Not Fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool, Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool, Not proud, nor servile;--be one Poet's praise, That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways: 335 That Flatt'ry, ev'n to Kings, he held a shame, And thought a Lie in verse or prose the same. That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long, But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song: That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, 340 He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, The damning critic, half approving wit, The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had, The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; 345 The distant threats of vengeance on his head, The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed; The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft o'erthrown, Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own; The morals blacken'd when the writings scape, 350 The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape; Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread, A friend in exile, or a father, dead; The whisper, that to greatness still too near, Perhaps, yet vibrates on his SOV'REIGN'S ear:-- 355 Welcome for thee, fair _Virtue_! all the past; For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the _last_! A. But why insult the poor, affront the great? P. A knave's a knave, to me, in ev'ry state: Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, 360 _Sporus_ at court, or _Japhet_ in a jail A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer, Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire; If on a Pillory, or near a Throne, He gain his Prince's ear, or lose his own. 365 Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, _Sappho_ can tell you how this man was bit; This dreaded Sat'rist _Dennis_ will confess Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress: So humble, he has knock'd at _Tibbald's_ door, 370 Has drunk with _Cibber_, nay has rhym'd for _Moore_. Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply? Three thousand suns went down on _Welsted's_ lie. To please a Mistress one aspers'd his life; He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife. 375 Let _Budgel_ charge low _Grubstreet_ on his quill, And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will; Let the two _Curlls_ of Town and Court, abuse His father, mother, body, soul, and muse. Yet why? that Father held it for a rule, 380 It was a sin to call our neighbour fool: That harmless Mother thought no wife a whore: Hear this, and spare his family, _James Moore!_ Unspotted names, and memorable long! If there be force in Virtue, or in Song. 385