P. THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told), | |
| There are to whom my satire seems too bold; | |
| Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough, | |
| And something said of Chartres much too rough. | |
| The lines are weak, another’s pleas’d to say; | 5 |
| Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day. | |
| Tim’rous by nature, of the rich in awe, | |
| I come to counsel learned in the law: | |
| You ’ll give me, like a friend both sage and free, | |
| Advice; and (as you use) without a fee. | 10 |
F. I ’d write no more.
P. Not write? but then I think, | |
| And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink. | |
| I nod in company, I wake at night; | |
| Fools rush into my head, and so I write. | |
| F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. | 15 |
| Why, if the night seem tedious—take a wife: | |
| Or rather, truly, if your point be rest, | |
| Lettuce and cowslip wine: probatum est. | |
| But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise | |
| Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes. | 20 |
| Or if you needs must write, write Cæsar’s praise; | |
| You ’ll gain at least a Knighthood or the Bays. | |
| P. What? like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce, | |
| With Arms, and GEORGE, and Brunswick, crowd the verse; | |
| Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder, | 25 |
| With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder? | |
| Or nobly wild, with Budgell’s fire and force, | |
| Paint angels trembling round his falling horse? | |
| F. Then all your Muse’s softer art display, | |
| Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay; | 30 |
| Lull with Amelia’s liquid name the Nine, | |
| And sweetly flow thro’ all the royal line. | |
| P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear; | |
| They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a year; | |
| And justly Cæsar scorns the poet’s lays; | 35 |
| It is to history he trusts for praise. | |
| F. Better be Cibber, I ’ll maintain it still, | |
| Than ridicule all Taste, blaspheme Quadrille, | |
| Abuse the city’s best good men in metre, | |
| And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter. | 40 |
Ev’n those you touch not, hate you.
P. What should ail ’em? | |
| F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam. | |
| The fewer still you name, you wound the more; | |
| Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score. | |
| P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny | 45 |
| Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie: | |
| Ridotta sips and dances till she see | |
| The doubling lustres dance as fast as she: | |
| F[ox] loves the Senate, Hockley-hole his brother, | |
| Like in all else, as one egg to another. | 50 |
| I love to pour out all myself as plain | |
| As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne: | |
| In them, as certain to be lov’d as seen, | |
| The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within; | |
| In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, | 55 |
| Will prove at least the medium must be clear. | |
| In this impartial glass my Muse intends | |
| Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends; | |
| Publish the present age; but where my text | |
| Is vice too high, reserve it for the next; | 60 |
| My foes shall wish my life a longer date, | |
| And ev’ry friend the less lament my fate. | |
| My head and heart thus flowing thro’ my quill, | |
| Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will, | |
| Papist or Protestant, or both between, | 65 |
| Like good Erasmus, in an honest mean, | |
| In moderation placing all my glory, | |
| While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. | |
| Satire ’s my weapon, but I ’m too discreet | |
| To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet; | 70 |
| I only wear it in a land of Hectors, | |
| Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors. | |
| Save but our Army! and let Jove incrust | |
| Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust! | |
| Peace is my dear delight—not Fleury’s more: | 75 |
| But touch me, and no minister so sore. | |
| Whoe’er offends, at some unlucky time | |
| Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, | |
| Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, | |
| And the sad burden of some merry song. | 80 |
| Slander or poison dread from Delia’s rage; | |
| Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page; | |
| From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, | |
| Pox’d by her love, or libell’d by her hate. | |
| Its proper power to hurt each creature feels; | 85 |
| Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels; | |
| ’T is a bear’s talent not to kick, but hug; | |
| And no man wonders he ’s not stung by Pug. | |
| So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat, | |
| They ’ll never poison you, they ’ll only cheat. | 90 |
| Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter short) | |
| Whate’er my fate,—or well or ill at court, | |
| Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, | |
| Attends to gild the ev’ning of my day, | |
| Or death’s black wing already be display’d, | 95 |
| To wrap me in the universal shade; | |
| Whether the darken’d room to muse invite, | |
| Or whiten’d wall provoke the skewer to write; | |
| In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint,— | |
| Like Lee or Budgell I will rhyme and print. | 100 |
| F. Alas, young man, your days can ne’er be long: | |
| In flower of age you perish for a song! | |
| Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, | |
| Will club their testers now to take your life. | |
| P. What? arm’d for Virtue when I point the pen, | 105 |
| Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men, | |
| Dash the proud Gamester in his gilded car, | |
| Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a Star; | |
| Can there be wanting, to defend her cause, | |
| Lights of the Church, or guardians of the Laws? | 110 |
| Could pension’d Boileau lash in honest strain | |
| Flatt’rers and bigots ev’n in Louis’ reign? | |
| Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage, | |
| Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage? | |
| And I not strip the gilding off a knave, | 115 |
| Unplaced, unpension’d, no man’s heir or slave? | |
| I will, or perish in the gen’rous cause; | |
| Hear this, and tremble! you who ’scape the laws. | |
| Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave | |
| Shall walk the world in credit to his grave: | 120 |
| To VIRTUE only and her Friends a friend, | |
| The world beside may murmur or commend. | |
| Know, all the distant din that world can keep, | |
| Rolls o’er my grotto and but soothes my sleep. | |
| There my retreat the best companions grace, | 125 |
| Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place: | |
| There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl | |
| The feast of reason and the flow of soul: | |
| And he, whose lightning pierced th’ Iberian lines, | |
| Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines; | 130 |
| Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, | |
| Almost as quickly as he conquer’d Spain. | |
| Envy must own I live among the great, | |
| No pimp of Pleasure, and no spy of State, | |
| With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne’er repeats, | 135 |
| Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats; | |
| To help who want, to forward who excel; | |
| This all who know me, know; who love me, tell; | |
| And who unknown defame me, let them be | |
| Scribblers or peers, alike are Mob to me. | 140 |
| This is my plea, on this I rest my cause— | |
| What saith my counsel, learned in the laws? | |
| F. Your plea is good; but still I say, beware! | |
| Laws are explain’d by men—so have a care. | |
| It stands on record, that in Richard’s times | 145 |
| A man was hang’d for very honest rhymes. | |
| Consult the statute; quart. I think it is, | |
| Edwardi sext. or prim. et quint. Eliz. | |
| See Libels, Satires—here you have it—read. | |
| P. Libels and Satires! lawless things indeed! | 150 |
| But grave epistles, bringing Vice to light, | |
| Such as a King might read, a Bishop write, | |
| Such as Sir Robert would approve— F. Indeed! | |
| The case is alter’d—you may then proceed: | |
| In such a cause the Plaintiff will be hiss’d, | 155 |
| My Lords the Judges laugh, and you ’re dismiss’d. | |
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