If Blount dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man, But shall a printer, weary of his life, Learn from their books to hang himself and wife? 'Tis just alike to Virtue and to me; 125 130 135 Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, 140 She's still the same belov'd contented thing. Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head, Old England's Genius, rough with many a scar, 150 155 Hear her black trumpet thro' the land proclaim, 160 In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in pow'r, Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain) 165 170 DIALOGUE II. F. 'TIS all a libel....Paxton, Sir, will say. P. Not yet, my friend! to-morrow, faith, it may; And for that very cause I print to-day. How should I fret to mangle ev'ry line In rev'rence to the sins of Thirty-nine? Vice with such giant strides comes on amain, Invention strives to be before in vain ; Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong, Some rising genius sins up to my song. F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; 10 Ev'n Guthry saves half Newgate by a dash. Spare then the person, and expose the vice. P. How, Sir! not damn the sharper, but the dice? Ye tradesmen, vile in army, court, or hall! F. Scandal! name them, who? P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. Who starv'd a sister, who forswore a debt, I never nam'd; the town's inquiring yet. 20 The poisoning dame.....F. You mean....P. I don't.... F. You do. P. See now I keep the secret, and not you! The bribing statesman....F. Hold, too high you go. P. The brib'd elector.... F. There you stoop too low. P. I fain would please you if I knew with what : Tell me which knave is lawful game, which not. 27 Must great offenders, once escap'd the crown, Like royal harts be never more run down? Admit your law to spare the knight requires, As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires? Suppose I censure....you know what I mean.... To save a bishop may I name a dean? F. A dean, Sir? no: his fortune is not made; You hurt a man that's rising in the trade. 30 35 P. If not the tradesman who sets up to-day, Much less the 'prentice, who to-morrow may. Down, down, proud Satire! tho' a realm be spoil'd, Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild; Or, if a court or country's made a job, Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob. But, Sir, I beg you (for the love of vice !) The matter's weighty, pray consider twice: Have you less pity for the needy cheat, 40 The poor and friendless villain, than the great? 45 Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe. Then better sure it charity becomes To tax directors, who (thank God!) have plums; Still better ministers, or if the thing May pinch ev'n there....why lay it on a king. P. Must Satire then nor rise nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all. 50 F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years ago: Who now that obsolete example fears? Ev'n Peter trembles only for his ears. 56 F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad: You make them desp'rate if they once are bad, Else might he take to virtue some years hence.... 60 P. As S*****k, if he lives, will love the prince. F. Strange spleen to S*****k! P. Do I wrong the man? God knows I praise a courtier where I can. When I confess there is who feels for fame, And melts to goodness, need I Scarb'row name? Ev'n in a bishop I can spy desert; 65 70 |