Admit your law to spare the knight requires, As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires?
Suppose I censure--you know what I mean--To save a bishop, may I name a dean?
F. A dean, sir? no: his fortune is not made;You hurt a man that's rising in the trade.
P. If not the tradesman who set up to-day, Much less the 'prentice who to-morrow may.
Down, down, proud satire! though a realm be spoiled, Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild;Or, if a court or country's made a job, Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob.
But, sir, I beg you (for the love of vice!)The matter's weighty, pray consider twice;Have you less pity for the needy cheat, The poor and friendless villain, than the great?
Alas! the small discredit of a bribe Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.
Then better, sure, it charity becomes To tax directors, who (thank God!) have plums;Still better, ministers; or, if the thing May pinch even there--why lay it on a king.
F. Stop! stop!
P. Must satire, then, nor rise nor fall?
Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.
F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow.
P. Strike? why the man was hanged ten year ago:
Who now that obsolete example fears?
Even Peter trembles only for his ears.
F. What? always Peter? Peter thinks you mad;You make men desperate if they once are bad:
Else might he take to virtue some years hence--P. As S---k, if he lives, will love the prince.
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?
Please let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove (Where Kent and Nature vie for Pelham's love), The scene, the master, opening 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 Berkeley, every virtue under Heaven.
But does the Court a worthy man remove?
That instant, I declare, he has my love:
I shun his zenith, court his mild decline;Thus Somers once, and Halifax, were mine.
Oft, in the clear, still mirror of retreat, I studied Shrewsbury, the wise and great:
Carleton's calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame, Compared, and knew their generous end the same;How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!
How shined the soul, unconquered in the tower!
How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield forget, While Roman spirit charms, and attic wit:
Argyll, the state's whole thunder born to wield, And shake alike the senate and the field:
Or Wyndham, just to ******* and the throne, The master of our passions, and his own?
Names, which I long have loved, nor loved in vain, Ranked with their friends, not numbered with their train;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 lays;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)
Dined with the Man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor.
Some in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave)Have still a secret bias to a knave:
To find an honest man I beat about, And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.
F. Then why so few commended?
P. Not so fierce!
Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse.
But random praise--the task can ne'er be done;Each mother asks it for her booby son, Each widow asks it for the best of men, For him she weeps, and him she weds again.
Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground;The number may be hanged, but not be crowned.
Enough for half the greatest of these days To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.
And they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend?
What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain, And what young Ammon wished, but wished in vain.
No power the muse's friendship can command;No power when virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil paid 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 Arnall! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave, And Littelton 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 others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they, then, if but a wreath of mine, Oh, all-accomplished St. John! deck thy shrine?
