An Essay on Man Part 17

F. Why so? if satire knows its time and place You still may lash the greatest-in disgrace: For merit will by turns forsake them all; Would you know when? exactly when they fall.

But let all satire in all changes spare Immortal S--k, and grave De--re.

Silent and soft, as saints remove to heaven, All ties dissolved and every sin forgiven, These may some gentle ministerial wing Receive, and place for ever near a king!

There, where no pa.s.sion, pride, or shame transport, Lulled with the sweet nepenthe of a Court; There, where no father's, brother's, friend's disgrace Once break their rest, or stir them from their place: But past the sense of human miseries, All tears are wiped for ever from all eyes; No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb, Save when they lose a question, or a job.

P. Good Heaven forbid, that I should blast their glory, Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory, And, when three sovereigns died, could scarce be vexed, Considering what a gracious prince was next.

Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings; And at a peer, or peeress, shall I fret, Who starves a sister, or forswears a debt?

Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast; But shall the dignity of vice be lost?

Ye G.o.ds! shall Cibber's son, without rebuke, Swear like a lord, or rich out-rake a duke?

A favourite's porter with his master vie, Be bribed as often, and as often lie?

Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's skill?

Or j.a.phet pocket, like his grace, a will?

Is it for Bond or Peter (paltry things) To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings?

If Blount despatched himself, he played the man, And so may'st thou, ill.u.s.trious Pa.s.seran!

But shall a printer, weary of his life, Learn, from their books, to hang himself and wife?

This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear; Vice thus abused, demands a nation's care; This calls the Church to deprecate our sin, And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin.

Let modest Foster, if he will, excel Ten Metropolitans in preaching well; A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife, Outdo Llandaff in doctrine-yea in life: Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame, Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.

Virtue may choose the high or low degree, 'Tis just alike to virtue, and to me; Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, She's still the same, beloved, contented thing.

Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth, And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth: But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a w***e; Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more; Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess; Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless; In golden chains the willing world she draws, And hers the Gospel is, and hers the laws, Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head, And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead.

Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car Old England's genius, rough with many a scar, Dragged in the dust! his arms hang idly round, His flag inverted trails along the ground!

Our youth, all liveried o'er with foreign gold, Before her dance: behind her crawl the old!

See thronging millions to the PaG.o.d run, And offer country, parent, wife, or son; Hear her black trumpet through the land proclaim That not to be corrupted is the shame.

In soldier, Churchman, patriot, man in power, 'Tis avarice all, ambition is no more!

See, all our n.o.bles begging to be slaves!

See, all our fools aspiring to be knaves!

The wit of cheats, the courage of a w***e, Are what ten thousand envy and adore; All, all look up, with reverential awe, At crimes that 'scape, or triumph o'er the law; While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry- "Nothing is sacred now but villainy."

Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) Show there was one who held it in disdain.

DIALOGUE II.

Fr. 'Tis all a libel-Paxton (sir) will say. } P. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow 'faith it may } And for that very cause I print to-day. } How should I fret to mangle every line, In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine!

Vice with such giant strides comes on amain, Invention strives to be before in vain; Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong, Some rising genius sins up to my song.

F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; Even Guthry saves half Newgate by a dash.

Spare, then, the person, and expose the vice.

P. How, sir? not d.a.m.n the sharper, but the dice?

Come on, then, satire! general, unconfined, Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind.

Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all!

Ye tradesmen vile, in army, court, or hall, Ye reverend atheists- F. Scandal! name them! who?

P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do.

Who starved a sister, who forswore a debt, I never named; the town's inquiring yet.

The poisoning 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 bribed elector- F. There you stoop too low.

P. I fain would please you, if I knew with what; Tell me, which knave is lawful game, which not?

Must great offenders, once escaped the Crown, Like royal harts, be never more run down?

Admit your law to spare the knight requires, As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires?

Suppose I censure-you know what I mean- To save a bishop, may I name a dean?

F. A dean, sir? no: his fortune is not made; You hurt a man that's rising in the trade.

P. If not the tradesman who set up to-day, Much less the 'prentice who to-morrow may.

Down, down, proud satire! though a realm be spoiled, Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild; Or, if a court or country's made a job, Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob.

But, sir, I beg you (for the love of vice!) The matter's weighty, pray consider twice; Have you less pity for the needy cheat, The poor and friendless villain, than the great?

Alas! the small discredit of a bribe Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.

Then better, sure, it charity becomes To tax directors, who (thank G.o.d!) have plums; Still better, ministers; or, if the thing May pinch even there-why lay it on a king.

F. Stop! stop!

P. Must satire, then, nor rise nor fall?

Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.

F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow.

P. Strike? why the man was hanged ten year ago: Who now that obsolete example fears?

Even Peter trembles only for his ears.

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- P. As S---k, if he lives, will love the prince.

F. Strange spleen to S---k!

P. Do I wrong the man?

G.o.d knows, I praise a courtier where I can.

When I confess, there is who feels for fame, And melts to goodness, need I Scarb'row name?

Please 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!

Even in a bishop I can spy desert; Secker is decent, Rundel has a heart, Manners with candour are to Benson given, To Berkeley, every virtue under Heaven.

But does the Court a worthy man remove?

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: Carleton's calm sense, and Stanhope's n.o.ble flame, Compared, and knew their generous end the same; How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!

How s.h.i.+ned the soul, unconquered in the tower!

How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield forget, While Roman spirit charms, and attic wit: Argyll, 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 pa.s.sions, and his own?

Names, which I long have loved, nor loved in vain, Ranked with their friends, not numbered with their train; And if yet higher the proud list should end, Still let me say: No follower, but a friend.

Yet think not, friends.h.i.+p only prompts my lays; I follow Virtue: where she s.h.i.+nes, I praise: Point she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory, Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory.

I never (to my sorrow, I declare) Dined with the Man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor.

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.

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 b.o.o.by son, Each widow asks it for the best of men, For him she weeps, and him she weds again.

Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground; The number may be hanged, but not be crowned.

Enough for half the greatest of these days To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.

And 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 wished, but wished in vain.

No power the muse's friends.h.i.+p can command; No power when virtue claims it, can withstand: To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line; O let my country's friends illumine mine!

What are you thinking?

F. 'Faith, the thought's no sin: 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 comply- Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie.

Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave, And Littelton a dark, designing 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, besides, a tyrant to his wife.

But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?

Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?

Why rail they, then, if but a wreath of mine, Oh, all-accomplished St. John! deck thy shrine?

What? shall each spur-galled hackney of the day, When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, Or each new-pensioned 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; Some, if they cannot cut, it may be said His saws are toothless, and his hatchet's lead.

If angered Turenne, once upon a day, To see a footman kicked that took his pay: But when he heard the affront the fellow gave, Knew one a man of honour, one a knave; The prudent general turned it to a jest, And begged, he'd take the pains to kick the rest: Which not at present having time to do- F. Hold, sir! for G.o.d's sake where's the affront to you?