hanged, but not be crowned.
Enough for half the greatest of these days
To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.
And they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend?
What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wished, but wished in vain.
No power the muse's friendship can command;
No power when virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line;
O let my country's friends illumine mine!
What are you thinking?
F. 'Faith, the thought's no sin:
I think your friends are out, and would be in.
P. If merely to come in, sir, they go out,
The way they take is strangely round about.
F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow?
P. I only call those knaves who are so now.
Is that too little? Come, then, I'll comply--
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave,
And Littelton a dark, designing knave,
St. John has ever been a wealthy fool--
But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull,
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife.
But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they, then, if but a wreath of mine,
Oh, all-accomplished St. John! deck thy shrine?
What? shall each spur-galled hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay,
Or each new-pensioned sycophant, pretend
To break my windows, if I treat a friend?
Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt,
But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools;
Some, if they cannot cut, it may be said
His saws are toothless, and his hatchet's lead.
If angered Turenne, once upon a day,
To see a footman kicked that took his pay:
But when he heard the affront the fellow gave,
Knew one a man of honour, one a knave;
The prudent general turned it to a jest,
And begged, he'd take the pains to kick the rest:
Which not at present having time to do--
F. Hold, sir! for God's sake where's the affront to you?
Against your worship when had S---k writ?
Or P--ge poured forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend
(In power a servant, out of power a friend)
To W---le guilty of some venial sin;
What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?
The priest whose flattery be-dropt the Crown,
How hurt he you? he only stained the gown.
And how did, pray,