For Poets open Table kept,
But ne'er confider'd where they flept:
Himself, as rich as fifty Jews,
Was easy, tho' they wanted Shoes;
And, crazy Congreve fcarce could fpare
A Shilling to discharge his Chair;
Till Prudence taught him to appeal
From Paan's Fire to Party Zeal;
Not owing to his happy Vein
The Fortunes of his latter Scene;
Took proper Principles to thrive;
And fo might ev'ry Dunce alive.
THUS, Steel who own'd what others writ,
And flourish'd by imputed Wit,
From Perils of a hundred Jayls,
Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales.
THUS, Gay the Hare with many Friends,
Twice fev'n long Years the Court attends;
Who, under Tales conveying Truth,
To Virtue form'd a ** princely Youth:
Who paid his Courtship with the Crowd,
As far as modeft Pride allow'd;
Rejects a fervile Uber's Place,
And leaves St. James's in Difgrace.
THUS, Addifon, by Lords careft,
Was left in foreign Lands distrest;
** His Royal Highnefs the Duke of CUMBERLAND,
Forgot at home, became for Hire,
A trav'ling Tutor to a Squire.
But, wifely left the Mufes Hill;
To Bus'ness fhap'd the Poet's Quil 1:
Let all his barren Laurels fade;
Took up himself the Courtier's Trade:
And, grown a Minister of State,
Saw Poets at his Levee wait.
HAIL! happy Pope, whofe gen'rous Mind, Detefting all the Statefman Kind!
Contemning Courts, at Courts unseen,
Refus'd the Vifits of a
A Soul with ev'ry Virtue fraught,
By Sages, Priests, or Poets taught:
Whose filial Piety excels
Whatever Grecian Story tells;
A Genius for all Stations fit,
Whofe meanest Talent is his Wit:
His Heart too great, though Fortune little,
To lick a Rafcal Statefman's Spittle;
Appealing to the Nation's Tafte,
Above the Reach of Want is plac❜t :
By Homer dead was taught to thrive,
Which Homer never cou'd alive,
And, fits aloft on Pindus' Head,
Defpifing Slaves that cringe for Bread.
TRUE Politicians only pay
For folid Work, but not for Play;
Nor ever chuse to work with Tools
Forg'd up in Golleges and Schools.
Confider how much more is due
To all their Journeymen, than you,
At Table you can Horace quote;
They at a Pinch can bribe a Vote:
You fhew your Skill in Grecian Story;
But, they can manage Whig and Tory:
You, as a Critick, are so curious
To find a Verse in Virgil fpurious;
But, they can fmoak the deep Designs,
When Bolingbroke with Pult ney dines.
BESIDES; your Patron may upbraid ye,
That you have got a Place already:
An Office for your Talents fit,
To flatter, carve, and fhew your Wit;
To fnuff the Lights, and ftir the Fire.
And get a Dinner for your Hire.
What Claim have you to Place, or Penfion?
He overpays in Condefcenfion.
BUT, Rey'rend Doctor, you, we know,
Cou'd never condefcend fo low:
The Vice-Roy, whom you now attend,
Wou'd, if he durft, be more your Friend;
Nor will in you thofe Gifts defpife,
By which himself was taught to rise:
When he has Virtue to retire,
He'll grieve he did not raife you higher,
And place you in a better Station,
Although it might have pleas'd the Nation.
THIS may be true-fubmitting still
To Wle's more than Royal Will.
And what Condition can be worse?
He comes to drain a Beggar's Purse:
He comes to tye our Chains on faster,
And fhew us, Ed 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 Vermin in, but Scraps?
The Offals of a Church distrest,
A hungry Vicarage at beft;
Or, fome remote inferior Post,
With Forty Pounds a Year at most.
BUT, here again you interpofe:
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, wou'd lofe no Credit:
Nor Pope wou'd dare deny him Wit,
Although to praise it Pbps writ.
I own, he hates an Action base,
His Virtues battling with his Place;
Nor wants a nice difcerning Spirit,
Betwixt a true and fpurious Merit:
Can fometimes drop a Voter's Claim,
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,
Shou'd fwear he never meant us ill;
We fuffer fore against his Will;
That, if we could but fee his Heart,
He wou'd have chose a milder Part:
We rather should lament his Cafe,
Who must obey or lose his Place.
SINCE this Reflection flipt your Pen,
Infert it when you write agen:
And, to illustrate it, produce
This Simile for his Excufe.
"So to destroy a guilty Land, "An Angel fent by Heav'n's Command, "While he obeys Almighty Will,
Perhaps, may feel Compaffion ftill;
"And wish the Task had been affign'd
"To Spirits of lefs gentle Kind.
BUT I, in Politicks grown old,
Whose Thoughts are of a diff'rent Mold,
Who, from my Soul, fincerely hate
Both and Minifters of State:
Who look on Courts with stricter Eyes,
To fee the Seeds of Vice arife,
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