EPISTLE

ΤΟ

PETER PINDAR.

EPISTLE, &c.

WHILE
HILE many a NOBLE NAME, to virtue dear,
Delights the public eye, the public ear,

And fills thy canker'd breast with such annoy,
As Satan felt from innocence and joy;
Why, Peter, leave the hated object free,
And vent, poor driveller, all thy spite on me?

5

While pure Religion's beam, bane to thy sight, O'er many a mitre sheds distinguish'd light, And Prelates, in the path their SAVIOUR trod, In trembling hope, "walk humbly with their God;" Why, Peter, leave the hated objects free,

And vent, poor driveller, all thy spite on me?

12

aside the Devil turned

For envy, yet with jealous leer malign

Ey'd them askance.

MILTON.

While, with a radiance yet to courts unknown, Calm, steady dignity surrounds the throne

And the tried worth, the virtues, of thy King,
Deep in thy soul infix the mortal sting
Why, Peter, leave the hated object free,
And vent, poor driveller, all thy spite on me?

15

Alas! scarce enter'd on the rolls of fame
And but to ONE LOVED CIRCLE known by name, 20
What can I stead thee? Thou mayst toil and strain,
Ransack, for filth, thy heart; for lies, thy brain;
Rave, storm;-'tis fruitless all. Of this, be sure,
Abuse of ME, will ne'er 66
one sprat" procure;
Bribe one night-cellar to invite thee in,
Purchase one draught of gun-powder and gin;

Seduce one brothel to display its charms,
Nor lure one hobbling strumpet to thy arms.

False fugitive! back to thy vomit flee-
Troll the lascivious song, the fulsome glee;
Truck praise for lust, hunt infant genius down,
Strip modest merit of its last half-crown;
Blow from thy mildew'd lips, on virtue blow,

And blight the goodness thou can'st never know:

25

30

36

'Tis well. But why on me?- While every tongue, Of thy rank slanders, ranker life, yet rung, Pronounced thy name with mingled hate and dread, And pour'd its whole abhorrence on thy head;

I spoke not:-ne'er did aught of thee, or thine, Profane, thank Heaven! one thought, one word of

mine.

True; when I heard thy deep-detested name,
A shivering horror crept through all my frame,
A damp, cold, chill, as if a snake or toad
Had started unawares across my road

Yet I kept silence: still thy spleen, or pride,

45

(Thy better demon absent from thy side,)

Urg'd thee to new assaults. Fool! there's a TIME, When slowness to resist, becomes a crime;

"TIS HERE! the hour of suff'rance now is o'er,

And scorn shall screen thee from my arm no more. 50

Unhappy dotard, see! thy hairs are grey

In fitter lists thy waning strength display;
Go, dip thy trembling hands in coward gore,
And hew down Wests and Copleys by the score;
But touch not me,-or, to thy peril know,
I give no easy conquest to the foe:

55

A