But, sir, I beg you (for the love of vice!) The matter's weighty, pray consider twice; Have you less pity for the needy cheat, The poor and friendless villain, than the great? Alas! the small discredit of a bribe Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe. Then better, sure, it charity becomes To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums; Still better, ministers; or, if the thing 50 May pinch ev'n there--why lay it on a king. _F._ Stop! stop! _P._ Must Satire, then, nor rise nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all. _F._ Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. _P._ Strike! why the man was hanged ten years ago: Who now that obsolete example fears? Ev'n Peter trembles only for his ears. _F._ What, always Peter! Peter thinks you mad, You make men desperate if they once are bad: Else might he take to virtue some years hence 60 _P._ As Selkirk, if he lives, will love the Prince. _F._ Strange spleen to Selkirk! _P._ Do I wrong the man? God knows, I praise a courtier where I can. When I confess, there is who feels for fame, And melts to goodness,[206] need I Scarb'rough[207] name? Pleased, let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove[208] (Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love) The scene, the master, opening to my view, I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew! Ev'n in a bishop I can spy desert; 70 Secker is decent--Rundel has a heart-- Manners with candour are to Benson given-- To Berkeley, every virtue under heaven. But does the court a worthy man remove? That instant, I declare, he has my love: I shun his zenith, court his mild decline; Thus Somers once, and Halifax, were mine. Oft, in the clear, still mirror of retreat, I studied Shrewsbury, the wise and great: Carleton's[209] calm sense, and Stanhope's noble flame, 80 Compared, and knew their generous end the same: How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour! How shined the soul, unconquer'd in the Tower! How can I Pulteney, Chesterfield, forget, While Roman spirit charms, and Attic wit: Argyll,[210] the state's whole thunder born to wield, And shake alike the senate and the field: Or Wyndham,[211] just to freedom and the throne, The master of our passions, and his own. Names, which I long have loved, nor loved in vain, 90 Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with their train: And if yet higher[212] the proud list should end, Still let me say,--No follower, but a friend.[213] Yet think not Friendship only prompts my lays; I follow Virtue; where she shines, I praise: Point she to priest or elder, Whig or Tory, Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory. I never (to my sorrow I declare) Dined with the Man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor.[214] Some, in their choice of friends, (nay, look not grave) 100 Have still a secret bias to a knave: To find an honest man I beat about. And love him, court him, praise him, in or out. _F_. Then why so few commended?