_P_. Not so fierce; Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse. But random praise--the task can ne'er be done; Each mother asks it for her booby son, Each widow asks it for 'the best of men,' For him she weeps, and him she weds again. Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground; 110 The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd. Enough for half the greatest of these days, To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise. Are they not rich? what more can they pretend? Dare they to hope a poet for their friend? What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain, And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain. No power the Muse's friendship can command; No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand: To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line; 120 Oh let my country's friends illumine mine! --What are you thinking? _F_. Faith, the thought's no sin-- I think your friends are out, and would be in. _P_. If merely to come in, sir, they go out, The way they take is strangely round about. _F_. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow? _P_. I only call those knaves who are so now. Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply-- Spirit of Arnall![215] aid me while I lie. Cobham's a coward, Polwarth[216] is a slave, 130 And Lyttleton a dark, designing knave, St John has ever been a wealthy fool-- But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull, Has never made a friend in private life, And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife. But pray, when others praise him, do I blame? Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name? Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine, O all-accomplish'd St John! deck thy shrine? What! shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, 140 When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, Or each new-pension'd sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend? Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt, But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt? Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools; Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said His saws are toothless, and his hatchet's lead. It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, 150 To see a footman kick'd that took his pay: But when he heard the affront the fellow gave, Knew one a man of honour, one a knave, The prudent general turn'd it to a jest, And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the rest: Which not at present having time to do---- _F_. Hold sir! for God's-sake where 'a the affront to you? Against your worship when had Selkirk writ? Or Page pour'd forth the torrent of his wit? Or grant the bard[217] whose distich all commend 160 'In power a servant, out of power a friend,' To Walpole guilty of some venial sin; What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in? The priest whose flattery bedropp'd the crown, How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown. And how did, pray, the florid youth offend, Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?