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. Save but our army! and let Jove encrust Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust! Peace is my dear delight--not Fleury's more: But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song. Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page. From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, Plagued by her love, or libelled by her hate. Its proper power to hurt, each creature feels; Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels; 'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug; And no man wonders he's not stung by pug. So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat, They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat. Then, learned sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at Court, Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, Attends to gild the evening of my day, Or death's black wing already be displayed, To wrap me in the universal shade; Whether the darkened room to muse invite, Or whitened wall provoke the skewer to write: In durance, exile, Bedlam or the Mint-- Like Lee or Budgel, I will rhyme and print. F. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be long, In flower of age you perish for a song! Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, Will club their testers, now, to take your life! P. What? armed for virtue when I point the pen, Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men; Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car; Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star; Can there be wanting, to defend her cause, Lights of the Church, or guardians of the laws? Could pensioned Boileau lash in honest strain Flatterers and bigots even in Louis' reign? Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage, Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage? And I not strip the gilding off a knave, Unplaced, unpensioned, no man's heir, or slave? I will, or perish in the generous cause: Hear this, and tremble! you, who 'scape the laws. Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave Shall walk the world, in credit, to his grave. To Virtue only and her friends a friend, The world beside may murmur, or commend. Know, all the distant din that world can keep Rolls o'er my grotto, and but soothes my sleep. There, my retreat the best companions grace, Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place. There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul: And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines, Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain. Envy must own, I live among the great, No pimp of pleasure, and no spy of state.