All that at home no more can beg or steal, Or like a gibbet better than a wheel;
Hifs'd from the stage, or hooted from the court, Their air, their drefs, their politics import; Obfequious, artful, voluble, and gay,
On Britain's fond credulity they prey.
No gainful trade their industry can 'scape,
They fing, they dance, clean fhoes, 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 flav'ry far,
I drew the breath of life in English air;
Was early taught a Briton's right to prize,
And lifp the tales of Henry's victories;
If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain,
And flattery fubdues when arms are vain?
Studious to please, and ready to fubmit,
The fupple Gaul was born a parafite :
Still to his int'reft true, where-e'er he goes,
Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue beftows;
In ev'ry face a thoufand graces shine,
From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine.
These arts in vain our rugged natives try,
Strain out with fault'ring diffidence a lye,
And gain a kick for aukward flattery.
Befides, with juftice this difcerning age. Admires their wond'rous talents for the stage: Well may they venture on the mimic's art, Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part; Practis'd their mailer's notions to embrace,
Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face;
With ev'ry wild abfurdity comply,
And view each object with another's eye;
To shake with laughter ere the jeft they hear,
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 thefe contend,
Can furly virtue hope to fix a friend ?
Slaves, that with ferious impudence beguile,
And lye without a blush, without a smile;
Exalt each trifle, ev'ry vice adore,
Your taste in fnuff, your judgment in a whore;
Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and fwear
He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.
For arts like these preferr'd, admir'd, carefs'd,
They first invade your table, then your breaft;
Explore your fecrets with infidious art,
Watch the weak hour, and ranfack all the heart;
Then foon your ill-plac'd confidence repay,
Commence your lords, and govern or betray.
By numbers, here, from fhame or censure free,
All crimes are fafe, but hated poverty.
This, only this, the rigid law pursues ;
This, only this, provokes the fnarling muse.
The fober trader, at a tatter'd cloak,
Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;
With brifker air the filken courtiers gaze,
And turn the varied taunt a thoufand ways.
Of all the griefs that harrais the diftrefs'd,
Sure the most bitter is a fcornful jeft ;
Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart,
Than when a blockhead's infult points the dart.
Has Heaven referv'd, in pity to the poor,
No pathless wafte or undifcover'd fhore?
No fecret ifland in the boundless main ?
No peaceful defart yet unclaim'd by Spain?
Quick let us rife, the happy seats explore,
And bear oppreffion's infolence no more.
This mournful truth is ev'ry where confefs'd, SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D: But here more flow, where all are flaves to gold, Where looks are merchandife, and fmiles are fold; Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, The groom retails the favours of his lord.
But hark, th' affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries
Roll through the streets and thunder to the skies;
Rais'd from fome pleafing dream of wealth and power,
Some pompous palace or fome blissful bow'r,
Aghaft you start, and fcarce with aching fight
Sustain th' approaching fire's tremendous light;
Swift from pursuing horrors take your way,
And leave your little All to flames a prey;
Then thro' the world a wretched vagrant roam;
For where can flarving 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 difmal rumour flies,
And public mournings pacify the skies;
The laureate tribe in fervile verfe relate,
How virtue wars with perfecuting fate;
With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band
Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.
See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,
And crowd with fudden wealth the rifing dome;
The price of boroughs and of fouls restore;
And raise his treasures higher than before.
Now blefs'd with all the baubles of the great,
The polish'd marble, and the shining plate,
Orgilio fees the golden pile aspire,
And hopes from angry Heav'n another fire.
Could't thou refign the park and play, content,
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;
There might'st thou find fome elegant retreat,
Some hireling fenator's deferted feat !
And stretch thy profpects o'er the smiling land,
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;
There prune thy walks, fupport thy drooping flow'rs,
Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bow'rs;
And, while thy beds a cheap repaft afford,
Despise the dainties of a venal lord.
There ev'ry bush with nature's mufic rings,
There ev'ry breeze bears health upon its wings;
On all thy hours fecurity fhall smile,
And blefs thy evening walk and morning toil.
Prepare for death if here at night you roam,
And fign your will before you fup from home,
Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,
Who fleeps on brambles till he kills his man ;
Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast,
Provokes a broil, and ftabs you for a jest.
Yet e'en these heroes, mifchievously gay,
Lords of the street, and terrors of the way;
Flush'd as they are with folly, youth and wine,.
Their prudent infults to the poor confine;
Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach,
And shun the shining train, and golden coach.
In vain these dangers paft, your doors you close,
And hope the balmy bleffings of repose:
Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,
The midnight murd'rer burfts the faithlefs bar;
Invades the facred hour of filent reft,
And plants, unfeen, a dagger in your breast.
Scarce can our fields, fuch crowds at Tyburn die, With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply. Propose your schemes, ye fenatorian band,. Whofe ways and means fupport the finking land; Left ropes be wanting in the tempting spring,. To rig another convoy for the k-g.
A fingle jail, in Alfred's golden reign, Could half the nation's criminals contain; Fair juftice, then, without constraint ador'd, Held high the steady scale, but deep'd the sword; No fpies were paid, no special juries known ; Bleft age! but ah! how diff'rent from our own! Much could I add, but fee the boat at hand,
The tide, retiring, calls me from the land:
Farewel! When youth, and health, and fortune
Thou fly'ft for refuge to the Wilds of Kent;
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