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villany present

       All Marlborough hoarded, or all Villiers spent,

       Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful eye,

       Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy—

       The peaceful slumber, self-approving day,

       Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay. 90

      The cheated nation's happy favourites see!

       Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me!

       London, the needy villain's general home,

       The common-sewer of Paris and of Rome,

       With eager thirst, by folly or by fate,

       Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state.

       Forgive my transports on a theme like this—

       I cannot bear a French metropolis.

      Illustrious Edward! from the realms of day,

       The land of heroes and of saints survey; 100

       Nor hope the British lineaments to trace,

       The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace;

       But lost in thoughtless ease and empty show,

       Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau;

       Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away,

       Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey!

      All that at home no more can beg or steal,

       Or like a gibbet better than a wheel;

       Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court,

       Their air, their dress, their politics import; 110

       Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay,

       On Britain's fond credulity they prey.

       No gainful trade their industry can 'scape.

       They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a clap:

       All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows,

       And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes.

       Ah! what avails it that, from slavery far,

       I drew the breath of life in English air;

       Was early taught a Briton's right to prize,

       And lisp the tale of Henry's victories; 120

       If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain,

       And flattery prevails, when arms are vain?

      Studious to please, and ready to submit,

       The supple Gaul was born a parasite:

       Still to his interest true where'er he goes,

       Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue bestows;

       In every face a thousand graces shine,

       From every tongue flows harmony divine.

       These arts in vain our rugged natives try,

       Strain out, with faltering diffidence, a lie, 130

       And get a kick for awkward flattery.

      Besides, with justice, this discerning age

       Admires their wondrous talents for the stage:

       Well may they venture on the mimic's art,

       Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part;

       Practised their master's notions to embrace,

       Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face;

       With every wild absurdity comply,

       And view its object with another's eye;

       To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, 140

       To pour at will the counterfeited tear;

       And as their patron hints the cold or heat,

       To shake in dog-days, in December sweat.

      How, when competitors like these contend,

       Can surly Virtue hope to fix a friend?

       Slaves that with serious impudence beguile,

       And lie without a blush, without a smile,

       Exalt each trifle, every vice adore,

       Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a whore,

       Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 150

       He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.

      For arts like these preferr'd, admired, caress'd,

       They first invade your table, then your breast;

       Explore your secrets with insidious art,

       Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart;

       Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay,

       Commence your lords, and govern or betray.

      By numbers here from shame and censure free,

       All crimes are safe, but hated poverty.

       This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 160

       This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse;

       The sober trader, at a tatter'd cloak,

       Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;

       With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze,

       And turn the various taunt a thousand ways.

       Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd,

       Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest;

       Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart,

       Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.

      Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, 170

       No pathless waste or undiscover'd shore;

       No secret island in the boundless main;

       No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain?[5]

       Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,

       And bear Oppression's insolence no more.

       This mournful truth is every where confess'd,

       SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D:

       But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,

       Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold;

       Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored, 180

       The groom retails the favours of his lord.

      But hark! the affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries

       Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies:

       Raised from some pleasing dream of wealth and power,

       Some pompous palace, or some blissful bower,

       Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight

       Sustain the approaching fire's tremendous light;

       Swift from pursuing horrors take your way,

       And leave your little ALL to flames a prey;

       Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam, 190

       For where can starving merit find a home?

       In vain your mournful narrative disclose,

       While all neglect, and most insult your woes.

       Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth confound,

       And spread his flaming palace on the ground,

       Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies,

       And public mournings pacify the skies;

       The laureate tribe in venal verse relate,

       How Virtue wars with persecuting Fate;

      

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