O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Who fprung from Kings fhall know lefs joy

than 1.

O Friend! may each domestic blifs be thine!
Be no unpleafing Melancholy mine:
Me let the tender office long engage,
To rock the cradle of repofing Age;
With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath,
Make languor fmile, and smooth the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the afking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the iky!
On cares like thefe, if length of days attend,
May Heaven, to blefs those days, preserve my friend,
Preferve him focial, cheerful, and ferene,
And just as rich as when he ferv'd a Queen.
A. Whether that bleffing be denied or given,
Thus far was right, the reft belongs to Heaven.

Abuse the city's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter.
Ev'n thole you touch not,
P. What should ail them?

hate you.

F. A hundred fmart in Timon and in Balaam.
The fewer ftill you name, you wound the more;
Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.

P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny
Scarfdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pye;
Ridotta fips and dances, till the fee
The doubling luftres dance as faft as fhe;
F- loves the fenate, Hockleyhole his brother,
Like in all elfe as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myfelf, as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne:
In them, as certain to be lov'd as feen,
The foul food forth, nor kept a thought

within:

In me what fpots (for spots I have) appear,

§ 20. Satires and Epiftles of Horace imitated. POPE. Will prove at leaft the medium must be clear.

P. THERE

SATIRE I.

To Mr. Fortefcue.

are (I scarce can think it, but am told)
There are to whom my Satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wife Peter complaifant enough,
And fomething faid of Chartres much too rough.
The lines are weak, another 's pleas'd to fay;
Lord Fanny fpins a thousand fuch a day.
Tim'rous by nature, of the rich in awe,
I come to counfel learned in the law:

In this impartial glafs my Mufe intends
Fair to expofe myfelf, my foes, my friends;
Publish the prefent age; but where my text
Is vice too high, referve it for the next :
My foes fhall with my life a longer date.
And ev'ry friend the lefs lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing thro' my quill,
Verfeman or Profeman, term me which you will,
Papift or Proteftant, or both between,
Like good Erafinus, in an honeft mean,
In moderation placing all my glory,

You'll give me, like a friend both fage and free, While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. Advice; and (as you use) without a fee.

F. I'd write no more.

P. Not write? but then I think;
And for my foul I cannot fleep a wink.
1 nod in company, I wake at night;
Fools rufh into my head, and fo I write.

F. You could not do a worfe thing for your life.
Why, if the nights feem tedious, take a wife:
Or rather truly, if your point be reft,
Lettuce and cowflip wine-probatum eft.
But talk with Celfus, Celfus will advise
Hartfhorn, or something that shall clote your eyes.
Or, if you needs must write, write Cæfar's praise;
You'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays.
P. What! like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough,
[the verfe,
and fierce,
With arms, and George, and Brunswick crowd
Rend with tremendous found your ears afunder,
With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbufs, and
thunder?

Or nobly wild, with Budgel's fire and force,
Paint angels trembling round his falling horse?
F. Then all your Mufe's fofter art display,
Let Carolina fmooth the tuneful lay,
Lull with Amelia's liquid name the Nine,
And fweetly flow thro' all the royal line.

P. Alas! few verfes touch their nicer ear;
They scarce can bear their Laureate twice a year;
And justly Cæfar scorns the poet's lays;
It is to bistory he trusts for praise.

F. Better be Cibber, I 'll maintain it ftill,
Than ridicule all tafte, blafpheme quadrille,

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, fupercargoes, fharpers, 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:
But touch me, and no minifter fo fore.
Whoe'er offends, at fome unlucky time
Slides into verfe, and hitches in a rhyme;
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the fad burthen of fome merry song.

Slander or poifon dread from Delia's rage;
Hard words, or hanging, if your judge be Page:
From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate,
P-x'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate.
Its proper pow'r to hurt, each creature feels;
Bulls aim their horns, and affes lift their heels;
'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug;
And no man wonders he 's not stung by pug.
So drink with Waters, or with Chartres eat;
They 'll never poifon you, they 'll only cheat.

Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter fhort)
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 difplay'd,
To wrap me in the universal shade;
Whether the darken'd room to mufe invite,
Or whiten'd wall provoke the fkewer to write :
In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint,
Like Lee or Budgel, I will rhyme and print.

F. Alas,

F. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be
In flow'r of age you perish for a fong! [long;
Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife,
Will club their tefters now to take your life!
P. What? arm'd for virtue when I point the
pen,

Brand the boid front of fhameless guilty men;
Dalh the proud gamefter in his giided car;
Bare the mean heat that lurks beneath a fur;
Can there be wanting, to defend her caufe,
Lights of the church, or guardians of the laws?
Could perfion'd Boi cau lath in honest strain
Flatt'rers and bigots even in Louis' reign?
Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage,
Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage?
And I not ftrip the gilding off a knave,
Unplac'd, unpenfion'd, no man's heir or slave!
I will, or perith in the gen'rous caufe :
Hear this, and tremble you who 'fcape the laws.
Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave
Shall walk the world in credit to his grave.
To virtue only and her friends a friend,
The world befide may murmur or commend.
Know, all the diftant din that world can keep,
Rolls o'er my grotto, and but fooths my fleep.
There, my retreat the best companions grace,
Chiefs out of war, and ftatefmen out of place.
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl
The feaft of reafon and the flow of foul:
And he, whofe lightning pierc'd th' Iberian lines,
Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines;
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 fpy 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;
This, all who know me, know; who love ine, tell;
And who unknown defame me, let them be
Scribblers or peers, alike are mob to me.
This is my pica, on this I reft my cause→
What faith my counfel, learned in the laws?
F. Your plea is good; but still I fay, beware!
Laws are explain'd by men-fo have a care.
It ftands on record, that in Richard's times
A man was hang'd for very honeft rhymes!
Confult the ftatute, quart. I think it is,
Edwardi feat. or prim. et quint. Eliz.
See Libels, Satires-here you have it-read.
P. Libels and Satires! lawlefs things indeed!
But grave Epifiles, bringing vice to light,
Such as a King might read, a bishop write,
Such as Sir Robert would approve→
F. Indeed?

The cafe is alter'd-you may then proceed;
In fuch canfe the plaintiff will be hifs'd,
My lords the judges laugh, and you 're difmifs'd.

SATIRE

II.

To Mr. Bethel.

(A doctrine fage, but truly none of mine),
Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine.
Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride
Turns you from found philosophy afide;
Not when from plate to plate your eye-balls roll,
And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

Hear Bethel's Sermon, one not vers'd in fchools,
But ftrong in fenfe, and wife without the rules.
Go work, hunt, exercife! (he thus began)
Then fcorn a homely dinner if you can.
Your wine lock'd up, your butler ftroll'd abroad,
Or fith denied (the river yet unthaw'd),
If then plain bread and milk will do the feat,
The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men
Will choose a pheafant ftill before a hen;
Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold,
Except you eat the feathers green and gold.
Of carps and mullets why prefer the great
(Tho' cut in pieces ere my Lord can eat),
Yet for fmall turbots fuch efteem profefs?
Because God made these large, the other lefs.
Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endued,
Cries, "Send me, Gods! a whole hog barbecued!”
Oh blast it, fouth winds, till a stench exhale
Rank as the ripenefs of a rabbit's tail!
By what criterion do you eat, d' ye think,
If this is priz'd for fweetnefs, that for ftink?
When the tir'd glutton labours thro' a treat,
He finds no relith in the fweeteft meat;
He calls for fomething bitter, fomething four,
And the rich feaft concludes extremely poor:
Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives ftill we fee;
Thus much is left of old Simplicity!
The Robin-red-breaft till of late had reft,
And children facred held a Martin's neft,
Till Becca-ficos fold fo dev'lish 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;
Or ev'n to crack live Crawfish recommend,
I'd never doubt at Court to make a friend.
'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother
About one vice, and fall into the other :
Between Excels and Famine lies a mean;
Plain, but not fordid; tho' not splendid, clean.
Avidien, or his Wife (no matter which,
For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch),
Sell their prefented partridges and fruits,
And humbly live on rabbits and on roots:
One half-pist bottle serves them both to dine,
And is at once their vinegar and wine.
But on fome lucky day (as when they found
A loft Bank bill, or heard their fon was drown'd)
At fuch a feaft, old vinegar to spare,

Is what two fouls fo gen'rous cannot bear :
Oil, though it flink, they drop by drop impart ;
But foufe the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this fide nor on that;
Nor ftops for one bad cork his butler's pay;
Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;

WHAT, and how great, the virtue and the art Nor lets, like Nævius, ev'ry error pafs;

To live on little with a cheerful heart,

The mufty wine, foul cloth, or greafy glafs.

Now

Now hear what bleffings Temperance can] Or, bleft with little, whofe preventing care
bring:
In peace provides fit arms againft a war?
Thus Bethel fpoke, who always fpeaks his
thought,

(Thus faid our friend, and what he said I fing)
First Health: the ftomach (cramm'd from ev'ry
dith,

A tomb of boil'd and roaft, and flesh and fifh,
Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar,
And all the man is one inteftine war)
Remembers oft the fchool-boy's fimple fare,
The temp'rate fleeps, and fpirits light as air.
How pale each worshipful and rev'rend gueft
Rife from a Clergy or a City feast!
What life in all that ample body, say?
What heavenly particle infpires the clay?
The foul fubfides, and wickedly inclines
To feem but mortal, even in found Divines.
On morning wings how active fprings the mind
That leaves the load of yesterday behind!
How eafy ev'ry labour it purfues!
How coming to the Poet ev'ry Mufe!
Not but we may exceed fome holy time,

Or tir'd in fearch of Truth, or fearch of Rhyme;
Ill health fome just indulgence may engage,
And more, the sickness of long life, Old Age;
For fainting Age what cordial drop remains,
If our intemp'rate Youth the veffel drains?

Our fathers prais'd rank Ven'fon. You fuppofe,
Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no note.
Not fo: a Buck was then a week's repaft,
And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last ;
More pleas'd to keep it till their friends could

And always thinks the very thing he ought:
His equal mind I copy what I can,
And as I love, would imitate, the man.
In South-fea days not happier, when furmis'd
The lord of thoufands, than if now excis'd;
In foreft planted by a father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
Content with little, I can piddle here
On broco:i and mutton round the year;
But ancient friends (tho poor, or out of play),
That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.
'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards,
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords.
To Hourflow heath I point, and Bansted-down;
Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my

Own:

From yon old walnut-trce a fhow'r fhall fall;
And grapes, long ling ring on my only wall,
And gs from ftandard and efpalier join;
The devil is in you, if you cannot dine: [place);
Then cheerful healths (your mistress fhall have
And, what's more rare, a poet fhall fay grace.
Fortune not much of humbling me can boast:
Tho' double tax'd, how little have I loft!
My life's amulements have been just the fame
Before and after standing armies came.
My lands are fold, my father's houfe is gone:
I'll hire another's; is not that my own,
And yours, my friends? thro' whose free op ning
None comes too early, none departs too late;
For I who hold fage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, fpeed the going gueft.
Pray Heaven it laft! (cries Swift) as you go on;.

[gate

(For, faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong" I wish to God this houfe had been your own. The world's good word is better than a song),

"Pity to build, without a fon or wife;

Who has not learn'd, fresh furgeon and ham-pye" Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life.”

Are no rewards for want and infamy?
When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,
Curs'd by thy neighbours, thy truftees, thyfelf;
To friends, to fortune, to mankind a fhame,
Think how pofterity will treat thy name;
And buy a rope, that future times may tell
Thou haft at Icaft beftow'd one penny well.
"Right," cries his Lordship, " for a rogue in need
"To have a tafte, is infolence indeed:
"In me 'tis noble, fuits my birth and state,

My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great."
Then, like the Sun, let Bounty spread her ray,
And fhine that fuperfluity away.

Oh Impudence of wealth with all thy store,
How dar'ft thou let one worthy man be poor?
Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall?
Make Quays, build Bridges, or repair Whitehall:
Or to thy Country let that heap be lent,
As M-o's was, but not at five per cent.

Who thinks that fortune cannot change her
mind,

Prepares a dreadful jeft for all mankind.
And who ftands fafeft? tell me, is it he

That fpreads and fwells in puff'd profperity;

Well, if the ufe be mine, can it concern one,
Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon?
What 's property? dear Swift! you fee it alter
From you to me, from me to Peter Walter;
Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's fhare;
Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir;
Or in pure equity (the cafe not clear)
The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year:
At best, it falls to fome ungracious fon, [own."
Who cries," My father's damn'd, and all 's my
Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford,
Become the portion of a booby lord;

And Hemley, once proud Buckingham's delight,
Slides to a feriv'ner, or a city knight.
Let lands and houfes have what lords they will,
Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still.

Why will you break the Sabbath of my days?
Now fick alike of envy and of praise.
Public too long, ah let me hide my age!
See, modeft Cibber now has left the Stage;
Our Gen'rais, now, retir'd to their eftates,
Hang their old Trophies o'er the Garden gates;
In Life's cool ev'ning, fatiate of applaufe,
Nor fond of bleeding even in Bruniwick's caufe.
A voice there is, that whifpers in my ear,
('Tis Reafon's voice,which fometimes one can hear)
Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Mufe take
"And never gallop Pegatus to death; [breath,
"Left ftiff and ftately, void of fire or force,
"You limp, like Blackmore, on a Lord Mayor's" As Gold to Silver, Virtue is to Gold."

'Tis the first Virtue, Vices to abhor;
And the first Wisdom, to be Fool no more.
But to the world no bugbear is fo great
As want of figure, and a fmall eftate.
To either India fee the Merchant fly,
Scar'd at the spectre of pale Poverty
See him, with pains of body, pangs of foul,
Burn through the Tropic, freeze beneath the Pole!
Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end,
Nothing, to make Philosophy thy friend?
To ftop thy foolish views, thy long defires;
And cafe thy heart of all that it admires ?
Here Wifdom calls: "Seek Virtue firft, be bold!