University of Virginia Library

A Consolatory Epistle to Julian in his Confinement.

Dear Friend,

When those we love are in distress,
Kind Verse may comfort tho it can't redress;
Nor can I think such Zeal you'l discommend,
Since Poetry has been so much thy Friend.
On that thou'st liv'd and flourish'd all thy time,
Nay more, maintain'd a Family with Rhyme;
And that's a mark which Dryden ne'er cou'd hit,
He lives upon his Pension not his Wit.
E'en gentle George (with Flux in Tongue and Purse)
In shunning one snare runs into a worse.
Want once may be reliev'd in a Man's Life,
But who can be reliev'd that has a Wife?
Otway can hardly Guts from Goal preserve,
For tho he's very fat he's like to starve.
And Sing-Song Durfey (plac'd beneath Abuses)
Lives by his Impudence not by the Muses.
Poor Crown too has his third Days mixt with Gall,
He lives so ill, he hardly lives at all.
Shadwel, and Settle, who pretend to Reason,
Tho paid so well for scribling Doggrel Treason,
Must now expect a very barren Season.
But chiefly he that writ his Recantation,
For Villain thrives best in his own Vocation.
Nay Lee in Bedlam now sees better days,
Than when applauded for his Bombast Plays.
He knows no Care, he feels sharp Want no more,
And that is what he ne'er cou'd say before.
Thus while our Bards e'en famish by their Wit,
Thou who hadst none at all, didst thrive by it.
Wer't possible that Wit cou'd turn a penny,
Poets would then grow rich as well as any;
For 'tis not Wit to have a great Estate
(The blind effects of Fortune and of Fate)
For oft we see a Coxcomb, dull and vain,
Brim full of Cash, and empty in his Brain.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Lawyer prize
His daggled Gown, but Knavery in disguise,
To pluck down honest Men that he may rise.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Tradesman great,
'Tis the Compendious Art to lie, and cheat.
The base-born Strumpet too may roar and rail,
But 'tis not Wit she lives by, 'tis her Tail.
Nor is it Wit that drills the Statesman on
To waste the sweets of Life so quickly gon
In toiling for Estates; then like a Sot
Die, and leave Fools to spend what he has got.
Nor is it Wit for Whigs to scrible Satyrs,
No more than for their Patriots to be Traytors;
For Wit does never bring a Man to hanging,
That goes no farther than an harmless banging.
How justly then dost thou our Praise deserve,
That got thy Bread where all Men else wou'd starve?
And what's more strange, the Miracle was wrought
By him that han't the least pretence to Thought;
And he that had no meaning to do wrong,
Can't suffer sure for their no-meaning Song.
And that's the Consolation that I bring,
Thou art too dull to think a treacherous thing;
And 'tis the thoughtful Traytor that offends his King.