Classic Poem

  Pope : Each Mortal has his Pleasure: None deny
Sc [ arsdal ] e his Bottle, D [ art ] y his Ham-Pye;
Ridotta sips and dances, till she see
The doubling Lustres dance as well as she;
[ Fox ] loves the Senate, Hockley-Hole his Brother
Like in all else, as one Egg to another.
I love to pour out all myself, as plain
As downright Shippen , or as old Montagne .
In them, as certain to be lov'd as seen,
The Soul stood forth, nor kept a Thought within;
In me what Spots (for Spots I have) appear,
Will prove at least the medium must be clear.
In this impartial Glass, my Muse intends
Fair to expose myself, my Foes, my Friends;
Publish the present Age, but where my Text
Is Vice too high, reserve it for the next:
My Foes shall wish my Life a longer date,
And ev'ry Friend the less lament my Fate.
 My Head and Heart thus flowing thro' my Quill,
Verse-man or Prose-man, term me which you will,
Papist or Protestant, or both between,
Like good Erasmus in an honest Mean,
In Moderation placing all my Glory,
While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.
 Satire's my Weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run a Muck, and tilt at all I meet;
I only wear it in a Land of Hectors,
Thieves, Supercargoes, Sharpers, and Directors.