Classic Poem

Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave,
Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave,
Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art
Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!
How do I laugh, when, with affected air,
(Scarce able through despite to keep his chair,
Whilst on his trembling lip pale anger speaks,
And the chafed blood flies mounting to his cheeks)
He talks of conscience, which good men secures
From all those evil moments guilt endures,
And seems to laugh at those, who pay regard
To the wild ravings of a frantic bard.
"Satire, whilst envy and ill-humour sway
The mind of man, must always make her way,
Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught,
Is all her malice worth a single thought.
The wise have not the will, nor fools the pow'r
To stop her headstrong course; within the hour,
Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife
Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life.
All things her prey, and ev'ry man her aim,
I can no patent for exemption claim,
Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart
Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart:
Though pointed at myself, be Satire free;
To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me.'

Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school,
And there amongst thy breth'ren play the fool,
There, unrebuked, these wild, vain doctrines preach;
Lives there a man, whom Satire cannot reach?
Lives there a man, who calmly can stand by,
And see his conscience ripped with steady eye?
When Satire flies abroad on falsehood's wing,
Short is her life indeed, and dull her sting;
But when to truth allied, the wound she gives
Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives.
When in the tomb thy pampered flesh shall rot,
And e'en by friends thy mem'ry be forgot,
Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes,
Live in her page, and stink to after-times.