_E. M._ _O Nation_ lost to Honour and to Shame! So, then, Corruption now has chang'd its Name: And what was once a paultry _Bribe_, to Day Is gently stil'd an _Honourable_ Pay. Blessings on that great Genius who has wrought This strange Conversion--Who has bravely bought Our Liberty from Virtue--Pray go on. _G. M._ Of Commerce next you talk--pretend 'tis gone, To _Foreign_ Climes--_Amen_, for what I care, Perdition on the Merchants--They must dare! To thwart my Purpose--I detest them--_E. M._ How! _G. M._ Yes--And I think I'm _even_ with 'em now. They would not be _convention'd_, nor _excis'd_, But they shall feel the Scourge themselves advis'd; They shall be swingingly _bewarr'd_, I'll swear; And since they'd not my _little Finger_ bear, My _Loins_ shall press 'em 'till they guilty plead, And sue for Mercy at my Feet. _E. M._ Indeed! _G. M._ Aye, trust me, shall they----_E. M._ But don't tell 'em so; } For they're a stubborn _sturdy_ Gang you know, } _G. M._ O! they'll be _supple_ when their Cash runs low. Their _Purse_, which makes them proud and insolent, A trav'ling with their Commerce shall be sent-- _E. M._ Take Care they don't send _you_ a trav'ling first; _G. M._ No, Sir, I dare 'em now to do their Worst. _Seven Sessions_ more I am at least secure-- _E. M._ Nay then you'll crush 'em quite?--But are you sure, There is a _Spirit_, Sir? _G. M._ What Spirit pray? A _Spirit_ that the _Treasury_ can't lay. _E. M._ I'm answer'd Sir,--_G. M._ Next, Friend, one Word about Those spiteful Innuendoes you throw out, That squint at _Contracts_, _Forage_, and what not, 'Tis _more_ than Time that those Things were forgot. You should not link the _present_ with the _past_-- _E. M._ Yes when they make one _glorious Whole_ at last; When, tho' _Times differ_, _Actions_ still _agree_, And what Men _were_ they _are_--What they _will_ be, We safely may pronounce--_G. M._ Well, Sir, but why On my dear Family and Friends this Cry? Suppose they've Places, Wealth, and Titles too, _Merit_ like Ours should surely have its _Due_. That _squaemish_ Steward's of all Fools the worst, That lays not up for his _own Houshold_ first; Nor takes a _proper_ Care of those _staunch_ Friends, By whose _good Services_ he gains his Ends. Besides, who'd drudge the _Mill-Horse_ of the State; Curst by the Vulgar, envy'd by the Great; In one fastidious Round of Hurry live, And join, in Toil, the _Matin_ with the _Eve_; Be hourly plagu'd 'bout Pensions, Strings, Translations, Or, worse! that _damn'd Affair_ of _Foreign_ Nations. Make _War_ and _Treaties_ with alternate Pain: First sweat to build, then to pull down again. Who'd cringe at _Levees_, or in _Closets_--Oh! Stoop to the _rough_ Remonstrance of the _Toe_? Did not some Genius whisper, "That's the Road "To Opulence, and Honours bless'd Abode; "Thus you may aggrandize yourself, and Race;