But had their journal been display'd, And their whole process open laid, What a vast unexhausted field For mirth must such a journal yield! 850 In her own anger strongly charm'd, 'Gainst Hope, 'gainst Fear, by Conscience arm'd, Then had bold Satire made her way, Knights, lords, and dukes, her destined prey. But Prudence--ever sacred name To those who feel not Virtue's flame, Or only feel it, at the best, As the dull dupe of Interest!-- Whisper'd aloud (for this we find A custom current with mankind, 860 So loud to whisper, that each word May all around be plainly heard; And Prudence, sure, would never miss A custom so contrived as this Her candour to secure, yet aim Sure death against another's fame): 'Knights, lords, and dukes!--mad wretch, forbear, Dangers unthought of ambush there; Confine thy rage to weaker slaves, Laugh at small fools, and lash small knaves; 870 But never, helpless, mean, and poor, Rush on, where laws cannot secure; Nor think thyself, mistaken youth! Secure in principles of truth: Truth! why shall every wretch of letters Dare to speak truth against his betters! Let ragged Virtue stand aloof, Nor mutter accents of reproof; Let ragged Wit a mute become, When Wealth and Power would have her dumb; 880 For who the devil doth not know That titles and estates bestow An ample stock, where'er they fall, Of graces which we mental call? Beggars, in every age and nation, Are rogues and fools by situation; The rich and great are understood To be of course both wise and good. Consult, then, Interest more than Pride, Discreetly take the stronger side; 890 Desert, in time, the simple few Who Virtue's barren path pursue; Adopt my maxims--follow me-- To Baal bow the prudent knee; Deny thy God, betray thy friend, At Baal's altars hourly bend, So shalt thou rich and great be seen; To be great now, you must be mean.' Hence, Tempter, to some weaker soul, Which fear and interest control; 900 Vainly thy precepts are address'd Where Virtue steels the steady breast; Through meanness wade to boasted power, Through guilt repeated every hour; What is thy gain, when all is done, What mighty laurels hast thou won? Dull crowds, to whom the heart's unknown, Praise thee for virtues not thine own: But will, at once man's scourge and friend, Impartial Conscience too commend? 910 From her reproaches canst thou fly? Canst thou with worlds her silence buy? Believe it not--her stings shall find A passage to thy coward mind: There shall she fix her sharpest dart; There show thee truly as thou art, Unknown to those by whom thou 'rt prized, Known to thyself to be despised. The man who weds the sacred Muse, Disdains all mercenary views, 920 And he, who Virtue's throne would rear Laughs at the phantoms raised by Fear.