Before it reach'd thy ears, dispersed my prayer; 190 E'en at thy altars whilst I took my stand, The pen of Truth and Honour in my hand, Fate, meditating wrath 'gainst me and mine, Chid my fond zeal, and thwarted my design, Whilst, Hayter[281] brought too quickly to his end, I lost a subject and mankind a friend. Come, Panegyric--bending at thy throne, Thee and thy power my soul is proud to own Be thou my kind protector, thou my guide, And lead me safe through passes yet untried. 200 Broad is the road, nor difficult to find, Which to the house of Satire leads mankind; Narrow and unfrequented are the ways, Scarce found out in an age, which lead to praise. What though no theme I choose of vulgar note, Nor wish to write as brother bards have wrote, So mild, so meek in praising, that they seem Afraid to wake their patrons from a dream; What though a theme I choose, which might demand The nicest touches of a master's hand; 210 Yet, if the inward workings of my soul Deceive me not, I shall attain the goal, And Envy shall behold, in triumph raised, The poet praising, and the patron praised. What patron shall I choose? Shall public voice, Or private knowledge, influence my choice? Shall I prefer the grand retreat of Stowe, Or, seeking patriots, to friend Wildman's[282] go? 'To Wildman's!' cried Discretion, (who had heard, Close standing at my elbow, every word) 220 'To Wildman's! Art thou mad? Canst thou be sure One moment there to have thy head secure? Are they not all, (let observation tell) All mark'd in characters as black as Hell, In Doomsday book, by ministers set down, Who style their pride the honour of the crown? Make no reply--let Reason stand aloof-- Presumptions here must pass as solemn proof. That settled faith, that love which ever springs In the best subjects, for the best of kings, 230 Must not be measured now by what men think, Or say, or do;--by what they eat and drink, Where, and with whom, that question's to be tried, And statesmen are the judges to decide; No juries call'd, or, if call'd, kept in awe; They, facts confess'd, in themselves vest the law. Each dish at Wildman's of sedition smacks; Blasphemy may be gospel at Almacks.'[283] Peace, good Discretion! peace--thy fears are vain; Ne'er will I herd with Wildman's factious train; 240 Never the vengeance of the great incur, Nor, without might, against the mighty stir. If, from long proof, my temper you distrust, Weigh my profession, to my gown be just; Dost thou one parson know so void of grace To pay his court to patrons out of place? If still you doubt (though scarce a doubt remains) Search through my alter'd heart, and try my reins; There, searching, find, nor deem me now in sport, A convert made by Sandwich to the court. 250 Let madmen follow error to the end, I, of mistakes convinced, and proud to mend,