Who would not swear, when you contrive thus,
That you're don Quixote redivivus?
Beneath, a dry canal there lies,
Which only Winter's rain supplies.
O couldst thou, by some magick spell,
Hither convey St. Patrick's well!
Here may it reassume its stream,
And take a greater Patrick's name!
If your expenses rise so high;
What income can your wants supply?
Yet still your fancy you inherit
A fund of such superiour merit,
That you can't fail of more provision,
All by my lady's kind decision.
For, the more livings you can fish up,
You think you'll sooner be a bishop:
That could not be my lord's intent,
Nor can it answer the event.

Most think what has been heap'd on you
To other sort of folk was due:
Rewards too great for your flim-flams,

Epistles, riddles, epigrams.

Though now your depth must not be sounded, The time was, when you'd have compounded For less than Charley Grattan's school? Five hundred pound a year's no fool!

Take this advice then from your friend,

To your ambition put an end.

Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe,
Before you build and you bestow.
Be modest; nor address your betters
With begging, vain, familiar letters.
A passage may be found *, I've heard,
In some old Greek or Latian bard,
Which says,

"Would crows in silence eat Their offals, or their better meat,

Hor. lib. 1. ep. xvii.

Their generous feeders not provoking
By loud and unharmonious croaking,
They might, unhurt by Envy's claws,
Live on, and stuff to boot their maws.”

A LIBEL

ON THE REVEREND DR. DELANY, AND HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN LORD CARTERET.

1729.

DELUDED mortals, whom the great
Choose for companions tête-à-tête;
Who at their dinners, en famille,
Get leave to sit whene'er you will;
Then boasting tell us where you din'd
And how his lordship was so kind;
How many pleasant things he spoke;
And how you laugh'd at every joke :
Swear he's a most facetious man;
That you and he are cup and can:
You travel with a heavy load,
And quite mistake preferment's road.
Suppose my lord and you alone;
Hint the least interest of your own,
His visage drops, he knits his brow,
He cannot talk of business now:
Or, mention but a vacant post,
He'll turn it off with "Name your toast :”
Nor could the nicest artist paint
A countenance with more constraint.
For, as their appetites to quench,
Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench;
So men of wit, are but a kind
Of pandars to a vicious mind;

Who proper objects must provide
To gratify their lust of pride,

When, wearied with intrigues of state,
They find an idle hour to prate.
Then, shall you dare to ask a place,
You forfeit all your patron's grace,
And disappoint the sole design,
For which he summon'd you to dine.

Thus Congreve spent in writing plays,
And one poor office, half his days:
While Montague, who claim'd the station
To be Mæcenas of the nation,
For poets open table kept,

But ne'er consider'd where they slept :
Himself as rich as fifty Jews,

Was easy, though they wanted shoes;
And crazy Congreve scarce could spare
A shilling to discharge his chair:
Till prudence taught him to appeal
From Pæan's fire to party zeal;
Not owing to his happy vein
The fortunes of his later scene,
Took proper principles to thrive ;
And so might every dunce alive *.

Thus Steele, who own'd what others writ,

And flourish'd by imputed wit,

From perils of a hundred jails,
Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales.

Thus Gay, the hare with many friends,
Twice seven long years the court attends:
Who, under tales conveying truth,
To virtue form'd a princely youth†:

This picture is unfair and overcharged; for the honour of Government, Congreve had several good places conferred on him, and, in the latter part of his days, enjoyed an affluent fortune ; but it was when he had disclaimed authorship, and chose to be considered as a private gentleman, as he told Voltaire. H.

William duke of Cumberland, son to George II. H.

Who paid his courtship with the crowd,
As far as modest pride allow'd;
Rejects a servile usher's place,
And leaves St. James's in disgrace.
Thus Addison, by lords carest,
Was left in foreign lands distrest;
Forgot at home, became for hire
A travelling tutor to a squire:
But wisely left the Muses' hill,
To business shap'd the poet's quill,
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! whose generous mind

Detesting all the statesman kind,
Contemning courts, at courts unseen,
Refus'd the visits of a queen.

A soul with every virtue fraught,
By sages, priests, or poets taught;
Whose filial piety excels

Whatever Grecian story tells;
A genius for all stations fit,
Whose meanest talent is his wit:
His heart too great, though fortune little,
To lick a rascal statesman's spittle;
Appealing to the nation's taste,
Above the reach of want is plac'd:
By Homer dead was taught to thrive,
Which Homer never could alive;
And sits aloft on Pindus' head,
Despising slaves that cringe for bread.
True politicians only pay

For solid work, but not for play:
Nor ever choose to work with tools
Forg'd up in colleges and schools.
Consider 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 show 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 spurious;
But they can smoke the deep designs,
When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines.
Besides, your patron may upbraid ye,
That you have got a place already;
An office for your talents fit,

To flatter, carve, and show 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, reverend doctor, you we know

Could never condescend so low;

The viceroy, whom you now attend,
Would, if he durst, be more your friend;
Nor will in you 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-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 faster,
And show us England is our master:
Caressing 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 s?
The offals of a church distrest;

A hungry vicarage at best;