User: Can you write me a poem about satire?
Assistant: Sure, here's a poem about satire:
  Are these Things So?
Are these Things So?
published on the following Saturday, 22 November, and a third
enthusiasm and joy, which announced the general frenzy of the
By _Excisemen_, it might now be taken,
And great Sir _Bob_ ride through, and save his Bacon (ll. 6-7).
Close shut my Cottage-Gate, where none pretends
To lift the Latch but Virtue and her Friends;
_Pope_ writes unhurt--but know, 'tis different quite
To beard the lion, and to crush the mite.
Safe may he dash the Statesman in each line,
Those dread his satire, who dare punish mine (p. 15).
author's name.
ARGYLE, the State's whole Thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the Senate and the Field.
 _The Daily Gazetteer_, 22 November 1740. "This Evening will be
 Most of the details in this brief biography, including these
 One of these, _The Man of Taste_, 1735, has sometimes been
 Walpole visited Pope sometime in the summer of 1725. See Pope's
 _The Gentleman's Magazine_, IX, 104.
 It should be noted that the pamphlet is full of typographical
Are these Things So?
_Lusisti Satis, edisti Satis, atque_[A] _bibisti_,
The Second Edition corrected:
With the Addition of Twenty Lines omitted in the
former Impressions.
Bribisti in this Place. Which of the two is the most applicable,
our Querist does not pretend to determine.
Are these Things So?
With great Additions and Corrections.
The first Publication of the following Poem having
been entrusted to the Care of the Printer, it came,
thro' either his Ignorance or Timorousness,
extremely mutilated, and incorrect from the Press.
The twenty last Lines were left out, which made the
Conclusion very abrupt, and in a great measure
destroy'd the Intention, as well as Unity, of the
whole Piece. The Characters of some great
Personages were entirely omitted, and fictitious
Names placed to others, instead of the real ones
inserted by the Author, who was always of Opinion,
that deserved Praise, as well as just Satire,
should disdain a Mask. As to the Pointing, it was
false in almost every Line, and there were many
Words either mis-plac'd or mis-spell'd in almost
every Page. Notwithstanding its appearing under
these many Disadvantages, the Public were pleas'd
to shew their Approbation of it in general, and to
give it such a generous and uncommon Reception,
that a large Number were obliged to be printed off,
to supply the present Demand, before there was
Leisure to restore or correct any thing. The
following Edition was at length undertaken by the
Author Himself, and is entirely agreeable to the
Manuscript which he at first put into the Hands of
Are these Things So?
Dead to the World's each Scene of Pomp or Care,
Wrapp'd up in Apathy to all that's there;
My sole _Ambition_ o'er myself to reign,
My _Avarice_ to make each Hour a Gain;
My _Scorn_--the Threats or Favours of a Crown,
A Prince's Whisper, or a Tyrant's Frown;
My _Pride_--forgetting and to be forgot;
My _Lux'ry_--lolling in my peaceful Grot.
All Rancour, Party, Pique, expung'd my Mind,
Free or to _laugh_ at, or _lament_ Mankind;
Here my calm Hours I with the Wise employ,
And the great _Greek_, or _Roman_ Sage enjoy;
Or, gayly bent, the Mirth-fraught Page peruse,
Or, pensive, keep a _Fast-Day_ with the Muse.
Close shut my Cottage-Gate, where none pretends
To lift the Latch, but Virtue and her Friends;
Tho' pardon me--a Word, Sir, in your Ear,
Once, _long ago_, I think I saw You here.
Yet to the World, all Hermit as I live,
From all its vain Regards a Fugitive;
Still in my Breast my _Country_ claims a Part,
And Love of _Britain_ clings about my Heart:
Then tell me, Sir, for You, 'tis said, best know,
Is She, as Fame reports her, _fall'n so low_?
Is _She_, who for so many Ages rode
_Unquestion'd_ Monarch of the _Water-Flood_;
Whose freighted Barks were hail'd in ev'ry Zone,
And made each _India's_ envy'd Wealth her own;
Protected still by such a Guardian Force,
That were they e'er molested in their Course,
Sure _Vengeance_ on th' Aggressor straight was pour'd,
Unless _Seven-fold_ was for the Wrong restor'd?
Is She now sunk to such _low Degree_,
That _Gaul_ or _Spain_ must _limit_ out her _Sea_?
That She must ask _what Winds_ her Sails shall fill,
And steer by _Bounty_ who once steer'd _at Will_?
Whilst the vast _Navies_ rais'd for her Support,
_Nod_ on the _Main_, or _rot_ before the _Port_;
With Hands _ty'd up_ vain _Menaces_ retail,
Or try by meek _Perswasion_ to prevail?
And is there--_What!_--So many _Millions_ gone,
So _many_,--Heavens! yet nothing, _nothing_ done?
Do then her Pow'rs this drowsy Sabbath keep?
Is there no Trump will rouse 'em from their Sleep?
Are they, quite lost to Empire and Renown,
Bemus'd at Home, or sunk in _foreign Down_?
Or, is it true, what Fame pretends to say,
That You, Sir, are the _Author_ of To-day?
That You're the fatal Cause of _Britain_'s Shame,
The _Spend-thrift_ of her Freedom and her Fame?
That _Albion_'s Sons are, by your Arts, become
That her fam'd S--te, on whose sage Debate,
And _free_ Resolves, depended _Europe_'s Fate,
Now meanly on your Nod _dependent_ sit,
And _Yea_ or _No_ but just as you think fit;
Nay, that the _Chiefs_ of even _Levi's Tribe_,
Bow down to you, the _Converts_ of a _Bribe_?
Whilst our trim _Warriors_, deaf to Honour's Call,
Now wage no War but in the Senate-Hall;
There wait your _Generalissimo_ Command,
To fight _your_ Battles 'gainst the Patriot Band?
And that should One more noble than the rest,
Disdain to truckle to your high Behest,
Speak what he thinks, and freely plead the Cause
Of _Britain's_ Commerce, Liberty, and Laws;
Exert his Pow'r to check Corruption's Swing,
And serve, at _once_, his Country and his King,
His _dang'rous_ Virtues are discarded straight,
As sure as they are Vertues of your Hate;
Stripp'd of all Honour, Dignity, and Rule,
To cloath some _Kindred_ Oaf, or _Titled_ Tool.
Or should a brave and honest _Adm'ral_ dare
To make one Conquest tho' in Time of War,
Without _your Leave_ to risk a vig'rous Blow,
And shew what _Britons_, if they _might_, could do,
Whilst ev'ry raptur'd Voice resounds his Praise,
And grateful Hands triumphal Columns raise,
Your venal Scribes are order'd all they can
To _lessen_ and _prophane_ the _godlike Man_.
That thus the _Fountain_ of _Britannia's_ Health,
Polluted by your _all-corrupting_ Hand,
With rank Infection deluges the Land;
Parent at once of _Want_ and _Luxury_,
Of open Rapine and dark Treachery;
The Knaves _Elixir_, and the Just Man's _Bane_,
Pouring on those who once in _Goshen_ dwelt;
And _worse_ than _Israel's heaviest_ Task inflicts
Tho' _gone_ our _Straw_ yet claiming _double Bricks_
Whilst _Commerce_ flies before th' oppressive Weight,
And seeks in _Gaul_ a more indulgent Fate;
Where, Shame to _Britain_! the fair Stranger Guest
Is hail'd with Raptures, and her _Wrongs_ redress'd.
"What then?" I'm told you say, "we nothing lose,
"If they've our Commerce we've their wooden Shoes;
"And since our _Merchants_ are so _fancy_ grown,
"'Tis Time to pull _sturdy Beggars_ down;
"They mutiny'd for _War_, and _War_ they have,
"But _such a one_ that soon a _Peace_ they'll crave;
"_Peace_ shall be Theirs, but _such a Peace_, that then
"They'll curse their Prayers and wish for War again;
"Thus pois'ning to 'em what they ask as best,
"I'll ruin 'em by _granting_ their Request.
Are these Things so? Or is it Fiction all?
A _sland'rous Picture_ drawn in Soot and Gall?
Of Those who _want_ or who have _lost_ a _Place_?
If so, why lives the Scandal? up for Shame,
Confront your Foes, and vindicate your Fame;
For, trust me Sir, to wink at such Offence,
Rather proclaims a _Fear_ than _Innocence_;
"No one is guilty 'till he's guilty prou'd----
Come then, be this wild Clamour strait remov'd;
In _conscious Justice_ cloath'd assert your Right,
Shake off this Load of Obloquy and Spite,
Like _Samuel_ dauntless cry, _Lo here I am_!
"Witness against me if I'm ought to blame.
"Whose _Rights_ or _Honours_ have I ta'en away?
"Whom, speak, have I _defrauded_ or _oppress_'d,
"Or ever pilfer'd _Forage_ from whose Beast?
"Of what vile _Contract_ was I e'er the Scribe,
"Or of whose Hands have I receiv'd a _Bribe_?
"What _Scheme_ did ever I at Home propose
"But whence some _nameless_ Profit would have rose?
"But such as _Britain_'s Se--e did applaud?
"What of my _Country_'s Money e'er bestow'd
"Except in _secret Service_ for her Good?
"Or what _Incumbrance_ on her _Commerce_ laid,
"But for th' Increase of _our_ Revenues made?
"In my dear Country's Service now _grown gray_
"_Spotless_ I've walk'd before you to this Day
"My Thoughts laid out my precious Time all spent
"In the hard _Slavery_ of _Government_;
"My Brother too the _fruitless_ Bondage shares,
"And all your _Peace_ is owing to his Cares,
"Girding his Loins he Travels far and near
"And brings home some _rare Treaty_ ev'ry Year.
"You have my Sons too with you who bow down
"Beneath the weighty Service of the Crown;
"My Cousins and their Cousins too--hard Fate!
"Are _loaded_ with the Offices of State;
"And not _one Soul_ of all my Kindred's free
"From _sharing_ in the Public Drudgery:
"Why then these Shafts of Calumny you throw,
"This groundless _Odium_ cast on all I do?
"Speak out with Freedom what you have to say,
"Aside all _Influence_, _Pow'r_, and _Skreen_ I lay,  }
"And put my Conduct on the Proof To-day.              }
This Sir, if you dare stand the Inquest, do,
And then if you've but _Samuel_'s _Answer_ too,
If all this heavy Charge is void of Ground,
And by the _publick Voice_ you're _guiltless_ found,
Resume your Power, with Terrors arm'd go forth,
And blast the Villains that traduc'd your Worth;
Who basely durst your Righteous Course Arraign,
And Soil the Glory's of great _Brunswick_'s Reign.
But if you _know_ your Cause is not the _best_
Know that you have Defrauded and Oppress'd,
That you have ta'en and giv'n many a Bribe,
And of a _wicked Contract_ been the Scribe.
That you _have_ pilfer'd _Forage_ from the Beast,
And with the _Publick Wealth_ your _own_ encreas'd;
That a dire _Scheme_ you laid t' _Excise_ the Land,
And to a vile C--v----n set your Hand;
That you've _Monopoliz'd_ each Post and Place,
To aggrandize your self and _Mushroom_ Race,
That all your Kindred--Brother, Sons, and Cousins,
And for as many _Sidesmen_ as are wanted,
_New Places_ are contriv'd, _new Pensions_ granted.
If you are travell'd in these _crooked_ Ways
With a long Train of black _et Cetera's_;
Whilst the _whole Nation_ loaths your very Name,
And Babes and Sucklings your _Dispraise_ proclaim;
Turn your Eyes inward, on yourself reflect,
Think what you _are_, then what you're to _expect_:
Pass a few Years the _Sisters_ cut your Thread,
And rank you in the Number of the Dead;
But of what _Dead_? not those whose Memory,
Bloom with sweet Savour through Posterity.
Those deathless Worthies, who, as Good as Great,
Or rais'd a fall'n, or prop'd a sinking State;
Or in the breach of Desolation stood,
And for their Country's Welfare pledg'd their Blood.
No! with the _Curs'd_ your Tomb shall foremost stand,
The GAVESTON'S and WOLSEY'S of the Land.
Your Epitaph--_In this foul Grave lies HE_,
_Who dug the grave of_ British _Liberty_.
Since then your Glass has but few Hours to run,
Quit quit the Reins before we're quite undone.
Why should you torture out your Dregs of Life,
In publick Tumult, Infamy and Strife?
To the last gasp maintain a baneful Power
Only to see your Country die before?
If not for _us_--for your _own_ Family,
And as you've made 'em _Great_, pray leave 'em _Free_.
But if there's nothing that can bribe your Will,
From this perverse Propensity to Ill;
If to the Grave you are on Mischeif bent.
By growth in Crimes too harden'd to Repent.
If, whilst _perhaps_ you may, you _won't Retreat_,
Resolv'd the Nations _Ruin_ to compleat,
On _Britain_'s Downfall to erect a Name,
And trust to an _immortal Guilt_ for Fame,
May'nt the _Just Vengeance_ of an injur'd Land,
Thus greatly urg'd, exert a glorious _Stand_?
For though of Freedom, Wealth and Power left bare,
The Plunder'd still have _Tongues_--and they may rear,
Their loud Complaints to reach their _Sovereign's_ Ear,
Lay, with one Voice, their _Wrongs_ before the _Throne_,
Whilst HE whose _Fame_ to both the Poles is known,
All Europe's Arbiter, all Asia's Theme,
Affrick's Delight, America's Supreme;
HE who does still express his Royal Care,
His loving Subjects Injuries to repair;
To their _Addresses_ graciously attends,
And above all their _Liberty_ defends,
And whose sole Business is to nurse the State;
_May_ judge their Cause and, greatly rous'd, command,
The _Staff_ of _Power_ from thy _polluted_ Hand,
And to some _abler Head_ and _better Heart_,
His long _dishonour'd Stewardship_ impart.
Perhaps to Thee! great _Carteret_, who can'st boast.
Talents quite equal to the arduous Post;
A keen Discernment; strong, yet bridled Thought,
One Natures Dow'r, one by just Learning taught:
Calm Fortitude, unwarp'd Integrity,
And Flame divine to keep thy Country Free.
Or to thy Conduct, _Pultney_! whose just Zeal,
Is still exerted for the publick Weal;
Whose boundless Knowledge and distinguish'd Sense,
Flow in full Tides of rapid Eloquence;
And to the native Treasures of whose Mind,
We see form'd Worth, and wide Experience join'd.
With these the darling _Chesterfield_ may sit
An _able_ Partner--if his _rebel Wit_              }
Can to such _Pains_ and _Penalties_ submit.        }
And that fam'd _Caledonian Youth_, whose Morn
Propitious Skies, and Noon-tide Rays adorn,
Who rose so _early_ in his Country's Cause,
Shone, though so Young, _so bright_, that our Applause
Was lock'd in Wonder--gazing Senates hung
On the divine Enchantment of his Tongue;
Hark with what Force he pleads in our Defence!
How just he speaks an injur'd People's Sense!
_Half_ lost to _Britain_ now, He chides his Fate,
For stealing him, _by Titles_, from the State;
Whilst we, lov'd _Polwarth_! with thy Titles _more_,
As might such Virtues to the State restore.
Then too the noble _Cobham_, first of Men!
May leave his Garden for the Camp again;
Call'd, like old Rome's Dictator from the Plough,
To plant once more the Laurel on his Brow.
And Brave _Argile_, who's form'd alike to wield
The Rhet'rick of the Senate and the Field,
So tun'd whose Eloquence, whose Breast so Mann'd,
None can the _Speaker_ or the _Chief_ withstand.
Yet feign Methink's I'd hope that you were clear
From this _high Charge_ that eccho's in my Ear;
Trust that some Demon envious of my Rest
With visionary Wrongs distracts my Breast,
Or that this Blazon of enormous Crimes
Springs from the wanton Licence of the Times.
Therefore I put this _Question_ to your Heart,----
Speak, Culprit--_Are you Guilty_? Nay, don't Start,
This is a Question all have right to ask,
To answer it with _Honour_ is your Task;
That, If you dare unbosom, I expect,
Till when, _I'm Yours, Sir, with all_ due _Respect_.
Are these Things So?
Are these Things So?
in His GROTTO.
By the Author of _Are these Things So?_
Are these Things So?
_E.M._ HAIL blest _Elizium_! sweet, secure Retreat;
Quiet and Contemplation's sacred Seat!
Here may my Life's last Lamp in Freedom burn,
Nor live to light my Country to her Urn:
Die 'ere that huge _Leviathan_ of State
Shall swallow all.--Who thunders at my Gate!
See _John_--But hah! what Tempest shakes my Cell?
Whence these big Drops that Ooze from ev'ry Shell?
From this obdurate Rock whence flow those Tears?
Sure some _Ill Power_'s at hand--Soft! it appears.
_E. M._ What's That approaches, _John_? _J._ Why Sir, 'tis He.
_E. M._ What He? _J._ Why He Himself, Sir; the _great_ HE.
Must I fall prostrate at your Feet? Or how--
I've heard the _Dean_, but never saw him _Bow_.
_G. M._ Hoh! hoh! you make me laugh. _E. M._ So _Nero_ play'd,
Whilst _Rome_ was by his Flames in Ashes laid.
_G. M._ Well, solemn Sir, I'm come, if you think fit,
To solve your Question. _E. M._ Bless me! pray, Sir, sit.
_G. M._ The Door! _E. M._ No Matter, Sir, my Door won't shut:
Stay here, _John_; we've no _Secrets_. _G. M._ Surly Put!
How restiff still! but I have _what_ will win him
Before we part, or else the Devil's in him.
_E. M._ I wait your Pleasure, Sir. _G. M._ Why _Fame_, you say,
Reports that I'm the Author of To-Day:
I am--But not the Day that you describe,
Black with imagin'd Ills--Your Patriot Tribe,
Those growling, restless, factious Malecontents,
Who blast all Schemes, and rail at all Events;
Whom Ministers, nor Kings, nor Gods can please;
Whose Rage my Ruin only can appease;
That motley Crew, the Scum of ev'ry Sect,
Who'd fain destroy, because they can't direct;
Is _Gazetteer_ Abuse. _G. M._ These Miscreants dire
Apply the Torch themselves, then cry out Fire;
They falsly represent the Nation's State.
Go forth, and see if _Britain_'s fall'n _so low_;
Fly to her Coasts, and mark the glorious _Show_:
You'd think old _Neptune_'s Self kept Holiday:
These shall protect our Commerce, scour the Main,
The Honour of the _British_ Flag maintain;
Pour the avenging Thunder on the Foe,                          }
And--_E. M._ Mighty well; but when are they to go?             }
_G. M._ When? Psha! why look'ee, Sir, that _Time_ will show. }
Next view the martial Guardians of the Land:
Lo! her gay Warriors redden all the Strand:
_Cockade_ behind _Cockade_, each Entrance keep,
Whilst in their Sheaths ten thousand Falchions _sleep_.
_E. M._ But, Sir, 'tis urg'd that these are needless quite,
Kept only for Review, and not for Fight:
That Fleets are _Britain_'s Safety--_G. M._ Stupid Elves!
Why these, Sir, are to _save you_ from _yourselves_:
Ye're prone, ye're prone to murmur and rebel,
And when mild Methods fail, we must compel:
Besides, consider Sir, _th' Election_'s near--
_G. M._ Ay,--I shall answer all the rest as well.
_E. M._ I doubt it not. _G. M._ On _Se--s_ next you fell:
Fie! that was paw--_Se--s_ are _sacred_ Things,
And _no more_ capable of _Ill_ than--_Kings_.
_E. M._ 'Tis granted. _G. M._ Yet at them your Gall is spit;
You're told they _Yea_ and _No_ as I think fit;
And that if some brave _One_ Rebellious prov'd,
From his Lord's Banquet he was strait remov'd;
Cast into utter Darkness, like the Guest,
Who was not in a _Wedding Garment_ Dress'd.
Well, What of that? should not the _Blind_ be led?
Should not so vast a _Body_ have a _Head_?
And if _one Finger's gangreen'd_, sure 'tis best
To lop it off 'ere it infect the rest.
_Free_ P----ts! mere stuff--What would be done?
Let loose, five hundred diff'rent Ways they'd run;
They'd Cavil, Jarr, Dispute, O'return, Project,
And the great Bus'ness of _Supply_ Neglect;
On _Grievances_, not _Ways_ and _Means_ would go;
Nor one round _Vote of Credit_ e're bestow:
The _sinking Fund_ would _strangely_ be apply'd,
And _secret service Money_ quite denied:
Whilst _Soap_ and _Candles_ we _untax_'d should rue,
And _Salt_ itself would lose it's _Savour_ too:
Ev'n _Gin_ would then be drank without controul,
And the poor _civil List_ be ne're _lick'd whole_.
Down go all _Pensioners_, all _Placemen_ down.
Those lov'd and trusty Servants of the Crown,
Who're always ready at their Chief's Command,
Would have no _Vote_ to save the _sinking_ Land:
Ev'n _Levy_'s Bench might lose it's sacred _Weight_,
Remov'd, O _sad Translation_! from the State.
Then Pen's like yours would _freely_ vent their Rage,
Whilst loyal _Gazetteer_'s, tho' ne're so witty,
No more might chasten the Rebellious _City_:
No more sage _Freeman_ trumpet out my Fame,
Nor _unstamp'd Farthing-Posts_ my worth proclaim.
_E. M._ Indeed--such dire _Calamities_ attend!
O worse, Sir, worse--Heav'n knows where it might end.
Perhaps _Ourself_ and our dear _Brother_ too,
No longer might our Country's Business do--
_E. M._ That, Sir, you've done already--rather, then,
_Your_ Business would be done. _G. M._ Ungrateful Men!
We that have serv'd you at such vast Expence,              }
And gone thro' thick and thin. _E. M._ There's no Defence, }
Would serve your Purpose--Hence, then, good Sirs, Hence;   }
Fly, for the Evil Days at Hand, Pray fly--
_G. M._ What leave my Country to be _lost_?--Not I;
The Danger's yet but in Imagination,
I hope one _Seven Years more_ to _save_ the Nation.
In vain you Patriot Oafs pronounce my Fall,
Like the great LAUREAT, _S'Blood I'll stand you all_.
What tho' you've made the _People_ loath my Name,
I live not on such slender Food as Fame;
And yet that _People_'s _mine_--My Will obey,   }
Implicit Bow beneath my sovereign Sway,         }
Whilst these my _Messengers_ prepare my Way;    }
These all your Slanders will at Sight refute,
They're sterling Evidence which none dispute.
For these, Content, or to be Damn'd or Sav'd--
_E. M._--Nay if they will, why let 'em be enslav'd:
If they will barter all that's Good and Great,
For present Pelf, nor Mind their future State;
If none Thy baleful Influence will withstand,
Go forth, _Corruption_, Lord it o'er the Land;
If they are Thine for better and for worse,
On Them and on their Children light the Curse.
_G. M._ _Corruption_, Sir!--pray use a milder Term;
'Tis only a Memento to be _firm_;
The Times are greatly alter'd--Years ago,
A Man would blush the World his _Price_ should know:
Scruple to own his _Voice_ was to be bought;
And meanly minded what the Million thought;
Our Age more _Prudent_, and _Sincere_ is grown,
The Hire they _wisely_ take, they _bravely_ own;
Laugh at the Fool, who let's his _Conscience_ stand,
To barr his Passage to the promis'd Land;
Or, sway'd by Prejudice, or puny Pride,
Thinks _Right_ and _Int'rest_ of a different Side.
_E. M._ _O Nation_ lost to Honour and to Shame!
So, then, Corruption now has chang'd its Name:
And what was once a paultry _Bribe_, to Day
Is gently stil'd an _Honourable_ Pay.
Blessings on that great Genius who has wrought
This strange Conversion--Who has bravely bought
Our Liberty from Virtue--Pray go on.
_G. M._ Of Commerce next you talk--pretend 'tis gone,
To _Foreign_ Climes--_Amen_, for what I care,
Perdition on the Merchants--They must dare!
To thwart my Purpose--I detest them--_E. M._ How!
_G. M._ Yes--And I think I'm _even_ with 'em now.
They would not be _convention'd_, nor _excis'd_,
But they shall feel the Scourge themselves advis'd;
They shall be swingingly _bewarr'd_, I'll swear;
And since they'd not my _little Finger_ bear,
My _Loins_ shall press 'em 'till they guilty plead,
Their _Purse_, which makes them proud and insolent,
A trav'ling with their Commerce shall be sent--
_E. M._ Take Care they don't send _you_ a trav'ling first;
_G. M._ No, Sir, I dare 'em now to do their Worst.
_Seven Sessions_ more I am at least secure--
_E. M._ Nay then you'll crush 'em quite?--But are you sure,
There is a _Spirit_, Sir? _G. M._ What Spirit pray?
A _Spirit_ that the _Treasury_ can't lay.
_E. M._ I'm answer'd Sir,--_G. M._ Next, Friend, one Word about
Those spiteful Innuendoes you throw out,
That squint at _Contracts_, _Forage_, and what not,
'Tis _more_ than Time that those Things were forgot.
You should not link the _present_ with the _past_--
_E. M._ Yes when they make one _glorious Whole_ at last;
When, tho' _Times differ_, _Actions_ still _agree_,
And what Men _were_ they _are_--What they _will_ be,
We safely may pronounce--_G. M._ Well, Sir, but why
On my dear Family and Friends this Cry?
Suppose they've Places, Wealth, and Titles too,
_Merit_ like Ours should surely have its _Due_.
That _squaemish_ Steward's of all Fools the worst,
That lays not up for his _own Houshold_ first;
Nor takes a _proper_ Care of those _staunch_ Friends,
By whose _good Services_ he gains his Ends.
Besides, who'd drudge the _Mill-Horse_ of the State;
Curst by the Vulgar, envy'd by the Great;
In one fastidious Round of Hurry live,
And join, in Toil, the _Matin_ with the _Eve_;
Be hourly plagu'd 'bout Pensions, Strings, Translations,
Or, worse! that _damn'd Affair_ of _Foreign_ Nations.
Make _War_ and _Treaties_ with alternate Pain:
First sweat to build, then to pull down again.
Who'd cringe at _Levees_, or in _Closets_--Oh!
Stoop to the _rough_ Remonstrance of the _Toe_?
Did not some Genius whisper, "That's the Road
"To Opulence, and Honours bless'd Abode;
"Thus you may aggrandize yourself, and Race;
"_Pension_ this _Knight_, or give that _Peer_ a _Place_."
_E. M._ So _Angria_, Sir, as justly might declare,
He _plunder'd_ only to _enrich_ his _Heir_;
Nor longer would his _Piracies_ pursue,
Than 'till he had _provided_ for his _Crew_.
_G. M._ Your Servant, Sir, I think you're pretty _free_-- }
_E. M._ Why Truth is Truth, Sir, and will out, you see;     }
_G. M._ Yes, s'death! but _couple Angria_ with _me_!
And what you next advise, is canting Stuff.
_Turn my Eyes inward_! not quite so devout;
They've Task sufficient to look sharp _without_:
And should the fatal Sisters cut my Thread
Some _score Years_ hence--I trouble not my Head     }
_Where_ I'm entomb'd, or number'd with _what_ Dead; }
I want no _Grave-Stone_ to promulge my _Fame_,
Nor trust to _breathless Marble_ for a _Name_,
BRITANNIA'S self a _Monument_ shall stand
Of the _bless'd Dowry_ I bequeath my Land:
Her Sons shall hourly my _dear Conduct_ boast;
They _best_ can speak it, who will _feel_ it most.
But if some grateful Verse _must_ grace my Urn,
Attend ye _Gazeteers_--Be this the Turn--
_Weep_, Britons, _weep_--_Beneath this Stone lies He,
Who set your Isle from dire Divisions free,                }
And made your various Factions all agree_.                 }
As for your _may_ and _may_, Sir,--_may be Not_,
Can my _vast Services_ be _There_ forgot?
As for those _lauded Successors_ you name,
If once in Pow'r, they'd act the very _same._
_E. M._ That's Cobweb Sophistry--Did they not fill
The noblest Posts? And had they not, pray, _still_,
But that they greatly scorn'd to _league_ with those,
Who were at once their King's and Country's Foes?
_G. M._ Well, Sir, as there is nothing I can say
Will with your starch'd unbending Temper weigh;
My last _best_ Answer I'll in _Writing_ leave;
Pray mark it--_E. M._ How! May I my Eyes believe?
_G. M._ You may--I thought I should convince you, _E. M._ Yes,
That Fame for once spoke Truth--And as for _This_--
_G. M._ Furies! My _thousand Bank_, Sir, _E. M._ Thus I Tear,
Go, blend, _Corruption_, with _corrupting_ Air.
_G. M._ Amazing Frenzie! Well, if this won't do,
What think you of a _Pension_? _E. M._ As of _You_.
Farewell then Fool--If you'll accept of _Neither_,
You and your _Country_ may be _damn'd_ together.
_Make check or money order payable to_