Still to his int'rest true, where-e'er he goes, 125
Wit, brav'ry, worth, his lavish tongue bellows;
In ev'ry face a thousand


Thine, From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine. These arts in vain qur rugged natives try, Strain out with fault'ring dilidence a lye, And gain a kick for aukward Battery.

Befides, with justice, this discerning age Admires their wond'rous talents for the sage: Well may they venture on the mimick's art, Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part; 135 Practis'd their maiter's notions to embrace, Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face ; With ev'ry wild abiurdity comply, And view each object with another's eye ; To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, I to To pour

at will the counterfeited tear, And as their patron hints the cold or heat, To shake in dog-days, in December fiveat. How, when competitors like these contend, Can surly virtue hope to fix a friend? 145 Slaves that with serious impudence beguile, And lye without a blush, without a smile ; Exalt each trifle, ev'ry vice adore, Your taste in snuff, your judgement in a whore ; Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 150 He gropes

his breeches with a monarch's air. For arts like these prefer’d, admir’d, caress’d, They firit invade your table, then your breait ;

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Explore your secrets with insidious art,
Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart; 155
Then soon your ill-plac'd confidence repay,
Commence your lords, and govern or betray.

By numbers here from shame or censure free,
All crimes are safe, but hated poverty.
This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 160
This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse.
The sober trader at a tatter'd eloak,
Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke ;
With briker air the filken courtiers gaze,
And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. 165
Of all the griefs' that harrafs the diftreisid,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jeft;
Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart,
Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.

Has heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor, 170 No pathless'walte, or unciscover'd shore ? No secret island in the boundless main ? No peaceful desart yet unclaim'd by SPAIN? Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, And bear oppreffion's insolence no more. 175

This mournful truth is ev'ry where confess’d, Slow

WORTH, BY PRESS'D: But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold, Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold ; Where won by bribes, by flatteries implorid, 180 The groom retails the favours of his lord.




But hark! th' affrighted crowd's tumultous cries Roll through the streets and thunder to the skies: Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth and

power, Some pompos palace, or some blissful bow'r, 185 Aghaft you start, and scarce with aking fight Sustain th' approaching fire's tremendous light; Swift from pursuing horrors take your way, And leave your little all to flames a prey ; Then thro' the world a wretched vagrant roam, 190 For where can starving merit find a home? In vain your mournful narrative disclose, While all neglect, and most insult your woes. Should heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth con

found, And spread his flaming palace on the ground, 195 Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour fies, And publick mournings pacify the skies; The laureat cribe in servile verse relate, How virtue wars with persecuting fate ; With well-feign'd gratitude the pension’d band 200 Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land. See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come, And crowd with sudden wealth the rising doine ; The price of boroughs and of fouls reftore, And raise his treasures higher than before :

205 Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great, The polith'd marble, and the shining plate,

Orgilio fees the golden pile aspire,
And hopes from angry heav'n another fire.

Could'It thou resign the park and play content, 210
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent ;
There might'st thou find some elegant retreat,
Some hireling senator's deferted feat;
And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land,
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand ; 215
There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flow’rs,
Direct thy rivulets, and cwine thy bow'rs;
And, while thy beds a cheap repast afford,
Despise the dainties of a venal lord;
There ev'ry bush with nature's musick rings, 220
There ev'ry brecze bears health upon its wings;
On all thy hours security shall smile,
And bless thy evening walk and morning toil.

Prepare for death, if here at night you roam,
And fign your will before you sup from home. 225

Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,
Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man;
Some frolick drunkard, reeling from a fealt,
Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.

Yet ev’n these heroes, mischievously gay, 230
Lords of the street, and terrors of the way;
Flush'd as they are with folly, youth and wine,
Their prudent insults to the poor confine ;
Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach,
And fun the shining train, and golden coach. 235


In vain, these dangers paft, your doors you close, And hope the balmy blessings of repose : Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, The midnight murd'rer bursts the faithless bar ; Invades the sacred hour of filent reit,

2.10 And plants, unseen, a dagger in your breat.

Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die, With hemp the gallo:vs and the fleet supply. Propose your schemes, ye fenatorian band, Whose ways and means support the finking land; Leit ropes be wanting in the tempting spring, To rig another convoy for the k-g.

A single jail, in ALFRED's golden reign, Could half the nation's criminals cɔntain ; Fair Justice then, without constraint ador'd,

250 Held high the steady scale, but deep'd the sword ; No spies were paid, no special juries known, Bleft age! but ah! how diff'rent from our own!

Much could I add, but see the boat at hand, The tide retiring, calls me from the land : 255 Farewel !-When youth, and health, and f rtune

spent, Thou Aly' for refuge to the wilds of Kent; And, tir'd like me with follies and with crimes, In angry numbers warn't succeeding times ; Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid, 260 Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian fhade ; In virtue's cause once more exert his rage, Thy fatire point, and animate thy page. VOL. II.


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