peace,
  Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress;
  Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about;
  Who writes a libel, or who copies out;
  That fop, whose pride affects a patron’s name,
  Yet absent, wounds an author’s honest fame;
  Who can your merit selfishly approve,
  And show the sense of it without the love;
  Who has the vanity to call you friend,
  Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend;
  Who tells whate’er you think, whate’er you say,
  And, if he lie not, must at least betray;
  Who to the Dean and silver bell can swear,
  And sees at Canons what was never there;
  Who reads, but with a lust to misapply,
  Make satire a lampoon, and fiction, lie: 
  A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
  But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.

* * * * *

Of gentle blood (part shed in honour’s cause, While yet in Britain honour had applause) Each parent sprung—–­A. What fortune, pray?—­ P. Their own, And better got, than Bestia’s from the throne.  Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, Nor marrying discord in a noble wife, Stranger to civil and religious rage, The good man walked innoxious through his age.  No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie.  Unlearn’d, he knew no schoolman’s subtle art, No language, but the language of the heart.  By nature honest, by experience wise, Healthy by temperance, and by exercise; His life, though long, to sickness passed unknown, His death was instant, and without a groan.  O grant me thus to live, and thus to die!  Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!  Be no unpleasing melancholy mine:  Me, let the tender office long engage, To rock the cradle of reposing age, With lenient arts extend a mother’s breath, Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, And keep awhile one parent from the sky!  On cares like these if length of days attend, May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend, Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, And just as rich as when he served a queen. A. Whether that blessing be denied or given, Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven.

  FROM THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED

  [To GEORGE II:  ON THE STATE OF LITERATURE]

  To thee, the world its present homage pays
  The harvest early, but mature the praise: 
  Great friend of liberty! in kings a name
  Above all Greek, above all Roman fame: 
  Whose word is truth, as sacred and revered,
  As Heaven’s own oracles from altars heard. 
  Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes
  None e’er has risen, and none e’er shall rise.