THE
AUTHOR
.
ACCURS'D
the
man
,
whom
fate
ordains
,
in
spite
,
And
cruel
parents
teach
,
to
Read
and
Write
!
What
need
of
letters
?
Wherefore
should
we
spell
?
Why
write
our
names
?
A
mark
will
do
as
well
.
Much
are
the
precious
hours
of
youth
mispent
,
In
climbing
Learning's
rugged
steep
ascent
;
When
to
the
top
the
bold
advent'rer's
got
,
He
reigns
,
vain
monarch
,
o'er
a
barren
spot
,
Whilst
in
the
vale
of
Ignorance
below
,
FOLLY
and
VICE
to
rank
luxuriance
grow
;
Honours
and
wealth
pour
in
on
ev'ry
side
,
And
proud
Preferment
rolls
her
golden
tide
.
O'er
crabbed
authors
life's
gay
prime
to
waste
,
To
cramp
wild
genius
in
the
chains
of
taste
,
To
bear
the
slavish
drudgery
of
schools
,
And
tamely
stoop
to
ev'ry
pedant's
rules
,
For
seven
long
years
debarr'd
of
lib'ral
ease
,
To
plod
in
college
trammels
to
degrees
,
Beneath
the
weight
of
solemn
toys
to
groan
,
Sleep
over
books
,
and
leave
mankind
unknown
,
To
praise
each
senior
blockhead's
thread-bare
tale
,
And
laugh
till
reason
blush
,
and
spirits
fail
,
Manhood
with
vile
submission
to
disgrace
,
And
cap
the
fool
,
whose
merit
is
his
Place
;
VICE
CHANCELLORS
,
whose
knowledge
is
but
small
,
And
CHANCELLORS
,
who
nothing
know
at
all
,
Ill-brook'd
the
gen'rous
Spirit
,
in
those
days
When
Learning
was
the
certain
road
to
praise
,
When
Nobles
,
with
a
love
of
Science
bless'd
,
Approv'd
in
others
what
themselves
possess'd
.
But
Now
,
when
DULLNESS
rears
aloft
her
throne
,
When
LORDLY
Vassals
her
wide
Empire
own
,
When
Wit
,
seduc'd
by
Envy
,
starts
aside
,
And
basely
leagues
with
Ignorance
and
Pride
,
What
Now
should
tempt
us
,
by
false
hopes
misled
,
Learning's
unfashionable
paths
to
tread
;
To
bear
those
labours
,
which
our
Fathers
bore
That
Crown
with-held
,
which
They
in
triumph
wore
?
When
with
much
pains
this
boasted
Learning's
got
,
'Tis
an
affront
to
those
who
have
it
not
.
In
some
it
causes
hate
,
in
others
fear
,
Instructs
our
Foes
to
rail
,
our
Friends
to
sneer
.
With
prudent
haste
the
worldly-minded
fool
,
Forgets
the
little
which
he
learn'd
at
School
;
The
Elder
Brother
,
to
vast
fortunes
born
,
Looks
on
all
Science
with
an
Eye
of
Scorn
;
Dependent
Breth'ren
the
same
features
wear
,
And
younger
Sons
are
stupid
as
the
Heir
.
In
Senates
,
at
the
Bar
,
in
Church
and
State
,
Genius
is
vile
,
and
Learning
out
of
date
.
Is
this
—
O
Death
to
think
!
is
this
the
Land
Where
Merit
and
Reward
went
hand
in
hand
,
Where
Heroes
,
Parent-like
,
the
Poet
view'd
?
—
By
whom
they
saw
their
glorious
deeds
renew'd
;
Where
Poets
,
true
to
Honour
,
tun'd
their
lays
,
And
by
their
Patrons
sanctify'd
their
praise
?
Is
this
the
Land
,
where
,
on
our
SPENCER'S
tongue
,
Enamour'd
of
his
voice
,
Description
hung
;
Where
JOHNSON
rigid
gravity
beguil'd
,
Whilst
Reason
thro'
her
Critic
fences
smil'd
;
Where
NATURE
list'ning
stood
,
whilst
SHAKESPEAR
play'd
,
And
wonder'd
at
the
Work
herself
had
made
?
Is
this
the
Land
,
where
,
mindful
of
her
charge
And
Office
high
,
fair
Freedom
walk'd
at
large
;
Where
,
finding
in
our
Laws
a
sure
defence
,
She
mock'd
at
all
restraints
,
but
those
of
Sense
;
Where
,
health
and
honour
trooping
by
her
side
,
She
spread
her
sacred
empire
far
and
wide
;
Pointed
the
Way
,
Affliction
to
beguile
,
And
bade
the
Face
of
Sorrow
wear
a
smile
,
Bade
those
,
who
dare
obey
the
gen'rous
call
,
Enjoy
her
blessings
,
which
GOD
meant
for
all
?
Is
this
the
Land
,
where
,
in
some
Tyrant's
reign
,
When
a
weak
,
wicked
Ministerial
train
,
The
tools
of
pow'r
,
the
slaves
of
int'rest
,
plann'd
Their
Country's
ruin
,
and
with
bribes
unman'd
Those
wretches
,
who
,
ordain'd
in
Freedom's
cause
,
Gave
up
our
liberties
,
and
sold
our
laws
;
When
Pow'r
was
taught
by
Meanness
where
to
go
,
Nor
dar'd
to
love
the
Virtue
of
a
foe
;
When
,
like
a
lep'rous
plague
,
from
the
foul
head
To
the
foul
heart
her
sores
Corruption
spread
,
Her
iron
arm
when
stern
Oppression
rear'd
,
And
Virtue
,
from
her
broad
base
shaken
,
fear'd
The
scourge
of
Vice
;
when
,
impotent
and
vain
,
Poor
Freedom
bow'd
the
neck
to
Slav'ry's
chain
;
Is
this
the
Land
,
where
,
in
those
worst
of
times
,
The
hardy
Poet
rais'd
his
honest
rimes
To
dread
rebuke
,
and
bade
controulment
speak
In
guilty
blushes
on
the
villain's
cheek
,
Bade
Pow'r
turn
pale
,
kept
mighty
rogues
in
awe
,
And
made
them
fear
the
Muse
,
who
fear'd
not
Law
?
How
do
I
laugh
,
when
men
of
narrow
souls
,
Whom
folly
guides
,
and
prejudice
controuls
;
Who
,
one
dull
drowsy
track
of
business
trod
,
Worship
their
Mammon
,
and
neglect
their
God
;
Who
,
breathing
by
one
musty
set
of
rules
,
Dote
from
the
birth
,
and
are
by
system
fools
;
Who
,
form'd
to
dullness
from
their
very
youth
,
Lies
of
the
day
prefer
to
Gospel
truth
,
Pick
up
their
little
knowledge
from
Reviews
,
And
lay
out
all
their
stock
of
faith
in
news
:
How
do
I
laugh
,
when
Creatures
,
form'd
like
these
,
Whom
Reason
scorns
,
and
I
should
blush
to
please
,
Rail
at
all
lib'ral
arts
,
deem
verse
a
crime
,
And
hold
not
Truth
,
as
Truth
,
if
told
in
rime
?
How
do
I
laugh
,
when
PUBLIUS
,
hoary
grown
In
zeal
for
SCOTLAND'S
wellfare
,
and
his
own
,
By
slow
degrees
,
and
course
of
office
,
drawn
In
mood
and
figure
at
the
helm
to
yawn
,
Too
mean
(
the
worst
of
curses
Heav'n
can
send
)
To
have
a
foe
,
too
proud
to
have
a
friend
,
Erring
by
form
,
which
Blockheads
sacred
hold
,
Ne'er
making
new
faults
,
and
ne'er
mending
old
,
Rebukes
my
Spirit
,
bids
the
daring
Muse
Subjects
more
equal
to
her
weakness
chuse
;
Bids
her
frequent
the
haunts
of
humble
swains
,
Nor
dare
to
traffick
in
ambitious
strains
;
Bids
her
,
indulging
the
poetic
whim
In
quaint-wrought
Ode
,
or
Sonnet
pertly
trim
,
Along
the
Church-way
path
complain
with
GRAY
,
Or
dance
with
MASON
on
the
first
of
May
?
"
All
sacred
is
the
name
and
pow'r
of
Kings
,
"
All
States
and
Statesmen
are
those
mighty
Things
"
Which
,
howsoe'er
they
out
of
course
may
roll
,
"
Were
never
made
for
Poets
to
controul
.
"
Peace
,
Peace
thou
Dotard
,
nor
thus
vilely
deem
Of
Sacred
Numbers
,
and
their
pow'r
blaspheme
;
I
tell
thee
,
Wretch
,
search
all
Creation
round
,
In
Earth
,
in
Heav'n
,
no
Subject
can
be
found
(
Our
God
alone
except
)
above
whose
weight
The
Poet
cannot
rise
,
and
hold
his
State
.
The
blessed
Saints
above
in
numbers
speak
The
praise
of
God
,
tho'
there
all
praise
is
weak
;
In
Numbers
here
below
the
Bard
shall
teach
Virtue
to
soar
beyond
the
Villain's
reach
;
Shall
tear
his
lab'ring
lungs
,
strain
his
hoarse
throat
,
And
raise
his
voice
beyond
the
trumpet's
note
,
Should
an
afflicted
Country
,
aw'd
by
men
Of
slavish
principles
,
demand
his
pen
.
This
is
a
great
,
a
glorious
point
of
view
,
Fit
for
an
English
Poet
to
pursue
,
Undaunted
to
pursue
,
tho'
,
in
return
,
His
writings
by
the
common
Hangman
burn
.
How
do
I
laugh
,
when
men
,
by
fortune
plac'd
Above
their
Betters
,
and
by
rank
disgrac'd
,
Who
found
their
pride
on
titles
which
they
stain
,
And
,
mean
themselves
,
are
of
their
Fathers
vain
,
Who
would
a
bill
of
privilege
prefer
,
And
treat
a
Poet
,
like
a
Creditor
,
The
gen'rous
ardour
of
the
Muse
condemn
,
And
curse
the
storm
they
know
must
break
on
them
?
"
What
,
shall
a
reptile
Bard
,
a
wretch
unknown
,
"
Without
one
badge
of
merit
,
but
his
own
,
"
Great
Nobles
lash
,
and
Lords
,
like
common
men
,
"
Smart
from
the
vengeance
of
a
Scribbler's
pen
?
"
What's
in
this
name
of
Lord
,
that
we
should
fear
To
bring
their
vices
to
the
public
ear
?
Flows
not
the
honest
blood
of
humble
swains
Quick
as
the
tide
which
swells
a
Monarch's
veins
?
Monarchs
,
who
wealth
and
titles
can
bestow
,
Cannot
make
Virtues
in
succession
flow
.
Would'st
Thou
,
Proud
Man
,
be
safely
plac'd
above
The
censure
of
the
Muse
,
deserve
her
Love
,
Act
as
thy
Birth
demands
,
as
Nobles
ought
;
Look
back
,
and
by
thy
worthy
Father
taught
,
Who
earn'd
those
Honours
,
Thou
wert
born
to
wear
,
Follow
his
steps
,
and
be
his
Virtue's
heir
.
But
if
,
regardless
of
the
road
to
Fame
,
You
start
aside
,
and
tread
the
paths
of
shame
.
If
such
thy
life
,
that
should
thy
Sire
arise
,
The
sight
of
such
a
Son
would
blast
his
eyes
,
Would
make
him
curse
the
hour
which
gave
Thee
birth
,
Would
drive
him
,
shudd'ring
,
from
the
face
of
earth
Once
more
,
with
shame
and
sorrow
,
'mongst
the
dead
In
endless
night
to
hide
his
rev'rend
head
;
If
such
thy
life
,
tho'
Kings
had
made
thee
more
Than
ever
King
a
scoundrel
made
before
,
Nay
,
to
allow
thy
pride
a
deeper
spring
,
Tho'
God
in
vengeance
had
made
Thee
a
King
,
Taking
on
Virtue's
wing
her
daring
flight
,
The
Muse
should
drag
thee
trembling
to
the
light
,
Probe
thy
foul
wounds
,
and
lay
thy
bosom
bare
To
the
keen
question
of
the
searching
air
.
Gods
!
with
what
pride
I
see
the
titled
slave
,
Who
smarts
beneath
the
stroke
which
Satire
gave
,
Aiming
at
ease
,
and
with
dishonest
art
Striving
to
hide
the
feelings
of
his
heart
!
How
do
I
laugh
,
when
,
with
affected
air
,
(
Scarce
able
thro'
despite
to
keep
his
chair
,
Whilst
on
his
trembling
lip
pale
anger
speaks
,
And
the
chaf'd
blood
flies
mounting
to
his
cheeks
)
He
talks
of
Conscience
,
which
good
men
secures
From
all
those
evil
moments
guilt
endures
,
And
seems
to
laugh
at
those
,
who
pay
regard
To
the
wild
ravings
of
a
frantic
bard
.
"
SATIRE
,
whilst
envy
and
ill-humour
sway
"
The
mind
of
man
,
must
always
make
her
way
,
"
Nor
to
a
bosom
,
with
discretion
fraught
,
"
Is
all
her
malice
worth
a
single
thought
.
"
The
Wise
have
not
the
will
,
nor
Fools
the
pow'r
"
To
stop
her
headstrong
course
;
within
the
hour
,
"
Left
to
herself
,
she
dies
;
opposing
Strife
,
"
Gives
her
fresh
vigour
,
and
prolongs
her
life
.
"
All
things
her
prey
,
and
ev'ry
man
her
aim
,
"
I
can
no
patent
for
exemption
claim
,
"
Nor
would
I
wish
to
stop
that
harmless
dart
"
Which
plays
around
,
but
cannot
wound
my
heart
:
"
Tho'
pointed
at
myself
,
be
SATIRE
free
;
"
To
Her
'tis
pleasure
,
and
no
pain
to
Me
.
"
Dissembling
Wretch
!
hence
to
the
Stoic
school
,
And
there
amongst
thy
breth'ren
play
the
fool
,
There
,
unrebuk'd
,
these
wild
,
vain
doctrines
preach
;
Lives
there
a
Man
,
whom
SATIRE
cannot
reach
?
Lives
there
a
Man
,
who
calmly
can
stand
by
,
And
see
his
conscience
ripp'd
with
steady
eye
?
When
SATIRE
flies
abroad
on
Falshood's
wing
,
Short
is
her
life
indeed
,
and
dull
her
sting
;
But
when
to
Truth
allied
,
the
wound
she
gives
Sinks
deep
,
and
to
remotest
ages
lives
.
When
in
the
tomb
thy
pamper'd
flesh
shall
rot
,
And
e'en
by
friends
thy
mem'ry
be
forgot
,
Still
shalt
Thou
live
,
recorded
for
thy
crimes
,
Live
in
her
page
,
and
stink
to
after-times
.
Hast
Thou
no
feeling
yet
?
Come
,
throw
off
pride
,
And
own
those
passions
which
Thou
shalt
not
hide
.
S—
,
who
,
from
the
moment
of
his
birth
,
Made
human
Nature
a
reproach
on
earth
,
Who
never
dar'd
,
nor
wish'd
behind
to
stay
,
When
Folly
,
Vice
,
and
Meanness
led
the
way
,
Would
blush
,
should
he
be
told
,
by
Truth
and
Wit
,
Those
actions
,
which
he
blush'd
not
to
commit
;
Men
the
most
infamous
are
fond
of
fame
,
And
those
who
fear
not
guilt
,
yet
start
at
shame
.
But
whither
runs
my
zeal
,
whose
rapid
force
,
Turning
the
brain
,
bears
Reason
from
her
course
,
Carries
me
back
to
times
,
when
Poets
,
bless'd
With
courage
,
grac'd
the
Science
they
profess'd
;
When
They
,
in
Honour
rooted
,
firmly
stood
The
bad
to
punish
,
and
reward
the
good
;
When
,
to
a
flame
by
Public
Virtue
wrought
,
The
foes
of
Feedom
They
to
justice
brought
,
And
dar'd
expose
those
slaves
,
who
dar'd
support
A
Tyrant
plan
,
and
call'd
themselves
a
Court
.
Ah
!
What
are
Poets
now
?
as
slavish
those
Who
deal
in
Verse
,
as
those
who
deal
in
Prose
.
Is
there
an
Author
,
search
the
Kingdom
round
,
In
whom
true
worth
,
and
real
Spirit's
found
?
The
Slaves
of
Booksellers
,
or
(
doom'd
by
Fate
To
baser
chains
)
vile
pensioners
of
State
;
Some
,
dead
to
shame
,
and
of
those
shackles
proud
Which
Honour
scorns
,
for
slav'ry
roar
aloud
,
Others
,
half-palsied
only
,
mutes
become
,
And
what
makes
SMOLLET
write
,
makes
JOHNSON
dumb
.
Why
turns
you
villain
pale
?
why
bends
his
eye
Inward
,
abash'd
,
when
MURPHY
passes
by
?
Dost
Thou
sage
MURPHY
for
a
blockhead
take
,
Who
wages
war
with
vice
for
Virtue's
sake
?
No
,
No
—
like
other
Worldlings
,
you
will
find
He
shifts
his
sails
,
and
catches
ev'ry
wind
.
His
soul
the
shock
of
int'rest
can't
endure
,
Give
him
a
pension
then
,
and
sin
secure
.
With
laurell'd
wreaths
the
flatt'rer's
brows
adorn
,
Bid
Virtue
crouch
,
bid
Vice
exalt
her
horn
,
Bid
Cowards
thrive
,
put
honesty
to
flight
,
MURPHY
shall
prove
,
or
try
to
prove
it
right
.
Try
,
thou
State-Juggler
,
ev'ry
paltry
art
,
Ransack
the
inmost
closet
of
my
heart
,
Swear
Thou'rt
my
Friend
;
by
that
base
oath
make
way
Into
my
breast
,
and
flatter
to
betray
;
Or
,
if
those
tricks
are
vain
,
if
wholesome
doubt
Detects
the
fraud
,
and
points
the
Villain
out
,
Bribe
those
who
daily
at
my
board
are
fed
,
And
make
them
take
my
life
who
eat
my
bread
;
On
Authors
for
defence
,
for
praise
depend
;
Pay
him
but
well
,
and
MURPHY
is
thy
friend
.
He
,
He
shall
ready
stand
with
venal
rimes
To
varnish
guilt
,
and
consecrate
thy
crimes
,
To
make
corruption
in
false
colours
shine
,
And
damn
his
own
good
name
,
to
rescue
thine
.
But
,
if
thy
niggard
hands
their
gifts
with-hold
,
And
Vice
no
longer
rains
down
show'rs
of
gold
,
Expect
no
mercy
;
facts
,
well
grounded
,
teach
,
MURPHY
,
if
not
rewarded
,
will
impeach
.
What
tho'
each
man
of
nice
and
juster
thought
,
Shunning
his
steps
,
decrees
,
by
Honour
taught
,
He
ne'er
can
be
a
Friend
,
who
stoops
so
low
To
be
the
base
betrayer
of
a
foe
;
What
tho'
,
with
thine
together
link'd
,
his
name
Must
be
with
thine
transmitted
down
to
shame
,
To
ev'ry
manly
feeling
callous
grown
,
Rather
than
not
blast
thine
,
he'll
blast
his
own
.
To
ope
the
fountain
,
whence
Sedition
springs
,
To
slander
Government
,
and
libel
Kings
,
With
Freedom's
name
to
serve
a
present
hour
,
Tho'
born
,
and
bred
to
arbitrary
pow'r
,
To
talk
of
WILLIAMS
with
insidious
art
,
Whilst
a
vile
STUART'S
lurking
in
his
heart
,
And
,
whilst
mean
Envy
rears
her
loathsome
head
,
Flatt'ring
the
living
,
to
abuse
the
dead
,
Where
is
SHEBBEARE
?
O
,
let
not
foul
reproach
,
Travelling
thither
in
a
City-Coach
,
The
Pill'ry
dare
to
name
;
the
whole
intent
Of
that
Parade
was
Fame
,
not
Punishment
,
And
that
old
,
staunch
Whig
BEARDMORE
standing
by
,
Can
in
full
Court
give
that
report
the
lye
.
With
rude
unnat'ral
jargon
to
support
,
Half
Scotch
,
half
English
,
a
declining
Court
,
To
make
most
glaring
contraries
unite
,
And
prove
,
beyond
dispute
,
that
black
is
white
,
To
make
firm
Honour
tamely
league
with
shame
,
Make
Vice
and
Virtue
differ
but
in
name
,
To
prove
that
Chains
and
Freedom
are
but
one
,
That
to
be
sav'd
must
mean
to
be
undone
,
Is
there
not
GUTHRIE
?
Who
,
like
him
,
can
call
All
Opposites
to
proof
,
and
conquer
all
?
He
calls
forth
living
waters
from
the
rock
;
He
calls
forth
children
from
the
barren
stock
;
He
,
far
beyond
the
springs
of
Nature
led
,
Makes
Women
bring
forth
after
they
are
dead
;
He
,
on
a
curious
,
new
,
and
happy
plan
,
In
Wedlock's
sacred
bands
joins
Man
to
Man
;
And
,
to
complete
the
whole
,
most
strange
,
but
true
,
By
some
rare
magic
,
makes
them
fruitful
too
,
Whilst
from
their
loins
,
in
the
due
course
of
years
,
Flows
the
rich
blood
of
GUTHRIE's
English
Peers
.
Dost
Thou
contrive
some
blacker
deed
of
shame
,
Something
which
Nature
shudders
but
to
name
,
Something
which
makes
the
Soul
of
man
retreat
,
And
the
life-blood
run
backward
to
her
seat
?
Dost
Thou
contrive
,
for
some
base
private
end
,
Some
selfish
view
,
to
hang
a
trusting
friend
,
To
lure
him
on
,
e'en
to
his
parting
breath
,
And
promise
life
,
to
work
him
surer
death
?
Grown
old
in
villainy
,
and
dead
to
grace
,
Hell
in
his
heart
,
and
TYBURNE
in
his
face
;
Behold
,
a
Parson
at
thy
Elbow
stands
,
Low'ring
damnation
,
and
with
open
hands
Ripe
to
betray
his
Saviour
for
reward
;
The
Atheist
Chaplain
of
an
Atheist
Lord
.
Bred
to
the
Church
,
and
for
the
gown
decreed
,
'Ere
it
was
known
that
I
should
learn
to
read
;
Tho'
that
was
nothing
,
for
my
Friends
,
who
knew
What
mighty
Dullness
of
itself
could
do
,
Never
design'd
me
for
a
working
Priest
,
But
hop'd
,
I
should
have
been
a
DEAN
at
least
;
Condemn'd
(
like
many
more
,
and
worthier
men
,
To
whom
I
pledge
the
service
of
my
pen
)
,
Condemn'd
(
whilst
proud
,
and
pamper'd
Sons
of
Lawn
,
Cramm'd
to
the
throat
,
in
lazy
plenty
yawn
)
In
pomp
of
rev'rend
begg'ry
to
appear
,
To
pray
,
and
starve
on
forty
pounds
a
year
;
My
Friends
,
who
never
felt
the
galling
load
,
Lament
that
I
forsook
the
Packhorse
road
,
Whilst
Virtue
to
my
conduct
witness
bears
In
throwing
off
that
gown
,
which
FRANCIS
wears
.
What
Creature's
that
,
so
very
pert
and
prim
;
So
very
full
of
foppery
,
and
whim
;
So
gentle
,
yet
so
brisk
;
so
wond'rous
sweet
,
So
fit
to
prattle
at
a
Lady's
feet
,
Who
looks
,
as
he
the
Lord's
rich
vineyard
trod
,
And
by
his
Garb
appears
a
man
of
God
?
Trust
not
to
looks
,
nor
credit
outward
show
;
The
villain
lurks
beneath
the
cassock'd
Beau
;
That's
an
Informer
;
what
avails
the
name
?
Suffice
it
that
the
wretch
from
SODOM
came
.
His
tongue
is
deadly
—
from
his
presence
run
,
Unless
thy
rage
would
wish
to
be
undone
.
No
ties
can
hold
him
,
no
affection
bind
,
And
Fear
alone
restrains
his
coward
mind
;
Free
him
from
that
,
no
Monster
is
so
fell
,
Nor
is
so
sure
a
blood-hound
found
in
hell
.
His
silken
smiles
,
his
hypocritic
air
,
His
meek
demeanour
,
plausible
and
fair
,
Are
only
worn
to
pave
Fraud's
easier
way
,
And
make
gull'd
Virtue
fall
a
surer
prey
.
Attend
his
Church
—
his
plan
of
doctrine
view
—
The
Preacher
is
a
Christian
,
dull
but
true
;
But
when
the
hallow'd
hour
of
preaching's
o'er
,
That
plan
of
doctrine's
never
thought
of
more
;
CHRIST
is
laid
by
neglected
on
the
shelf
,
And
the
vile
Priest
is
Gospel
to
himself
.
By
CLELAND
tutor'd
,
and
with
BLACOW
bred
,
(
BLACOW
,
whom
by
a
brave
resentment
led
,
OXFORD
,
if
OXFORD
had
not
sunk
in
same
,
Ere
this
,
had
damn'd
to
everlasting
shame
)
Their
steps
he
follows
,
and
their
crimes
partakes
,
To
Virtue
lost
,
to
Vice
alone
he
wakes
,
Most
lusciously
declaims
'gainst
luscious
themes
,
And
,
whilst
he
rails
at
blasphemy
,
blasphemes
.
Are
these
the
Arts
,
which
Policy
supplies
?
Are
these
the
steps
,
by
which
grave
Churchmen
rise
?
Forbid
it
,
Heav'n
;
or
,
should
it
turn
out
so
,
Let
Me
,
and
Mine
,
continue
mean
and
low
.
Such
be
their
Arts
,
whom
Interest
controuls
;
KIDGELL
and
I
have
free
and
honest
souls
.
We
scorn
Preferment
which
is
gain'd
by
Sin
,
And
will
,
tho'
poor
without
,
have
peace
within
.
THE
END
.