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. "