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cannot afford to part with any thing; and such a want of virtue, as to postpone it to a jest.

Such writers encourage vice and folly, which they pretend to combat, by setting them on an equal foot with better things: and while they labour to bring every thing into contempt, how can they expect their own parts should escape ? Some French writers particularly, are guilty of this in matters of the last consequence; and some of our own. They that are for lessening the true dignity of mankind, are not sure of being successful, but with regard to one individual in it. It is this conduct that justly makes a wit a term of reproach.

Which puts me in mind of Plato's fable of the birth of love; one of the prettiest fables of all antiquity; which will hold likewise with regard to modern poetry. Love, says he, is the son of the goddess poverty, and the god of riches : he has from his father his daring genius ; his elevation of thought; his building castles in the air ; his prodigality; his neglect of things serious and useful; his vain opinion of his own merit; and his affectation of preference and distinction: from his mother he inherits his indigence, which makes him a constant beggar of favours ; that importunity with which he begs ; his flattery; his servility; his fear of being despised, which is inseparable from him. This addition may be made ; viz., that poetry, like love, is a little subject to blindness, which makes her mistake her way to preferments and honours; that she has her sa

tirical quiver; and, lastly, that she retains a dutiful admiration of her father's family; but divides her favours, and generally lives with her mother's relations.

However, this is not necessity, but choice : were wisdom her governess, she might have much more of the father than the mother; especially in such an age as this, which shows a due passion for her charms.

SATIRE I.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF DORSET

Tanto major famæ sitis est, quam
Virtutis.

JUV. SAT. X.

My verse is satire; Dorset, lend your ear,
And patronize a muse you cannot fear.
To poets sacred 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 applause to Blackmore, or to me.
But
you

decline the mistress we pursue ; Others are fond of fame, but fame of

you. Instructive satire, true to virtue's cause ! Thou shining supplement of public laws ! When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age Reproach our silence, and demand our rage;

When purchas'd follies, from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the law shows her teeth, but dares not bite,
And south sea treasures are not brought to light;
When churchmen scripture for the classics quit,
Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
When dying sinners, to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;
To chafe our spleen, when themes like these increase,
Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?

Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right,
And dedications wash an Æthiop white,
Set
up

each senseless wretch for nature's boast,
On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post?
Shall fun'ral eloquence her colours spread,
And scatter roses on the wealthy dead ?
Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,
And satirize with nothing—but their praise ?

Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train,
Nor hears that virtue, which he loves, complain?
Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead,
And guilt's chief foe, in Addison, is filed;
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won,
Sits smiling 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
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,
The courtly 'Roman's shining path to tread,

1 Horace.

And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?
Will no superior genius snatch the quill,
And save me, on the brink, from writing ill ?
Tho' vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise,
What will not men attempt for sacred praise ?

The love of praise, howe'er conceal’d by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows, in ev'ry heart :
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure ;
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.
O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells;
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells :
'Tis tory, whig ; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades.
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 hearse, and flatters on our tombs.

What is not proud? The pimp is proud to see 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 slaughter, 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 steer, Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear; And when their sins they set sincerely down, They'll find that their religion has been one.

Others with wishful eyes on glory look,

When they have got their picture tow'rds a book;
Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign,
Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.
If at his title Thad dropt his quill,
T might have pass'd for a great genius still.
But T alas! (excuse him, if you can)
Is now a scribbler, who was once a man.
Imperious some a classic 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

restor'd.
Some, for renown, on scraps of learning dote,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
To patch-work learn'd quotations are allied ;
Both strive to make our poverty our pride.

On glass how witty is a noble peer! Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?

Polite diseases make some idiots vain Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see; And (stranger 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 swoln with pride, Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide. What can she not perform ? The love of fame Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blame : Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep : And (stronger still !) made Alexander weep. Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed, Tho' her lov'd lord has four half months been dead.

This passion with a pimple have I seen

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