Such was the Scorn that fill’d the Sage’s Mind,
Renew’d at ev’ry Glance on Humankind;
How just that Scorn ere yet thy Voice declare,
Search every State, and canvass ev’ry Pray’r.

[e]Unnumber’d Suppliants croud Preferment’s Gate,
Athirst for Wealth, and burning to be great;
Delusive Fortune hears th’ incessant Call,
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. 
On ev’ry Stage the Foes of Peace attend,
Hate dogs their Flight, and Insult mocks their End. 
Love ends with Hope, the sinking Statesman’s Door
Pours in the Morning Worshiper no more;
For growing Names the weekly Scribbler lies,
To growing Wealth the Dedicator flies,
From every Room descends the painted Face,
That hung the bright Palladium of the Place,
And smoak’d in Kitchens, or in Auctions sold,
To better Features yields the Frame of Gold;
For now no more we trace in ev’ry Line
Heroic Worth, Benevolence Divine: 
The Form distorted justifies the Fall,
And Detestation rids th’ indignant Wall.
[Footnote e:  Ver. 56-107.]

But will not Britain hear the last Appeal,
Sign her Foes Doom, or guard her Fav’rites Zeal;
Through Freedom’s Sons no more Remonstrance rings;
Degrading Nobles and controuling Kings;
Our supple Tribes repress their Patriot Throats,
And ask no Questions but the Price of Votes;
With Weekly Libels and Septennial Ale,
Their Wish is full to riot and to rail.

In full-blown Dignity, see Wolsey stand,
Law in his Voice, and Fortune in his Hand: 
To him the Church, the Realm, their Pow’rs consign,
Thro’ him the Rays of regal Bounty shine,
Turned by his Nod the Stream of Honour flows,
His Smile alone Security bestows: 
Still to new Heights his restless Wishes tow’r,
Claim leads to Claim, and Pow’r advances Pow’r;
Till Conquest unresisted ceas’d to please,
And Rights submitted, left him none to seize. 
At length his Sov’reign frowns—­the Train of State
Mark the keen Glance, and watch the Sign to hate. 
Where-e’er he turns he meets a Stranger’s Eye,
His Suppliants scorn him, and his Followers fly;
Now drops at once the Pride of aweful State,
The golden Canopy, the glitt’ring Plate,
The regal Palace, the luxurious Board,
The liv’ried Army and the menial Lord. 
With Age, with Cares, with Maladies oppress’d,
He seeks the Refuge of Monastic Rest. 
Grief aids Disease, remember’d Folly stings,
And his last Sighs reproach the Faith of Kings.

Speak thou, whose Thoughts at humble Peace repine,
Shall Wolsey’s Wealth, with Wolsey’s End be thine? 
Or liv’st thou now, with safer Pride content,
The richest Landlord on the Banks of Trent? 
For why did Wolsey by the Steps of Fate,
On weak Foundations raise th’ enormous Weight? 
Why but to sink beneath Misfortune’s Blow,
With louder Ruin to the Gulphs below?