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To quell the faction that affronts the throne,
To nurse with tender care the thriving arts,
A. Guard what you fay, the patriotic tribe
To lure me to the baseness of a lie.
And of all lies (be that one poet's boast)
Those arts be their's that hate his gentle reign,
A. Your smooth eulogium to one crown addrefs'd, Seems to imply a cenfure on the rest.
B. Quevedo, as he tells his fober tale, Afk'd, when in hell, to fee the royal jail, Approv'd their method in all other things, But where, good Sir, do you confine your kings? There faid his guide, the groupe is full in view. Indeed? Replied the Don-there are but few. His black interpreter the charge difdain'dFew, fellow? There are all that ever reign'd. Wit undiftinguishing is apt to ftrike
The guilty and not guilty, both alike.
grant the farcafm is too fevere,
And we can readily refute it here,
While Alfred's name, the father of his age,
And the Sixth Edward's grace th' hiftoric page.
A. Kings then at laft have but the lot of all, By their own conduct they muft ftand or fall.
B. True. While they live, the courtly laureat pays His quit-rent ode, his pepper-corn of praise, And many a dunce whofe fingers itch to write, Adds, as he can, his tributary mite; A fubject's faults, a fubject may proclaim, A monarch's errors are forbidden game. Thus free from cenfure, over-aw'd by fear, And prais'd for virtues that they fcorn to wear, The fleeting forms of majesty engage Refpect, while ftalking o'er life's narrow ftage, Then leave their crimes for history to scan, And afk with busy scorn, Was this the man? I pity kings whom worship waits upon Obfequious, from the cradle to the throne, Before whofe infant eyes the flatt'rer bows, And binds a wreath about their baby brows. Whom education ftiffens into state,
And death awakens from that dream too late.
Oh! if fervility with fupple knees,
Whose trade it is to fmile, to crouch, to pleafe;
A devil's purpose with an angel's face;
To be fufpected, thwarted, and with flood,
With all their flippant fluency of tongue,
(For what kings deem a toil, as well they may,
To him is relaxation and mere play)
To win no praise when well-wrought plans prevail,
But to be rudely cenfur'd when they fail,
To doubt the love his fav'rites may pretend,
And in reality to find no friend,
If he indulge a cultivated taste
His gall'ries with the works of art well grac'd,