_F_. Then why so few commended?
_P_. Not so fierce;
Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse.
But random praise--the task can ne'er be done;
Each mother asks it for her booby son,
Each widow asks it for 'the best of men,'
For him she weeps, and him she weds again.
Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground; 110
The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of these days,
To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.
Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend?
What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in vain.
No power the Muse's friendship can command;
No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line; 120
Oh let my country's friends illumine mine!
--What are you thinking?
_F_. Faith, the thought's no sin--
I think your friends are out, and would be in.
_P_. If merely to come in, sir, they go out,
The way they take is strangely round about.
_F_. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow?
_P_. I only call those knaves who are so now.
Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply--
Spirit of Arnall![215] aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwarth[216] is a slave, 130
And Lyttleton a dark, designing knave,
St John has ever been a wealthy fool--
But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull,
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife.
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