The party-curse is with the canvass past,
But party-friendship, for jour grief, will last. 
   Friends of all kinds; the civil and the rude,
Who humbly wish, or boldly dare t’intrude: 
These beg or take a liberty to come
(Friends should be free), and make your house their home;
They know that warmly you their cause espouse,
And come to make their boastings and their bows;
You scorn their manners, you their words mistrust,
But you must hear them, and they know you must. 
   One plainly sees a friendship firm and true,
Between the noble candidate and you;
So humbly begs (and states at large the case),
“You’ll think of Bobby and the little place.” 
   Stifling his shame by drink, a wretch will come,
And prate your wife and daughter from the room: 
In pain you hear him, and at heart despise,
Yet with heroic mind your pangs disguise;
And still in patience to the sot attend,
To show what man can bear to serve a friend. 
   One enters hungry—­not to be denied,
And takes his place and jokes—­“We’re of a side.” 
Yet worse, the proser who, upon the strength
Of his one vote, has tales of three hours’ length;
This sorry rogue you bear, yet with surprise
Start at his oaths, and sicken at his lies. 
   Then comes there one, and tells in friendly way
What the opponents in their anger say;
All that through life has vex’d you, all abuse,
Will this kind friend in pure regard produce;
And having through your own offences run,
Adds (as appendage) what your friends have done,
   Has any female cousin made a trip
To Gretna Green, or more vexatious slip? 
Has your wife’s brother, or your uncle’s son,
Done aught amiss, or is he thought t’have done? 
Is there of all your kindred some who lack
Vision direct, or have a gibbous back? 
From your unlucky name may quips and puns
Be made by these upbraiding Goths and Huns? 
To some great public character have you
Assigned the fame to worth and talents due,
Proud of your praise?—­In this, in any case,
Where the brute-spirit may affix disgrace,
These friends will smiling bring it, and the while
You silent sit, and practise for a smile. 
   Vain of their power, and of their value sure,
They nearly guess the tortures you endure;
Nor spare one pang—­for they perceive your heart
Goes with the cause; you’d die before you’d start;
Do what they may, they’re sure you’ll not offend
Men who have pledged their honours to your friend. 
   Those friends indeed, who start as in a race,
May love the sport, and laugh at this disgrace;
They have in view the glory and the prize,
Nor heed the dirty steps by which they rise: 
But we their poor associates lose the fame,
Though more than partners in the toil and shame. 
   Were this the whole; and did the time produce
But shame and toil, but riot and abuse;
We might be then from serious griefs exempt,