What alley they are nestled in
To flourish o'er a cup of gin:
Find the last garret where they lay,
Or cellar, where they ftarve to-day.
Suppose you had them all trepann'd,
With each a libel in his hand,
What punishment would you inflict?
Or call 'em rogues, or get 'em kickt?
These they have often try'd before;
You but oblige 'em fo much more:
Themselves would be the firft to tell,
To make their trafh the better fell,

You have been libell'd---Let us know, What fool officious told you fo? Will you regard the hawker's cries, Who in his titles always lies? Whate'er the noify scoundrel fays, It might be fomething in your praise : And praise bestow'd in Grub-street rhymes Would vex one more a thousand times, Till criticks blame, and judges praise, The poet cannot claim his bays. On me when dunces are fatirick, I take it for a panegyrick. Hated by fools, and fools to hate, Be that my motto, and my fate.

On

An Imitation of Petronius.

Somnia quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, etc.

TH

HOSE dreams, that on the filent night intrude,

And with falfe flitting fhades our minds delude,

Jove never fends us downward from the fkies; Nor can they from infernal mansions rife; But are all meer productions of the brain, And fools confult interpreters in vain.

For, when in bed we reft our weary limbs, The mind unburthen'd fports in various whims;

The bufy head with mimick art runs o'er The scenes and actions of the day before.

The drowfy tyrant, by his minions led, To regal rage devotes fome patriot's head. With equal terrors, not with equal guilt, The murd'rer dreams of all the blood he fpilt.

The foldier fmiling hears the widow's cries,

And ftabs the fon before the mother's eyes. With like remorfe his brother of the trade, The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade.

The

The statesman rakes the town to find a

plot,

And dreams of forfeitures by treafon got. Nor lefs Tom-t--d-man of true statesman mold

Collects the city filth in fearch of gold. Orphans around his bed the lawyer fees, And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's fees.

His fellow pick-purfe, watching for a job, Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob.

The kind phyfician grants the husband's pray❜rs,

Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs. The fleeping hangman ties the fatal noose, Nor unfuccessful waits for dead mens fhoes. The grave divine with knotty points

perplext,

As if he was awake, nods o'er his text: While the fly mountebank attends his trade, Harangues the rabble, and is better paid. The hireling fenator of modern days Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praife:

And Dick the scavenger with equal grace Flirts from his cart the mud in 's face.

To

Vifiting me in my sickness, October 1727.

PALLA

ALLAS, obferving Stella's wit
Was more than for her fex was fit,
And that her beauty foon or late
Might breed confufion in the ftate,
In high concern for human-kind,
Fixt honour in her infant mind.

But, (not in wranglings to engage
With fuch a ftupid vicious age)
If honour I would here define,
It answers faith in things divine.
As natʼral life the body warms,
And, scholars teach, the foul informs;
So honour animates the whole,

And is the spirit of the foul.

Those num'rous virtues, which the tribe

Of tedious moralifts describe,

And by fuch various titles call,

True honour comprehends them all.
Let melancholy rule fupreme,
Choler prefide, or blood, or phlegm,
It makes no diff'rence in the cafe,
Nor is complexion honour's place.
But, left we fhould for honour take
The drunken quarrels of a rake;

Or

Or think it seated in a scar,
Or on a proud triumphal car,
Or in the payment of a debt
We lose with sharpers at picquet;
Or when a whore in her vocation
Keeps punctual to an affignation;
Or that on which his lordship swears,
When vulgar knaves wou'd lose their ears;
Let Stella's fair example preach
A leffon, fhe alone can teach.

In points of honour to be try'd
All paffions must be laid afide:
Afk no advice, but think alone;
Suppose the queftion not your own :
How fhall I act? is not the cafe ;
But how wou'd Brutus in my place?
In fuch a cafe wou'd Cato bleed?
And how wou'd Socrates proceed?

Drive all objections from your mind,
Elfe you relapse to human-kind;
Ambition, avarice, and luft,

And factious rage, and breach of trust,
And flatt'ry tipt with nauseous fleer,
And guilty fhame, and fervile fear,
Envy, and cruelty, and pride,
Will in your tainted heart prefide,
Heroes and heroines of old
By honour only were enroll'd

Among