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?
Fr.
A Dean, Sir? no; his fortune is not made;
You hurt a man that’s rising in the trade.
Po.
If not the tradesman who set up to-day,
Much less the ’prentice who to-morrow may.
Down, down, proud Satire! tho’ a realm be spoil’d,
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 God) have plums;
Still better, Ministers; or, if the thing
May pinch ev’n there—Why, lay it on a King.
Fr.
Stop! stop!
Po.
Must Satire, then, nor rise nor fall?
Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.
Fr.
Yes, strike that Wild, I’ll justify the blow.
Po.
Strike? why the man was hang’d ten years ago:
* * * * * * * * *
Fr.
The Priest, whose flattery be-dropt 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?
Po.
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, thro’ 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;
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.
Fr.
This filthy simile, this beastly line
Quite turns my stomach—
Po.
So does Flatt’ry mine;
And all your courtly civet-cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
But hear me farther—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,
Th’ affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours.
Mine, as a foe profess’d to false pretence,
Who think a coxcomb’s honour like his sense;
Mine, as a friend to ev’ry worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
Fr.
You’re strangely proud.
Po.
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.
O sacred weapon! left for Truth’s defence,
Sole
