'Tis the same rope at different ends they twist; To Dulness Ridpath is as dear as Mist.[272]) Shall I, like Curtins, desperate in my zeal, O'er head and ears plunge for the common weal? 210 Or rob Rome's ancient geese[273] of all their glories, And, cackling, save the monarchy of Tories? Hold--to the minister I more incline; To serve his cause, O queen! is serving thine. And see! thy very gazetteers give o'er, Ev'n Ralph repents, and Henley writes no more. What then remains? Ourself. Still, still remain Cibberian forehead, and Cibberian brain. This brazen brightness, to the squire so dear; This polish'd hardness, that reflects the peer: 220 This arch absurd, that wit and fool delights; This mess, tossed up of Hockley-hole and White's; Where dukes and butchers join to wreathe my crown, At once the bear and fiddle[274] of the town. O born in sin, and forth in folly brought! Works damn'd, or to be damn'd (your father's fault)! Go, purified by flames, ascend the sky, My better and more Christian progeny! Unstain'd, untouch'd, and yet in maiden sheets; While all your smutty sisters walk the streets. 230 Ye shall not beg, like gratis-given Bland,[275] Sent with a pass, and vagrant through the land; Nor sail with Ward[276] to ape-and-monkey climes, Where vile Mundungus trucks for viler rhymes: Not sulphur-tipp'd, emblaze an ale-house fire; Not wrap up oranges, to pelt your sire! Oh, pass more innocent, in infant state, To the mild limbo of our father Tate:[277] Or peaceably forgot, at once be blest In Shadwell's bosom with eternal rest! 240 Soon to that mass of nonsense to return, Where things destroyed are swept to things unborn. With that, a tear (portentous sign of grace!) Stole from the master of the sevenfold face: And thrice he lifted high the birth-day brand, And thrice he dropp'd it from his quivering hand; Then lights the structure with averted eyes: The rolling smoke involves the sacrifice. The opening clouds disclose each work by turns, Now flames the Cid, and now Perolla burns; 250 Great Caesar roars, and hisses in the fires; King John in silence modestly expires: No merit now the dear Nonjuror claims, Moliere's[278] old stubble in a moment flames. Tears gush'd again, as from pale Priam's eyes When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies. Roused by the light, old Dulness heaved the head, Then snatch'd a sheet of Thule[279] from her bed, Sudden she flies, and whelms it o'er the pyre; Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire. 260