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And justly Cæsar scorns the poet's lays;
F. Better be Cihber, I'll maintain it still,
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 Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie: Ridotta sips and dances till she see The doubling lustres dance as fast as she : F- loves the senate, Hockley-hole his brother, Like in all else, as one egg to another. I love to pour ont 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, por kept a thought within; In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, 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; My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And every friend the less lament my fate. My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will, Papist or Protestant, or both between, 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 a-muck, and tilt at all I meet; 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 gans, with everlasting rust! Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more: i But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and bitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burden of some merry song.
Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage;
Then, learned sir! (to cut the matter short)
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,
P. What? arm'd for virtue when I point the pen,
There my retreat the best companions grace, Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place: There $t. John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul: And he, whose lightning pierc'd the’ Iberian lines, . Now forms my qnincunx, and now ranks my vines; Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, Almost as quickly as he conqner'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, Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats;
To help who want, to forward who excel;
F. Your plea is good ; but still I say, beware!
P. Libels and satires ! lawless things indeed! 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, My lords the judges laugh, and you're dismiss'd.
BOOK II. SATIRE II,
TO MR. DETHEL,
WAAT, and how great, the virtue and the art
Hear Bethel's sermon, one not vers'd in schools, But strong in sense, and wise without the rules,
• Go work, bunt, exercise ! (he thus began) Then scorn a honely dinner if you can. Your wine lock'd up, your butler stroll'd abroad, Or fish denied (the river yet unthaw'd ;) If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, The pleasure lies in yon, and not the meat.'
Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men Will choose a pheasant still before a hen; Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold, Except you eat the seathers green and gold. Of carps and mullets why prefer the great, (Thongh cut in pieces ere my lord can eat) Yet for small turbots such esteem profess? Because God made these large the other less. Oldfield, with more than harpy-throat endued, Cries, • Send me, gods! a whole hog barbecued !'' O blast it, south-winds! till a stench exhale Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail.. By what criterion do you eat, d'ye think, If this is priz'd for sweetness, tbat for stink? When the tir'd glutton labours through a treat, He finds no relish in the sweetest meat ; He calls for something bitter, something sour, And the rich feast concludes extremely poor : Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives, still we see; Thus much is left of old simplicity! The robin redbreast till of late had rest, And children sacred held a martin's nest, Till beccaficos sold so devilish dear To one that was, or would have been, a peer. Let me extol a cat on oysters fed ; I'll have a party at the Bedford-head: