How do I laugh, when, with affected air, (Scarce able through despite to keep his chair, 190 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. 200 The wise have not the will, nor fools the power, 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 every 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.' 210 Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school, And there amongst thy brethren 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 ripp'd with steady eye? When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to Truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives. 220 When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot, And e'en by friends thy memory be forgot, Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes, Live in her page, and stink to after-times. Hast thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off pride, And own those passions which thou shalt not hide. Sandwich, who, from the moment of his birth, Made human nature a reproach on earth, Who never dared, nor wish'd, behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness led the way, 230 Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit, Those actions which he blush'd not to commit. Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame. But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course; Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd With courage, graced the science they profess'd; When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood, The bad to punish, and reward the good; 240 When, to a flame by public virtue wrought, The foes of freedom they to justice brought, And dared expose those slaves who dared support A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a Court? Ah! what are poets now? As slavish those Who deal in verse, as those who deal in prose. Is there an Author, search the kingdom round, In whom true worth and real spirit's found? The slaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by Fate To baser chains) vile pensioners of state; 250