A. King's then at laft have but the lot of all, By their own conduct they must stand or fall.
B. True. While they live, the courtly laureat pays
His quit-rent ode, his pepper-corn of praise,
And many a dunce whofe fingers itch to write,
Adds, as he can, his tributary mite;
A fubject's faults, a fubject may proclaim,
A monarch's errors are forbidden game.
Thus free from cenfure, over-aw'd by fear,
And prais'd for virtues that they scorn to wear,
The fleeting forms of majefty engage
Refpect, while stalking o'er life's narrow stage,
Then leave their crimes for hiftory to fcan,
And ask with busy scorn, Was this the man?
I pity kings whom worship waits upon
Obfequious, from the cradle to the throne,
Before whose infant eyes the flatt'rer bows,
And binds a wreath about their baby brows.
Whom education ftiffen'd into state,
And death awakens from that dream too late.
Oh! if fervility with fupple knees,
Whofe trade it is to fmile, to crouch, to please;
If fmooth diffimulation, fkill'd to grace
A devil's purpose with an angel's face;
If fmiling peereffes and fimp'ring peers,
In compaffing his throne a few short years;
If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd steed,
That wants no driving and difdains the lead
If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks,
Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks;
Should'ring and standing as if ftruck to stone,
While condescending majefty looks on;
If monarchy confift in fuch base things,
Sighing, I fay again, I pity kings!
To be fufpected, thwarted, and withstood,
Ev'n when he labours for his country's good,
To fee a band call'd patriot for no caufe,
But that they catch at popular applause,
Careless of all th' anxiety he feels,
Hook difappointment on the public wheels,
With all their flippant fluency of tongue,
Moft confident, when palpably most wrong,
If this be kingly, then farewell for me
All kingship, and may I be poor and free.
To be the Table Talk of clubs up stairs,
To which th' unwash'd artificer repairs,
T'indulge his genius after long fatigue,
By diving into cabinet intrigue,
(For what kings deem a toil, as well they may,
To him is relaxation and mere play)
To win no praise when well-wrought plans prevail,
But to be rudely cenfur'd when they fail,
To doubt the love his fav'rites may pretend,
And in reality to find no friend,
If he indulge a cultivated tafte,
His gall'ries with the works of art well grac'd,
To hear it call'd extravagance and waste,
If these attendants, and if fuch as these,
Must follow royalty, then welcome eafe;
However humble and confin'd the sphere,
Happy the state that has not these to fear.
A. Thus men whofe thoughts contemplative have
On fituations that they never felt,
Start up fagacious, cover'd with the duft
Of dreaming study and pedantic ruft,
prate and preach about what others prove, As if the world and they were hand and glove. Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares, They have their weight to carry, subjects their's; Poets, of all men, ever least regret
Increafing taxes and the nation's debt.
Could you contrive the payment, and rehearse
The mighty plan, oracular, in verse,
No bard, howe'er majeftic, old or new,
Should claim my fixt attention more than you.
B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would effay
To turn the course of Helicon that way;
Nor would the nine confent, the facred tide
Should purl amidst the traffic of Cheapfide,
Or tinkle in 'Change Alley, to amuse
The leathern ears of stock-jobbers and jews.
A. Vouchfafe, at leaft, to pitch the key of rhime To themes more pertinent, if lefs fublime.
When minifters and minifterial arts,
Patriots who love good places at their hearts,
When Admirals extoll'd for standing still,
Or doing nothing with a deal of skill;
Gen'rals who will not conquer when they may,
Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay,
When freedom wounded almost to despair,
Though difcontent alone can find out where,
When themes like thefe employ the poet's tongue,
ear as mute as if a fyren fung.
Or tell me if you can, what pow'r maintains
A Briton's fcorn of arbitrary chains?
That were a theme might animate the dead,
And move the lips of poets caft in lead.
B. The caufe, tho' worth the fearch, may yet elude Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim, Who feek it in his climate and his frame.
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