's mice, Or gods, to save them in a trice! (It was by Providence, they think, For your damn'd stucco has no chink.) "Au't please your Honour," quoth the peasant, "This same desert is not so pleasant :

“Give me again my hollow tree, "A crust of bread and liberty!"

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