Who know how like Whig ministers to Tory,
  And, when three sovereigns died, could scarce be vext,
  Considering what a gracious prince was next. 
  Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things
  As pride in slaves, and avarice in kings;
  And at a peer, or peeress, shall I fret,
  Who starves a sister, or forswears a debt?[212]
  Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
  But shall the dignity of vice be lost? 
  Ye gods! shall Gibber’s son, without rebuke,
  Swear like a lord, or Rich out-whore a duke? 
  A favourite’s porter with his master vie,
  Be bribed as often, and as often lie? 
  Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman’s skill? 
  Or Japhet pocket, like his grace, a will? 
  Is it for Bond, or Peter (paltry things),
  To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings? 
  If Blount dispatched himself, he played the man,
  And so mayest thou, illustrious Passeran! 
  But shall a printer, weary of his life,
  Learn, from their books, to hang himself and wife? 
  This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear;
  Vice thus abused, demands a nation’s care;
  This calls the Church to deprecate our sin,
  And hurls the thunder of the laws on gin. 
    Let modest Foster, if he will, excel
  Ten metropolitans in preaching well;
  A simple Quaker, or a Quaker’s wife,
  Outdo Llandaff in doctrine,—­yea in life: 
  Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame,
  Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. 
  Virtue may choose the high or low degree,
  ’Tis just alike to virtue, and to me;
  Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king,
  She’s still the same, beloved, contented thing. 
  Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth,
  And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth: 
  But ’tis the fall degrades her to a whore;
  Let greatness own her, and she’s mean no more;
  Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess;
  Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless;
  In golden chains the willing world she draws,
  And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws,
  Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
  And sees pale virtue carted in her stead. 
  Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,
  Old England’s genius, rough with many a scar,
  Dragged in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
  His flag inverted trails along the ground! 
  Our youth, all liveried o’er with foreign gold,
  Before her dance:  behind her crawl the old! 
  See thronging millions to the Pagod run,
  And offer country, parent, wife, or son! 
  Hear her black trumpet through the land proclaim,
  That not to be corrupted is the shame. 
  In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in power,
  ’Tis avarice all, ambition is no more! 
  See, all our nobles begging to be slaves! 
  See, all our fools aspiring to be knaves! 
  The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore,