_F_. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still, Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille, Abuse the city's best good men in metre, And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter. 40 Even those you touch not, hate you. _P_. What should ail them? _F_. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam: The fewer still you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score. _P_. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie; Ridotta sips and dances, till she see The doubling lustres dance as fast as she; F---- loves the Senate, Hockley-hole his brother, Like in all else, as one egg to another. 50 I love to pour out all myself, as plain As downright Shippen,[124] or as old Montaigne: In them, as certain to be loved as seen, The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within; In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, Will prove at least the medium must be clear. In this impartial glass, my Muse intends Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends; Publish the present age; but, where my text Is vice too high, reserve it for the next: 60 My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And every friend the less lament my fate, My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you will, Papist or Protestant, or both between, Like good Erasmus, in an honest mean, In moderation placing all my glory, While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet; 70 I only wear it in a land of hectors, Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors. Save but our army! and let Jove incrust Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust! Peace is my dear delight--not Fleury's more: But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song. 80 Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage, Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page. From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, Pox'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate. Its proper power to hurt, each creature feels; Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels; 'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug; And no man wonders he's not stung by pug. So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat, They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat. 90 Then, learnèd sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at court, Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, Attends to gild the evening of my day, Or death's black wing already be display'd, To wrap me in the universal shade; Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the skewer to write: In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee[125] or Budgell,[126] I will rhyme and print. 100