'The Dean, if we believe report, Was never ill received at court, Although, ironically grave, He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave; To steal a hint was never known, But what he writ was all his own.' 'Sir, I have heard another story; He was a most confounded Tory, And grew, or he is much belied, Extremely dull, before he died.' 'Can we the Drapier then forget? Is not our nation in his debt? 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!'-- 'He should have left them for his betters; We had a hundred abler men, Nor need depend upon his pen.-- Say what you will about his reading, You never can defend his breeding; Who, in his satires running riot, Could never leave the world in quiet; Attacking, when he took the whim, Court, city, camp,--all one to him.-- But why would he, except he slobbered, Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, Whose counsels aid the sovereign power To save the nation every hour! What scenes of evil he unravels In satires, libels, lying travels, Not sparing his own clergy cloth, But eats into it, like a moth!' 'Perhaps I may allow the Dean Had too much satire in his vein, And seemed determined not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it. Yet malice never was his aim; He lashed the vice, but spared the name. No individual could resent, Where thousands equally were meant: His satire points at no defect, But what all mortals may correct; For he abhorred the senseless tribe Who call it humour when they gibe: He spared a hump or crooked nose, Whose owners set not up for beaux. True genuine dulness moved his pity, Unless it offered to be witty. Those who their ignorance confessed He ne'er offended with a jest; But laughed to hear an idiot quote A verse from Horace learned by rote. Vice, if it e'er can be abashed, Must be or ridiculed, or lashed. If you resent it, who's to blame? He neither knows you, nor your name. Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, Because its owner is a dukel? His friendships, still to few confined, Were always of the middling kind; No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, Who fain would pass for lords indeed: Where titles give no right or power, And peerage is a withered flower; He would have deemed it a disgrace, If such a wretch had known his face. On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, He vented oft his wrath in vain: * * * * * * * squires to market brought, Who sell their souls and * * * * for nought. The * * * * * * * * go joyful back, To rob the church, their tenants rack; Go snacks with * * * * * justices, And keep the peace to pick up fees; In every job to have a share, A gaol or turnpike to repair; And turn * * * * * * * to public roads Commodious to their own abodes.