After all, perhaps, you will tell me that you retained him only for the opening of your cause, and that your main lawyer is yet behind: now, if it so happen he meet with no more reply than his predecessors, you may either conclude that I trust to the goodness of my cause, or fear my adversary, or disdain him, or what you please; for the short on't is, it is indifferent to your humble servant whatever your party says or thinks of him.
A SATIRE AGAINST SEDITION
Per Graium populos, mediæque per Elidis urbem,
Ibat ovans, Divumque sibi poscebat honorem.
Of all our antic sights and pageantry,
Which English idiots run in crowds to see,
The Polish Medal' bears the prize alone,
A monster, more the favourite of the Town
Than either fairs or theatres have shown.
Never did Art so well with Nature strive,
Nor ever idol seem'd so much alive;
So like the man, so golden to the sight,
So base within, so counterfeit and light:
One side is fill'd with title and with face,
And, lest the King should want a regal place,
On the reverse a tower the town surveys,
O'er which our mounting sun his beams displays.
The word, pronounced aloud by shrieval voice, .
Latamur, which, in Polish, is Rejoice.
1 Mr. Malone describes this medal as bearing on one side the head of Shaftesbury; on the reverse, a view of the city of London with a rising sun; and in the exergue the word Lætamur, with the date 24th Nov. 1681.
The day, month, year, to the great act are join'd,
And a new canting holiday design'd.
Five days he sat, for every cast and look,
Four more than God to finish Adam took :
But who can tell what essence angels are,
Or how long Heaven was making Lucifer?
O, could the style that copied every grace,
And plough'd such furrows for an eunuch-face,
Could it have form'd his ever-changing will,
The various piece had tired the graver's skill!
A martial hero first, with early care,
Blown, like a pigmy by the winds, to war;
A beardless chief, a rebel ere a man,
So young his hatred to his prince began.
Next this, how wildly will ambition steer!
A vermin, wriggling in the' usurper's ear;
Bartering his venal wit for sums of gold,
He cast himself into the saint-like mould;
Groan'd, sigh'd, and pray'd, while godliness was
gain,
The loudest bagpipe of the squeaking train.
But, as 'tis hard to cheat a juggler's eyes,
His open lewdness he could ne'er disguise:
There split the saint; for hypocritic zeal
Allows no sins but those it can conceal.
Whoring to scandal gives too large a scope:
Saints must not trade, but they may interlope.
The' ungodly principle was all the same,
But a gross cheat betrays his partner's game.
Besides, their pace was formal, grave, and slack;
His nimble wit outran the heavy pack
Yet still he found his fortune at a stay,
Whole droves of blockheads choking up his way:
They took, but not rewarded, his advice;
Villain and wit exact a double price.
Power was his aim; but thrown from that pretence,
The wretch turn'd loyal in his own defence,
And malice reconciled him to his prince.
Him, in the anguish of his soul, he served,
Rewarded faster still than he deserved.
Behold him now exalted into trust,
His counsels oft convenient, seldom just:
E'en in the most sincere advice he gave,
He had a grudging still to be a knave.
The frauds he learn'd in his fanatic years,
Made him uneasy in his lawful gears:
At best, as little honest as he could,
And, like white witches, mischievously good.
To his first bias, longingly, he leans,
And rather would be great by wicked means.
Thus, framed for ill, he loosed our triple hold,
Advice unsafe, precipitous, and bold:
From hence those tears, that Ilium of our woe,
Who helps a powerful friend, fore-arms a foe.
What wonder if the waves prevail so far,
When he cut down the banks that made the bar?
Seas follow but their nature, to invade ;
But he by art our native strength betray'd.
So Samson to his foe his force confess'd,
And, to be shorn, lay slumbering on her breast;
But when this fatal counsel, found too late,
Exposed its author to the public hate;
When his just sovereign by no impious way
Could be seduced to arbitrary sway,
Forsaken of that hope, he shifts his sail,
Drives down the current with a popular gale,
And shows the fiend confess'd, without a veil.
He preaches to the crowd that power is lent,
But not convey'd, to kingly government;
That claims successive bear no binding force;
That coronation-oaths are things of course:
Maintains the multitude can never err,
And sets the people in the Papal chair.
The reason's obvious, Interest never lies;
The most have still their interest in their eyes;
The power is always theirs, and power is ever wise.
Almighty Crowd! thou shorten'st all dispute,
Power is thy essence, wit thy attribute;
Nor faith nor reason make thee at a stay,
Thou leap'st o'er all eternal truths in thy Pindaric
way!
Athens, no doubt, did righteously decide,
When Phocion and when Socrates were tried ;
As righteously they did those dooms repent;
Still they were wise whatever way they went;
Crowds err not, though to both extremes they run,
To kill the father, and recall the son.
Some think the fools were most, as times went then,
But now the world's o'erstock'd with prudent men.
The common cry is e'en Religion's test;
The Turk's at Constantinople best;
Idols in India, Popery at Rome;
And our own worship only true at home:
And true, but for the time; 'tis hard to know
How long we please it shall continue so.
This side to-day, and that to-morrow burns ;
So all are god-almighties in their turns.
A tempting doctrine, plausible and new ;
What fools our fathers were, if this be true!
Who, to destroy the seeds of civil war,
Inherent right in monarchs did declare;
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