By the just vengeance of incensed skies, Poor Bishop Judas late repenting dies. The Jews engaged him with a paltry bribe, Amounting hardly to a crown a-tribe; Which though his conscience forced him to restore, (And parsons tell us, no man can do more,) Yet, through despair, of God and man accurst, He lost his bishopric, and hang'd or burst. Those former ages differ'd much from this; Judas betray'd his master with a kiss: But some have kiss'd the gospel fifty times, Whose perjury's the least of all their crimes; Some who can perjure through a two inch-board, Yet keep their bishoprics, and 'scape the cord: Like hemp, which, by a skilful spinster drawn To slender threads, may sometimes pass for lawn. As ancient Judas by transgression fell, And burst asunder ere he went to hell; So could we see a set of new Iscariots Come headlong tumbling from their mitred chariots; Each modern Judas perish like the first, Drop from the tree with all his bowels burst; Who could forbear, that view'd each guilty face, To cry, "Lo! Judas gone to his own place, His habitation let all men forsake, And let his bishopric another take!" AN EPISTLE TO MR. GAY[1] 1731 How could you, Gay, disgrace the Muse's train, To serve a tasteless court twelve years in vain![2] Fain would I think our female friend [3] sincere, Till Bob,[4] the poet's foe, possess'd her ear. Did female virtue e'er so high ascend, To lose an inch of favour for a friend? Say, had the court no better place to choose For triee, than make a dry-nurse of thy Muse? How cheaply had thy liberty been sold, To squire a royal girl of two years old: In leading strings her infant steps to guide, Or with her go-cart amble side by side![5] But princely Douglas,[6] and his glorious dame, Advanced thy fortune, and preserved thy fame. Nor will your nobler gifts be misapplied, When o'er your patron's treasure you preside: The world shall own, his choice was wise and just, For sons of Phoebus never break their trust. Not love of beauty less the heart inflames Of guardian eunuchs to the sultan's dames, Their passions not more impotent and cold, Than those of poets to the lust of gold. With Pæan's purest fire his favourites glow, The dregs will serve to ripen ore below: His meanest work: for, had he thought it fit That wealth should be the appanage of wit, The god of light could ne'er have been so blind To deal it to the worst of human kind. But let me now, for I can do it well, Your conduct in this new employ foretell. And first: to make my observation right, I place a statesman full before my sight, A bloated minister in all his gear, With shameless visage and perfidious leer: Two rows of teeth arm each devouring jaw, And ostrich-like his all-digesting maw. My fancy drags this monster to my view, To shew the world his chief reverse in you. Of loud unmeaning sounds, a rapid flood Rolls from his mouth in plenteous streams of mud; With these the court and senate-house he plies,