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An office for your talents fit,
To flatter, crave, and shew your wit ;
To snuff the lights and stir the fire,
And get a dinner for your hire.
What claim have you to place or pension ?
He overpays in condescension.
But, rev’rend dolor, you we know Could never condescend so low; The vicc-roy, whom you now attend, Wou’d, if he durst, be more your friend; Nor will in 34u those gifts despise, By which himself was taught to rise: When he has virtue to retire, He'll grieve he did not raise you higher, And place you in a better station, Although it might have pleas’d the nation.
This may be true
be true-submitting still To Walpole's more than royal will; And what condition can be worse ? He comes to drain a beggar's purse; He comes to tie our chains on faiter, And shew us, England is our master : Careffing knaves, and dunces wooing, To make them work their own undoing.
What has he else to bait his traps,
Or bring his vermine in, but scraps ?
The offals of a church distrest;
A hungry vicarage at beft;
Or some remote inferior post
With forty pounds a year at most ?
But here again you interpose;
Your favourite lord is none of those
Who owe their virtues to their stations,
And characters to dedications :
For keep him in, or turn him out,
His learning none will call in doubt;
His learning, though a poet said it
Before a play, would lose no credit;
Nor Pope would dare deny him wit,
Although to praise it Philips writ.
I own, he hates an action base,
His virtues battling with his place ;
Nor wants a nice discerning fpirit
Betwixt a true and spurious merit;
Can sometimes drop a voter's claini,
And give up party to his fame.
I do the most that friendship can;
I hate the vice-roy, love the man.
But you who, till your fortune’s made, Must be a sweet'ner by your trade,
Should swear he never meant us ill;
We suffer fore against his will;
That if we could but see his heart,
He would have chose a milder part :
We rather should lament his case,
Who must obey or lose his place.
Since this reflexion slipt your pen,
Insert it when you write again :
And, to illustrate it, produce
This fimile for his excuse;
“ So to destroy a guilty land « An *angel fent by heav'n's command, " While he obeys almighty will,
Perhaps may feel compassicn still; « And with the task had been assign'd “ To spirits of less gentle kind.”
But I, in politicks grown old, Whose thoughts are of a diff'rent mould, Who from my soul sincerely hate Both ks and ministers of state, Who look on courts with stricter eyes To see the feeds of vice arise,
* So when an angel by divine command.
Can lend you an allusion fitter,
Though flatt’ring knaves may call it bitter;
Which, if you durst but give it place,
Would shew you many a statesman's face:
Fresh from the tripod of Apollo
I had it in the words that follow
(Take notice, to avoid offence,
I here except his excellence).
“ So, to effect his monarch's ends, “ Fron bell a vice-roy devil ascends; “ His budget with corruptions cramm’d, " The contributions of the damn'd; “ Which with unsparing hand he strows
Through courts and senates as he goes ; " And then at Beelzebub's black hall,
Complains his budget was too small.”
Your fimile may better shine
In verse; but there is truth in mine,
For no imaginable things
Can differ more than gods and k
And statesmen by ten thousand odds
Are angels just as k—s are gods.
Janus, on NEW-YEAR's-DAY.
Written in the Year 1729.
TWO-fac'd Janus, god of time !
Phoebus while I rhyme;
To oblige your crony Swift,
Bring our dame a new-year’s-gift :
She has got but half a face;
Fanus, fince thou hast a brace,
To my lady once be kind;
Give her half thy face behind.
God of time, if you be wise,
Look not with your future eyes :
What imports thy forward fight?
Well, if you could lose it quite.
Can you take delight in viewing
This poor isle’s * approaching ruin,
When thy retrospection vast
Sces the glorious ages paft?
Happy nation! were we blind,
Or had only eyes behind.