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I only wear it in a land of Hectors,
dear delight-not FLEURY's more ; Bit touch me, and no Minister so sore.
76 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 burthen 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, P-x'd by her love, or libelld by her hate. Its proper pow'r to hurt, each creature feels; 85 Bulls aim their horns, and Asses 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 Walters, or with Chartres eat, They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat. 90
Then, leamed Sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at Court, Whether Old age, with faint but chearful 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 skew'r to write ;
In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint,
F. Alas young man! your days can ne'er be long,
P. What? arm'd for Virtue when I point the pen, 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 ? Could penfion'd Boileau lash in honest strain Flatt'rers and Bigots ev’n in Louis' reign? Could Laureate Dryden Pimp and Fry'r engage, Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage ? And I not strip the gilding off a Knave, 115 Unplac'd, unpenfion'd, no man's heir, or slave? I will, or perish in the gen’rous cause; 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. 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 sooths
my sleep. There, my retreat the best Companions grace, 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 pierc'd th'Iberian Lines,
F. Your plea is good; but still I say, beware!
P. Libels and Satires! lawless things indeed!
F. Indeed ?
* Earl of Peterborough.
TO A PLAY FOR MR. DENNIS's BENEFIT, IN 1733, WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, A LIT
TLE BEFORE HIS DEATH.
BY THE SAML.
As when that Hero, who in each Campaign,
Stood up to dalh each vain Pretender's hope,
Statesman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,