If then we turn our Eyes from Words to Fact, Comparing how Men write, with how they act, How many Authors of this Contrast kind In ev'ry Age, and ev'ry Clime we find. Thus scribbling _P----_ who _Peter_ never spares, Feeds on extortious Interest from young Heirs: And whilst he made Old _S--lkerk_'s Bows his Sport, Dawb'd minor Courtiers, of a minor Court. If _Sallust_, _Horace_, _Seneca_, and _He_ Thus in their Morals then so well agree; By what Ingredient is the Difference known? } The Difference only in their Wit is shown, } For all their Cant and Falshood is his own. } He rails at Lies, and yet for half a Crown, Coins and disperses Lies thro' all the Town: Of his own Crimes the Innocent accuses, And those who clubb'd to make him eat, abuses. But whilst such Features in his Works we trace, And Gifts like these his happy Genius grace; Let none his haggard Face, or Mountain Back, The Object of mistaken Satire make; Faults which the best of Men, by Nature curs'd, May chance to share in common with the worst. In Vengeance for his Insults on Mankind, } Let those who blame, some truer Blemish find, } And lash that worse Deformity, his Mind. } Like prudent Foes attack some weaker Part, And make the War upon his Head or Heart. Prove his late Works dishonest as they're dull; } That try'd by Moral or Poetic Rule, } The Verdict must be either Knave or Fool. } [l]Whilst his false _English_, and false Facts combin'd, Betray the double Darkness of his Mind; [m]That Mind so suited to its vile Abode, The Temple so adapted to the God, It seems the Counterpart by Heav'n design'd A Symbol and a Warning to Mankind: As at some Door we find hung out a Sign, Type of the Monster to be found within. From his own Words this Scoundrel let 'em prove Unjust in Hate, incapable of Love; For all the Taste he ever has of Joy, } Is like some yelping Mungril to annoy } And teaze that Passenger he can't destroy. } To cast a Shadow o'er the spotless Fame, Or dye the Cheek of Innocence with Shame; To swell the Breast of Modesty with Care, Or force from Beauty's Eye a secret Tear; And, not by Decency or Honour sway'd, Libel the Living, and asperse the Dead: Prone where he ne'er receiv'd to give Offence, But most averse to Merit and to Sense; Base to his Foe, but baser to his Friend, Lying to blame, and sneering to commend: Defaming those whom all but he must love, And praising those whom none but he approve. Then let him boast that honourable Crime, Of making those who fear not God, fear him; When the great Honour of that Boast is such That Hornets and Mad Dogs may boast as much. Such is th' Injustice of his daily Theme, And such the Lust that breaks his nightly Dream;