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Spare then the Person, and expose the Vice.

P. How Sir! not damn the Sharper, but the Dice?
Come on then Satire! gen'ral, unconfined,

Spread thy broad wing, and fowze on all the kind. 15
Ye Statesmen, Priefts, of one Religion all !

Ye Tradesmen vile, in Army, Court, or Hall!
Ye Rev'rend Atheists! F. Scandal! name them, Who?

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P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do.
Who ftarv'd a Sifter, who forfwore a Debt,
I never nam'd; the Town's enquiring yet.
The pois'ning Dame- F.You mean- P.I don't. F. You do.
P. See, now I keep the Secret, and not you.
The bribing Statesman -F. Hold! too high you go.
P. The brib'd Elector-F. There you ftoop too low.
P. I fain wou'd please you, if I knew with what ;
Tell me, which Knave is lawful Game, which not?
Muft great Offenders, once escap'd the Crown,
Like Royal Harts, be never more run down?
Admit your Law to fpare the Knight requires ;
As Beafts of Nature may we hunt the Squires?
Suppofe I cenfure you know what I mean-
To fave a Bishop, may I name a Dean?

F. A Dean, Sir? no: his Fortune is not made, You hurt a man that's rifing in the Trade.

P. If not the Tradesman who fet up to day, Much less the 'Prentice who to morrow may. Down, down, proud Satire! tho' a Land be spoil'd, Arraign no mightier Thief than wretched * Wild,

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Jonathan Wild,

Or

H

Or if a Court or Country's made a job,
Go drench a Pick-pocket, and join the Mob.
But, Sir, I beg you, for the Love of Vice!
The matter's weighty, pray confider twice;
Have you lefs pity for the needy Cheat,

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The poor
and friendless Villain, than the Great 45
Alas! the fmall difcredit of a Bribe

Scarce hurts the Lawyer, but undoes the Scribe.
Then better fure it Charity becomes,

To tax Directors, who (thank God) have Plums;
Still better, Miniflers; or if the thing

May pinch ev'n there- why lay it on a King.
F. Stop! Stop!

P. Muft Satire, then, nor rife nor fall?
Speak out, and bid me blame no Rogues at all.

F. Yes, ftrike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years ago: Who now that obfolete Example fears?

Ev'n Peter trembles only for his Ears.

F. What always Peter ? Peter thinks you mad, You make men desp'rate if they once are bad :

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Elfe might he take to Virtue fome years hence - 60 P. As S-k, if he lives, will love the PRINCE.

F. Strange fpleen to S-k!

P. Do I wrong the Man?

God knows, I praise à Courtier where I can.

When I confefs, there is who feels for Fame,

And melts to Goodness, need I SCAR B'ROW name? 65

Pleas'd

Pleas'd let me own, in * Efher's peaceful Grove
Where Kent and Nature vye for PELHAM'S Love,
The Scene, the Master, opening to my view,
I fit and dream I fee my CRAGGS anew!
Ev'n in a Bishop I can spy Defert;
Secker is decent, Rundel has a Heart,
Manners with Candour are to Benson giv❜n,
To Berkley, ev'ry Virtue under Heav'n.

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But does the Court a worthy Man remove? That inftant, I declare, he has my Love: I fhun his Zenith, court his mild Decline; Thus SOMMERS once, and HALIFAX, were mine: Oft in the clear, ftill Mirrour of Retreat, I ftudy'd SHREWSBURY, the wife and great : CARLETON'S calm Senfe, and STANHOPE'S noble Flame Compar'd, and knew their gen'rous End the fame : How pleafing ATTERBURY's fofter hour! How fhin'd the Soul, unconquer'd in the Tow'r! How can I PULT'NEY, 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 Mafter of our Paffions, and his own. Names which I long have lov'd, nor lov'd in vain, go Rank'd with their Friends, not number'd with their And if yet higher the proud Lift fhould end, [Train; Still let me fay! No Follow'r, but a Friend.

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*The Houfe and Gardens of Efher in Surrey, defign'd by Mr. Kent.

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Yet think not, Friendship only prompts my lays : I follow Virtue, where fhe fhines I praise, Point fhe to Prieft or Elder, Whig or Tory, Or round a Quaker's Beaver caft a glory.

I never (to my forrow 1 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 fecret byass to a Knave:

To find an honeft man I beat about,

And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.
F. Then why fo few commended?

P. Not fo fierce;

Find
But random Praise the task can ne'er be done;

you the Virtue, and I'll find the Verfe.

Each Mother asks it for her booby Son,

Each Widow afks it for the best of Men,

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For him the weeps, and him the weds agen.
Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the ground;
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?
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What RICHLIEU wanted, Louis fcarce could gain,
And what young AMMON wish'd, but wish'd in vain.
No Pow'r the Mufe's Friendship can command;
No Pow'r, when Virtue claims it, can withstand:

Sir John Barnard.

Το

To Cato, Virgil pay'd one honeft line;

O let my Country's Friends illumin mine!

-What are you thinking? F. Faith, the thought's no fin,
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 ftrangely 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 comply
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lye.

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COBHAM'S a Coward, POLWARTH is a Slave, 130 And LYTTELTON a dark, defigning Knave,

St. JOHN has ever been a wealthy Fool

But let me add, Sir ROBERT's mighty dull,
Has never made a Friend in private life,
And was, befides, a Tyrant to his Wife.

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But pray, when others praise him, do I blame? Call Verres, Wolfey, any odious name? Why rail they then, if but a Wreath of mine Oh All-accomplish'd St. JoHN! deck thy Shrine? What? fhall each spur-gall'd Hackney of the day, When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, Or each new-penfion'd Sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a Friend? Then wifely plead, to me they meant no hurt, But 'twas my Guest at whom they threw the dirt? Sure, if I fpare the Minister, no rules Of Honour bind me, not to maul his Tools; Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be faid His Saws are toothless, and his Hatchets Lead.

It

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