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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- 60
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 Scarborough name?
Pleas'd 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!
Ev'n in a bishop I can spy desert;
Secker is decent, Rundel has a heart:
Manners with candour are to Benson giv'n,
To Berkeley every virtue under heav'n.

But does the court a worthy man renove?
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:

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TO

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Carleton's calm sense and Stanhope's noble flame 80
Compar'd, and knew their generous end the same :
How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!

How shin'd the soul, unconquer'd, in the Tow'r!
How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield, forget,
While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit?
Argyle, the state's whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the senate and the field?
Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne,
The master of our passions and his own?

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Names which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain,

[train;

Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with their
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.

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I never (to my sorrow I declare)

Din'd with the man of Ross or my lord may'r.
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.

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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, for him she weds again.

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Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground; 110
The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of these days
To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.
Are 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 wish'd, but wish'd in vain.
No pow'r the Muse's friendship can command;
No pow'r, when virtue claims it, can withstand.
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line:

O let my country's friends illumine mine!

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[sin;

-What are you thinking? F. Faith, the thought's no 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 complySpirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie : Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave, And Lyttleton a dark designing knave; St. John has ever been a wealthy foolBut 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?

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Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine,
Oh, all accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine ?
What! shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay,
Or each new pension'd sycophant, pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend,
Then wisely plead to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure if I spare the minister, no rules
Of honour bind me not to maul his tools;
Sure if they cannot cut, it nay be said,
His saws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To see a footman kick'd that took his pay;
But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave,
Knew one a man of honour, one a knave,
The prudent general turn'd it to a jest,

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And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the rest; 155 Which not at present having time to do

F. Hold, sir, for God's sake; where's th' affront to you?

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Against your worship when had S**k writ?
Or P*ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend
(In power a servant, out of power a friend)
To W**le guilty of some venial sin,
What's that to you, who ne'er was out nor in?
The priest whose flattery be-dropp'd the crown
How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?
P. Faith it imports not much from whom it came;
Whoever borrow'd could not be to blame,
Since the whole house did afterwards the same.
Let courtly wits to wits afford supply,
As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly:
If one, through Nature's bounty or his lord's,
Has what the frugal dirty soil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mess almost as it came in;

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The blessed benefit, not there confin'd,

Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind;
From tail to mouth they feed and they carouse;
The last full fairly gives it to the house.

F. This filthy simile, this beastly line,

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Quite turns my stomach-P. So does flattery mine;
And all your courtly civet-cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
But hear me further-Japhet, 'tis agreed
Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read;
In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write;
And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own?
Must never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse
Without a staring reason on his brows?
And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult's not on man, but God?

Ask you what provocation I have had?
The strong antipathy of good to bad.
When truth or virtue an affront endures,

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Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be your's. Mine, as a foe profess'd to false pretence,

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Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense;
Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind;

And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're strangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no slave;

So impudent, I own myself no knave;
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me;
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone.

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O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence, Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence! To all but Heav'n-directed hands denied, The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide:

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Reverent I touch thee! but with honest zeal,
To rouse the watchmen of the public wcal,
To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day,
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings,
All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings;
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press,
Like the last gazette or the last address.

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When black ambition stains a public cause,
A monarch's sword when mad vain-glory draws,
Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, 230
Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.

Not so when diadem'd with rays divine,
Touch'd with the flame that breaks from
Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of eternity.
There other trophies deck the truly brave
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Far other stars than* and **

wear,

And may descend to Mordington from Stair! (Such as on Hough's unsullied mitre shine,

virtue's [shrine,

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Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine.)
Let envy howl, while Heaven's whole chorus sings,
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let flattery sickening see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal verse as mean as mine.
Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw,
When truth stands trembling on the edge of law.
Here, last of Britons! let your names be read: 250
Are none, none living? let me praise the dead;
And for that cause which made your fathers shine,
Fall by the votes of their degenerate line.
F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Essays on Man.

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