“ Sir, Flaccus knew to live as well as write,
And kept, like me, two boys array'd in white."
Worthy to feel that appetence of fame
Which rivals Horace only in his shame!
Let Isis wail in murmurs, as she runs,
Her tempting fathers and her yielding sons;
While dulness screens the failings of the church,
Nor leaves one sliding rabbi in the lurch:
Far other raptures let the breast contain,
Where heaven-born taste and emulation reign.

Shall not a thousand virtues, then, atone
In thy strict censure for the breach of one ?
If Bubo keeps a catamite or whore,
His bounty feeds the beggar at his door:
And though no mortal credits Curio's word,
A score of lackeys fatten at his board:
To Christian meekness sacrifice thy spleen,
And strive thy neighbour's weaknesses to screen.

Scorn'd be the bard, and wither'd all his fame,
Who wounds a brother weeping o'er his shame!
But if an impious wretch, with frantic pride,
Throws honour, truth, and decency aside,
If nor by reason awed, nor check’d by fears,
He counts his glories from the stains he bears;
The indignant muse to virtue's aid shall rise,
And fix the brand of infamy on vice.
What if, aroused at his imperious call,
A hundred footsteps echo through his hall;
And, on high columns rear'd, his lofty dome
Proclaims the united art of Greece and Rome:
What though whole hecatombs his crew regale,
And each dependent slumbers o'er his ale;
While the remains through mouths unnumber'd pass'd,
Say, friend, is it benevolence of soul,
Or pompous vanity, that prompts the whole ?
These sons of sloth, who by profusion thrive,
His pride inveigled from the public hive:
And numbers pine in solitary woe,
Who furnished out this phantasy of show.
When silent misery assailed his eyes,
Did e'er his throbbing bosom sympathize ?
Or his extensive charity pervade
To those who languish in the barren shade,
Where oft by want and modesty suppress’d,
The bootless talent warms the lonely breast ?
No! petrified by dulness and disdain,
Beyond the feeling of another's pain,
The tear of pity ne'er bedew'd his eye,
Nor his lewd bosom felt the social sigh.

Indulge the beggar and the dogs at last: 1 In allusion to the unnatural orgies said to be solemnized on the banks of this river, particularly at Medmenham Abbey, where a much greater sanctity of morals and tastes might be expected.

2 This is a decent and parental office, in which dulness is employed: namely, to conceal the failings of her children: and exactly conformable to that instance of filial piety which we meet with in the son of Noah, who went backward, to cover the nakedness of his father, when he lay exposed, from the scoffs and insults of a malicious world.

Alike to thee his virtue or his vice,
If his hand, liberal, owns thy merit's price.

Sooner in hopeless anguish would I mourn
Than owe my fortune to the man I scorn!
What new resource ?


A thousand yet remain That bloom with honours, or that teem with gain: These arts,-are they beneath-beyond thy care? Devote thy studies to the auspicious fair: Of truth divested, let thy tongue supply The hinted slander, and the whisper'd lie; All merit mock, all qualities depress, Save those that grace the' excelling patroness; Trophies to her on others' follies raise, And, heard with joy, by defamation praise: To this collect each faculty of face, And every feat perform of sly grimace; Let the grave sneer sarcastic speak thee shrewd, The smutty joke ridiculously lewd; And the loud laugh, through all its changes rung, Applaud the' abortive sallies of her tongue: Enroll’d a member in the sacred list, Soon shalt thou sharp, in company, at whist;

Her midnight rites and revels regulate,'
Priest of her love, and demon of her hate.


But say,


what recompence for all this waste Of honour, truth, attention, time, and taste ? To shine confess'd, her zany and her tool, And fall by what I rose, low ridicule ? Again shail Handel raise his laurel'd brow, Again shall harmony with rapture glow! The spells dissolve, the combination breaks; And Punch, no longer Frasi's rival, squeaks. Lo, Russel? falls a sacrifice to whim, And starts amazed, in Newgate, from his dream; With trembling hands implores their promised aid; And sees their favour like a vision fade; Is this, ye faithless syrens—this the joy. To which your smiles the unwary wretch decoy! Naked and shackled, on the pavement prone, His mangled flesh devouring from the bone; Rage in his heart, distraction in his eye! Behold, inhuman hags! your minion lie! Behold his gay career to ruin run, By you seduced, abandoned, and undone! Rather in garret pent," secure from harm, My Muse with murders shall the town alarm;


1 These are mysteries performed, like those of the Dea Bona, by females only: consequently it cannot be expected that we should here explain them: we have, notwithstanding, found means to learn some anecdotes concerning them.

? A famous mimic and singer. The person here meant, by the qualifications above described, had insinuated himself into the confidence of certain ladies of quality, who engaged him to set up a puppet-show, in opposition to the oratorios of Handel, against whom they were unreasonably prejudiced. But, the town not seconding the capricious undertaking, they deserted their manager, whom they had promised to support, and let him sink under the expense they had entailed upon him: he was accordingly thrown into prison, where his disappointment got the better of his reason, and he remained in all the ecstasy of despair; till at last, his genercus patronesses, after much solicitation, were prevailed upon to collect five pounds, on the payment of which he was admitted into Bedlam, where he continued berest of his understanding, and died in the utmost misery.

3 These are the dreams and fictions of Grub-street, with which the good people of this metropolis are daily alarmed and entertained.

Or plunge in politics with patriot zeal,
And snarl, like Guthrie, for the public weal,
Than crawl an insect, in a beldam's power,
And dread the crush of caprice every hour!



'Tis well;-enjcy that petulance of style,
And, like the envious adder, bite the file:1
What though success will not attend on all,
Who bravely dares must sometimes risk a fall.
Behold the bounteous board of fortune spread,
Each weakness, vice, and folly yields thee bread;
Wouldst thou, with prudent condescension, strive
On the long settled terms of life to thrive.


What! join the crew that pilfer one another,
Betray my friend, and persecute my, brother:
Turn usurer, o'er cent. per cent. to brood;
Or quack, to feed like fseas on human blood ?


Or if thy soul can brook the gilded curse,
Some changeling heiress steal-


Why not a purse ?
Two things I dread, my conscience and the law.



How ? dread a mumbling bear without a claw ?
Nor this, nor that is standard right or wrong,
Till minted by the mercenary tongue,
And what is Conscience, but a fiend of strife,
That chills the joys, and damps the schemes of life f
The wayward child of Vanity and Fear,
The peevish dam of Poverty and Care;
Unnumber'd woes engender in the breast
That entertains the rude, ungrateful guest.

Hail, sacred power! my glory and my guide !
Fair source of mental peace, whate'er betide;
Safe in thy shelter, let disaster roll
Eternal hurricanes around my soul;

This alludes to the fable of the viper and file, applicable to all thë unsuccessful efforts of malice and envy.


My soul serene, amidst the storms shall reign,
And smile to see their fury burst in vain !


Too coy to flatter, and too proud to serve,
Thine be the joyless dignity to starve.


No; thanks to discord, war shall be my friend;
And moral


To pierce the gleaming squadron of the foe,
And win renown by some distinguish'd blow.


Renown! ay, do—unkennel the whole pack
Of military cowards on thy back.
What difference, say, 'twixt him who bravely stood,
And him who sought the bosom of the wood pa
Envenom'd calumny the first shall brand,
The last enjoy a ribbon and command.


If such be life, its wretches I deplore,
And long to quit the' unhospitable shore.


A Satire.


HOWE'ER I turn, or wheresoe'er I tread,
This giddy world still rattles round my head:
I pant for silence e'en in this retreat-
Good Heaven! what demon thunders at the gate ?

In vain you strive, in this sequester'd nook,
To shroud you from an injured friend's rebuke.

An injured friend !-who challenges the name ?

If you; what title justifies the claim ? 1 This line relates to the behaviour of a general on a certain occasion, who discovered an extreme passion for the cool shade during the heat of the day: the Hanoverian general, in the battle of Dettingen.

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