Meant to inspire the purest flame, 770 A prostitute should ever be To that arch-fiend Hypocrisy, Where we find every other vice Crown'd with damn'd sneaking cowardice! Bold sin reclaim'd is often seen, Past hope that man, who dares be mean. There, full of flesh, and full of grace, With that fine round unmeaning face Which Nature gives to sons of earth Whom she designs for ease and mirth, 780 Should the prim Plausible be seen, Observe his stiff, affected mien; 'Gainst Nature, arm'd by Gravity, His features too in buckle see; See with what sanctity he reads, With what devotion tells his beads! Now, prophet, show me, by thine art, What's the religion of his heart: Show there, if truth thou canst unfold, Religion centred all in gold; 790 Show him, nor fear Correction's rod, As false to friendship, as to God. Horrid, unwieldy, without form. Savage as ocean in a storm, Of size prodigious, in the rear, That post of honour, should appear Pomposo; fame around should tell How he a slave to Interest fell; How, for integrity renown'd, Which booksellers have often found, 800 He for subscribers baits his hook,[237] And takes their cash--but where's the book? No matter where--wise fear, we know, Forbids the robbing of a foe; But what, to serve our private ends, Forbids the cheating of our friends? No man alive, who would not swear All's safe, and therefore honest there; For, spite of all the learned say, If we to truth attention pay, 810 The word dishonesty is meant For nothing else but punishment. Fame, too, should tell, nor heed the threat Of rogues, who brother rogues abet, Nor tremble at the terrors hung Aloft, to make her hold her tongue, How to all principles untrue, Not fix'd to old friends nor to new, He damns the pension which he takes And loves the Stuart he forsakes. 820 Nature (who, justly regular, Is very seldom known to err, But now and then, in sportive mood, As some rude wits have understood, Or through much work required in haste, Is with a random stroke disgraced) Pomposo, form'd on doubtful plan, Not quite a beast, nor quite a man; Like--God knows what--for never yet Could the most subtle human wit 830 Find out a monster which might be The shadow of a simile. These three, these great, these mighty three,-- Nor can the poet's truth agree, Howe'er report hath done him wrong, And warp'd the purpose of his song, Amongst the refuse of their race, The sons of Infamy, to place That open, generous, manly mind, Which we, with joy, in Aldrich[238] find-- 840 These three, who now are faintly shown, Just sketch'd, and scarcely to be known, If Dulman their request had heard, In stronger colours had appear'd, And friends, though partial, at first view, Shuddering, had own'd the picture true.