Classic Poem

Confess dear Laelius, Pious, Just, and Wise,
Some self-content does in that bosom rise,
When you reflect (as sure you sometimes must)
What Tallents Heaven does to thy Virtue trust;
While with Contempt you view poor human-kind
Weak, willful, Sensual, Passionate and blind;
Amidst these Errours thou art faultless found,
(The Moon takes Lustre from the Darkness round)
Permit me too, a small attendant Star,
To twinkle, tho' in a more distant Sphere,
Small Things with great we Poets oft compare.
With Admiration all your steps I view,
And almost Envy what I can't pursue.
The World must grant (and 'tis no common Fame)
My Courage and my probity the same.
But you, great Lord, to nobler scenes was born,
Your early Youth did Anna's court adorn.
Let Oxford own, let Catalonia tell,
What various victims to your wisdom fell.
Let Vows, or benefits, the Vulgar bind,
Such Ties can never chain th'intrepid mind.
Recorded be that memorable hour,
When, to elude exasperated Pow'r,
With blushless front you durst your Friends betray,
Advise the whole confed'racy to stay,
And brave the danger of th'enquiring day,
While, with sly Courage, you ran brisk away.
By a deserted court with joy reciev'd,
Your projects all admir'd, your Oaths believ'd,
Some Trust obtain'd, of which good use you made
To gain a Pardon where you first betray'd.
But what is Pardon to th'aspiring breast?
You should have been first Minister at least.
Failing of that, forsaken and deprest,
Sure any Soul but Yours had sought for rest!
And mourn'd in shades, far from the publick Eye,
Successless Fraud, and useless Infamy.
And here (My Lord) let all mankind admire
The bold Efforts of unexhausted fire.
You stand the Champion of the People's cause,
And bid the Mob reform defective Laws.
Oh, was your Pow'r like your Intention good,
Your native Land would stream with civil blood.
I own, these glorious schemes I view with pain,
My little Mischiefs to myself seem mean,
My ills are humble tho' my heart is great,
All I can do is flatter, lie, and cheat.
Yet I may say, 'tis plain that you preside
O'er all my morals, and 'tis much my Pride
To tread, with steps unequal, where you guide.
My first Subscribers I have first defam'd,
And when detected never was asham'd:
Rais'd all the Storms I could in private Life,
Whisper'd the Husband to correct the Wife;
Outwitted Lintot in his very trade,
And Charity with infamy repaid:
Yet, while you preach in prose, I scold in Rhimes,
Against th'Injustice of flagitious Times.
You, learned Doctor of the publick Stage,
Give gilded poison to corrupt the Age;
Your poor Toad-eater I, around me scatter
My scurril jests, and gaping Crouds bespatter.
This may seem Envy, to the formal Fools
Who talk of Virtue's bounds, and honour's rules:
We, who with piercing Eyes look Nature through,
We know that all is right in all we do.
Reason's erroneous, honest Instinct right.
Monkeys were made to grin, and Fleas to bite.
Using the Spight by the Creator given,
We only tread the Path that's mark'd by heaven.
And sure with Justice 'tis that we exclaim,
Such wrongs must e'en your Modesty inflame.
While Blockheads Court rewards and honours share,
You, Poet, Patriot, and Philosopher,
No Bills in Pocket, nor no Garter wear.
When I see smoaking on a Booby's board
Fat Ortalans, and Pies of Perigord,
My self am mov'd to high poetick rage
(The Homer, and the Horace of the Age).
Puppies! who have the insolence to dine
With smiling beauties, and with sparkling wine,
While I retire, plagu'd with an Empty Purse,
Eat Brocoli, and kiss my antient Nurse.
But had we flourish'd when stern Henry reign'(d)
Our good Designs had been but ill explain'd;
The Ax had cut your solid Reasoning short,
I, in the Porter's Lodge, been scourg'd at Court,
To better Times kind heaven reserv'd our Bir(th,)
Happy for us that Coxcombs are on Earth.
Mean Spirits seek their Villany to hide,
We shew our venom'd Souls with noble Pride,
And, in bold strokes, have all Mankind defy'd;
Past o'er the bounds that keep Mankind in aw(e,)
And laugh'd at Justice, Gratitude and Law:
While our Admirers stare with dumb surprize
Treason, and Scandal, we monopolize.
Yet this remains our more peculiar boast,
You scape the Block, and I the Whipping-Post.