Still to his int'reft true, where-e'er he goes,
Wit, brav'ry, worth, his lavish tongue bettows;
In ev'ry face a thousand graces fhine,
From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine.
These arts in vain our rugged natives try,
Strain out with fault'ring diffidence a lye,
And gain a kick for aukward flattery.

125

130

Befides, with juftice, this difcerning age Admires their wond'rous talents for the ftage: Well may they venture on the mimick's art, Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part; 135 Practis'd their master'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 jeft they hear, 140 To pour at will the counterfeited tear,

145

And as their patron hints the cold or heat,
To shake in dog-days, in December sweat.
How, when competitors like thefe contend,
Can furly virtue hope to fix a friend ?
Slaves that with ferious 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
He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.
For arts like thefe prefer'd, admir'd, carefs'd,
They first invade your table, then your breast;

150

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

By numbers here from shame or cenfure free,
All crimes are fafe, but hated poverty.
This, only this, the rigid law pursues,

This, only this, provokes the fnarling Mufe.
The fober trader at a tatter'd cloak,
Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;
With brifker air the filken courtiers gaze,

And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.

·

Of all the griefs' that harrafs the diftrefs'd,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jeft;

160

165

Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart,
Than when a blockhead's infult points the dart.
Has heaven referv'd, in pity to the poor,
No pathlefs' wafte, or undiscover'd shore ?

170

No fecret island in the boundless main ?

No peaceful defart yet unclaim'd by SPAIN?
Quick let us rife, the happy feats explore,
And bear oppreffion's infolence no more.

This mournful truth is ev'ry where confefs'd,
SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY

PRESS'D:

175

DE

But here more flow, where all are flaves to gold, Where looks are merchandise, and fmiles are fold; Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, 180 The groom retails the favours of his lord.

But hark! th' affrighted crowd's tumultous cries Roll through the ftreets and thunder to the skies : Rais'd from fome pleafing dream of wealth and power,

Some pompous palace, or fome 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 juft bolts Orgilio's wealth con-
found,

And spread his flaming palace on the ground, 195
Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies,
And publick mournings pacify the skies;
The laureat tribe in servile verse relate,
How virtue wars with perfecuting fate;
With well-feign'd gratitude the penfion'd band zco
Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.
See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,
And crowd with sudden wealth the rifing done;

The price of boroughs and of fouls restore,

And raise his treasures higher than before:

205

Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great,

The polish'd marble, and the fhining plate,

Orgilio fees the golden pile afpire,

And hopes from angry heav'n another fire.

Could't thou refign the park and play content, 210 For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;

There might'st thou find fome elegant retreat,
Some hireling fenator's deferted feat;

And ftretch thy profpects o'er the fmiling land,
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand; 215
There prune thy walks, fupport thy drooping flow'rs,
Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bow'rs;
And, while thy beds a cheap repaft afford,
Defpife the dainties of a venal lord;

There ev'ry bush with nature's mufick rings, 220
There ev'ry breeze bears health upon its wings;
On all thy hours fecurity fhall fmile,

And blefs thy evening walk and morning toil.

Prepare for death, if here at night you roam, And fign your will before you fup from home. 225 Some fiery fop, with new commiffion vain, Who fleeps on brambles till he kills his man; Some frolick drunkard, reeling from a feast, Provokes a broil, and ftabs you for a jest.

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

In vain, thefe dangers pat, your doors you close, And hope the balmy bleffings of repose:

Cruel with guilt, and daring with defpair,
The midnight murd'rer burfts the faithlefs bar;
Invades the facred hour of filent rest,

2.10

And plants, unfeen, a dagger in your breast.
Scarce can our fields, fuch crowds at Tyburn die,
With hemp the gallows and the fleet fupply.
Propofe your schemes, ye fenatorian band,
Whofe ways and means fupport the finking land;
Leit ropes be wanting in the tempting fpring,
To rig another convoy for the k-g.

250

A fingle jail, in ALFRED's golden reign, Could half the nation's criminals contain ; Fair Juftice then, without constraint ador'd, Held high the steady scale, but deep'd the fword; No fpies were paid, no fpecial juries known, Bleft age e! but ah! how diff'rent from our own!

255

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

Thou fly't for refuge to the wilds of Kent;
And, tir'd like me with follies and with crimes,

In angry numbers warn'ft fucceeding times;
Then fhall thy friend, nor thou refufe his aid, 260
Still foe to vice, forfake his Cambrian fhade;

In virtue's cause once more exert his rage,
Thy fatire point, and animate thy page.
C

VOL. II.