Howe'er I turn, or wheresoe'er I tread, This giddy world still rattles round my head! I pant for silence e'en in this retreat-- Good Heaven! what demon thunders at the gate? FRIEND. In vain you strive, in this sequester'd nook, To shroud you from an injured friend's rebuke. POET. An injured friend! who challenges the name? If you, what title justifies the claim? Did e'er your heart o'er my affliction grieve, Your interest prop me, or your praise relieve? 10 Or could my wants my soul so far subdue, That in distress she crawl'd for aid to you? But let us grant the indulgence e'er so strong; Display without reserve the imagined wrong: Among your kindred have I kindled strife, Deflower'd your daughter, or debauch'd your wife; Traduced your credit, bubbled you at game; Or soil'd with infamous reproach your name? FRIEND. No: but your cynic vanity (you'll own) Exposed my private counsel to the town. 20 POET. Such fair advice 'twere pity sure to lose: I grant I printed it for public use. FRIEND. Yes, season'd with your own remarks between, Inflamed with so much virulence of spleen That the mild town (to give the devil his due) Ascribed the whole performance to a Jew. POET. Jews, Turks, or Pagans--hallow'd be the mouth That teems with moral zeal and dauntless truth! Prove that my partial strain adopts one lie, No penitent more mortified than I; 30 Not e'en the wretch in shackles doom'd to groan, Beneath the inhuman scoffs of Williamson.[1] FRIEND. Hold--let us see this boasted self-denial-- The vanquish'd knight[2] has triumph'd in his trial. POET. What then? FRIEND. Your own sarcastic verse unsay, That brands him as a trembling runaway. POET.