Y verfe is Satire; Dorfet, lend your ear,
And patronize a Muse you cannot fear.
Το poets facred is a Dorset's name :
Their wonted passport through the gates of fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays :
The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see,
And gives applaufe to Blackmore, or to me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue ;
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.
Inftru&tive Satire, true to virtue's caufe!
Thou shining fupplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our filence, and demand our rage;
When purchas'd follies, from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the Law fhews her teeth, but dares not bite,
And South-fea treasures are not brought to light;
When Churchmen Scripture for the Claffics quit,
Polite apoftates from God's grace to Wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
When dying finners, to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;
To chafe our fpleen, when themes like thefe increase, 25
Shall Panegyrick reign, and Cenfure ceafe?
Shall Poefy, like Law, turn wrong to right,
And dedications wash an Ethiop white,
Set up each fenfeless wretch for nature's boast,
On whom praise fhines, as trophies on a poft?
Shall funeral eloquence her colours spread,
And scatter rofes on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors fmile on fuch illuftrious days,
And fatirife with nothing-but their praife?
Why flumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train, 35 Nor hears that virtue, which he loves, complain? Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead, And guilt's chief foe, in Addison, is fled; Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won, Sits fmiling at the goal, while others run, He will not write; and (more provoking still!) Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will. Doubly distrest, what author shall we find, Difcreetly daring, and feverely kind,
The courtly* Roman's fhining path to tread,
And fharply fmile prevailing folly dead?
Will no fuperior genius fnatch the quill,
And fave me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Though vain the ftrife, I'll strive my voice to raise.
What will not men attempt for facred praise?
The Love of Praife, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or lefs, and glows, in every heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modeft fhun it, but to make it sure.
O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it fwells; 55
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells:
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in Senates, fqueaks in Mafquerades.
Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our bearse, and flatters on our tombs.
What is not proud? The pimp is proud to fee
So many like himself in high degree:
The whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish virtue and the marriage-bed;
And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims born
To flaughter, glories in his gilded horn.
Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
And come back much more guilty than they went :
One way they look, another way they fleer,
Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;
And when their firs they fet fincerely down,
They'll find that their religion has been one.
Others with wishful eyes on glory look,
When they have got their picture towards a book:
Or pompous title, like a gaudy fign,
Meant to betray dull fots to wretched wine.
If at his title T- — had dropt his quill,
might have pafs'd for a great genius ftill.
But Talas! (excuse him, if you can)
Is now a fcribbler, who was once a man.
Imperious fome a claffic fame demand,
For heaping up, with a laborious hand,
A waggon-load of meanings for one word,
While A's depos'd, and B with pomp reftor'd.
Some, for renown, on scraps of learning doat,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
To patch-work learn'd quotations are ally'd;
Both strive to make our poverty our pride.
On glass how witty is a noble peer!
Did ever diamond coft a man fo dear?
Polite difeafes make fome ideots vain;
Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we fee:;
And (ftranger still!) of blockheads' flattery;
Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean,
By spitting on your face, to make it clean.
Nor is 't enough all hearts are fwoln with pride,
Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide.
What can she not perform? The Love of Fame
Made bold Alphonfus his Creator blame :
Empedocles hurl'd down the burning cep:
And (ftronger ftill!) made Alexander weep.
Nay, it holds Delia from a fecond bed,
Though her lov'd lord has four half-months been dead. This paffion with a pimple have I seen
Retard a cause, and give a judge the fpleen.
By this infpir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!)
Some lords have learn'd to spell, and fome to knot.
It makes Globose a speaker in the house;
He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.
It makes dear felf on well-bred tongues prevail, 115
And I the little hero of each tale.
Sick with the Love of Fame, what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin ?
My growing fubject seems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.
Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools.
Satire! had I thy Dorfet's force divine,
A knave or fool should perish in each line;
Though for the first all Westminster should plead, 125 And for the last all Gresham intercede.
Begin. Who firft the catalogue fhall grace?
To quality belongs the highest place.
My lord comes forward; forward let him come!
Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room :
He ftands for fame on his forefathers' feet,
By heraldry, prov'd valiant or discreet.
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three descents less wise!
If virtues at his noble hands you crave,
You bid him raise his father's from the grave.
Men should prefs forward in fame's glorious chace;
Nobles look backward, and fo lose the race.
Let high birth triumph! What can be more great? Nothing-but merit in a low estate.
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