When weary'd with Intrigues of State,
They find an idle Hour to prate.
Then, fhould you dare to ask a Place,
You forfeit all your Patron's Grace,
And difappoint the fole Defign,
For which he fummon'd you to dine.
Thus, Congreve fpent, in writing Plays,
And one poor Office, half his Days:
While Montague, who claim'd his Station
To be Mecenas of the Nation,
For Poets open Table kept,
But ne'er confider'd where they flept:
Himself, as rich as fifty Jews,
Was eafy, though they wanted Shoes ;
And, crazy Congreve fcarce cou'd spare
A Shilling to difcharge his Chair
Till Prudence taught him to appeal
From Paan's Fire to Party Zeal;
Not owing to his happy Vein
The Fortunes of his latter Scene;
Took proper Principles to thrive;
And fo might every Dunce alive.
Thus, Steel who own'd what others writ,
And flourish'd by imputed Wit,
From Perils of a hundred Jayls,
Withdrew to ftarve, and die in Wales.
Thus Gay, the Hare with many Friends,
Twice fev'n long Years, the Court attends;
Who, under Tales conveying Truth,
To Virtue form'd a princely Youth:
Who paid his Courtship with the Croud,
As far as modifh Pride allow'd;
Rejects a fervile Ufher's Place,
And leaves St. James's in Difgrace.
Thus Addifon, by Lords careft,
Was left in foreign Lands diftreft;
Forgot at home, become for Hire,
A trav'lling Tutor to a Squire.
But, wifely left the Mufes Hill:
To Bus'nefs fhap'd the Poet's Quill,
Let all his barren Lawrels fade;
Took up himself the Courtier's Trade:
And grown a Minifter of State,
Saw Poets at his Levee wait.
Hail happy Pope, whofe gen'rous Mind,
Detefting all the Statefman Kind!
Contemning Courts, at Courts unfeen,
Refus'd the Vifits of a Queen ;
A Soul with ev'ry Virtue fraught,
By Sages, Priefts, or Poets taught:
Whose filial Piety excels
Whatever Grecian Story tells;
A Genius for all Stations fit,
Whose meanest Talent is his Wit:
His Heart too great, though Fortune little,
To lick a Rafcal Statefman's Spittle;
Appealing to the Nation's Tafte,
Above the Reach of Want is plac'd:
By Homer dead was taught to thrive,
Which Homer never cou'd alive ::
And fits aloft on Pindus Head,
Defpifing Slaves that cringe for Bread.
True Politicians only pay
For folid Work, but not for Play;
Nor ever chufe to work with Tools
Forg'd up in Colleges and Schools.
Confider how much more is due
To all their Journeymen, than you..
At Table
you can Horace quote;
They at a Pinch can bribe a Vote :
You fhew your Skill in Grecian Story,
But they can manage Whig and Tory:
You, as a Critick, are fo curious
To find a Verfe in Virgil fpurious;
But, they can fmoke the deep Defigns,
When Bolinbroke with Pult'ney dines.
Befides, your Patron may upbraid ye,
That you have got a Place already:
An Office for your Talents fit,
To flatter, carve, and fhew your Wit;
To fnuff the Lights and ftir the Fire,
And get a Dinner for your Hire.
What Claim have you to Place or Penfion?
He overpays in Condefcenfion.
But, Rev'rend Doctor, you, we know,
Cou'd never condefcend fo low:
The Vice Roy, whom you now attend
Wou'd, if he durft, be more your Friend:
Nor will in you thofe Gifts defpife,
By which himself was taught to rife;
When he has Virtue to retire,
He'll grieve he did not raise you higher,
And place you in a better Station,
Although it might have pleas'd the Nation.
This may be true-submitting still
To W more than Royal Will.
And what Condition can be worse ?
He comes to drain a Beggar's Purse:
He comes to tie our Chains on fafter,
And fhew us England is our Master :
Careffing Knaves, and Dunces wooing,
To make them work their own undoing.
What has he elfe to bait his Traps,
Or bring his Vermin in, but Scraps?
The Offals of a Church diftreft,
A hungry Vicarage at best;
Or, fome remote inferior Post,
With Forty Pounds a Year at most.
But, here again you interpofe :
Your favourite Lord is none of thofe,
Who owe their Virtues to their Stations,
And Characters to Dedications:
For keep him in, or turn him out,
His Learning none will call in Doubt:
His Learning, though a Poet faid it,
Before a Play, would lofe no Credit:
Nor PORE wou'd dare deny him Wit,
Although to praife it PHILLIPS writ.
I own, he hates an Action bafe,
His Virtues battling with his Place;
Nor wants a nice difcerning Spirit,
Betwixt a true and fpurious Merit:
Can fometimes drop a Voter's Claim,
And give up Party to his Fame.
I do the most that Friendship can;
I hate the Vice Roy, love the Man.
But, you, who till your Fortune's made
Must be a Sweet'ner by your Trade,
Shou'd fwear he never meant us ill;
We fuffer fore against his Will;
That, if we could but fee his Heart,
He wou'd have chose a milder Part:
We rather fhould lament his Cafe,
Who must obey, or lofe his Place.
Since this Reflection flipt your Pen,
Infert it when you write agen:
And, to illuftrate it, produce
This Simile for his Excufe.
"So, to destroy a guilty Land,
"An Angel fent by Heav'n's Command,
While he obeys Almighty Will,
"Perhaps, may feel Compassion still;
"And with the Task had been affign'd
"To Spirits of lefs gentle Kind."
But I, in Politicks grown old,
Whofe Thoughts are of a diff'rent Mold,
Who, from my Soul, fincerely haté
Both Courts and Minifters of State:
Who look on Courts with ftricter Eyes,
To fee the Seeds of Vice arife,
Can lend you an Allufion fitter,
Though flattering Knaves may call it bitter :
Which, if you durft but give it Place,
Would fhew you many a Statesman's Face.
Fresh from the Tripod of Apollo,
I had it in the Words that follow.
(Take Notice, to avoid Offence,
I here except His Excellence.)
So, to effect his Monarch's Ends,
From Hell a Viceroy Dev'l afcends,
His Budget with Corruptions cramm'd,
The Contributions of the Damn'd;
Which with unfparing Hand, he ftrow's
Through Courts and Senates as he goes;
And then at Beelzebub's Black-Hall,
Complains his Budget was too small.
Your Simile may better fhine-
In Verfe; but there is Truth in mine.
For, no imaginable Things
Can differ more than GODS and KINGS,
And Statefmen, by ten Thousand Odds,
Are ANGELS juft as KINGS are GODS.
It was thefe Verfes that chiefly prevailed upon Mr. Savage to retire, who had much Blame to lay upon himfelf; for had he taken a Pen and fumm'd up the Money he had received from the World for his Writings, his Penfions, for his Benefits and Bounties,
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