University of Virginia Library

The Defense of my self.

A Lady of my Acquaintance having suffered very much in a Law-Suit (which she lost) through the Malice and Perjury of a vile Set of Men, and she and her Family being insulted in a barbarous and insolent manner by the same Persons, it occasioned me to write a satyrical Song upon the Adversaries of my Friend. A certain Gentleman, who saw that Piece, was pleased to send me a Poetical Letter, which he entitl'd an Essay on Satyr; in answer to which the following Lines were penn'd.

Ingenious Monitor, whose ev'ry Line
At once displays the Poet and Divine;
Your tuneful Letter gladly I receive,
And Thanks to the judicious Author give.
Abash'd, yet pleas'd, in secret I peruse
The friendly Labours of your faithful Muse.
Confess the Justness of each candid Thought,
And self-condemn'd am free to own my Fault.
Yet I might quote the Words of heav'nly Men
To justify the Failures of my Pen.
Unhappy Children felt Elisha's Rage,
When they despis'd the Prophet's blasted Age:
Deep Execrations on the Sinner's Head
Thro' all the Psalmist's royal Strains are spread
Invectives there, with heavy Curses, flow,
Such as I dare not wish my greatest Foe.
What tho they're utter'd by the best of Kings,
My bright Redeemer teaches kinder things;
More gen'rous Precepts in his Gospel shine,
Mercy and Truth embellishing each Line,
And of all Virtues none I think so fair,
None can with Christian Charity compare.
Tho' warm Resentment for an injur'd Friend
Provok'd my Spleen, and caus'd me to offend;
Yet let me palliate an erroneous Song,
Assert the Rage, but own th' Expression wrong.
When Indignation rises in my Breast,
It is the Sin, not Sinner I detest:
Tho' angry Passions in my Bosom roll,
Malice and Hate could ne'er debauch my Soul.
As ev'ry Grace from Heaven's high King descends,
So Sin proceeds from Hell's malignant Fiends.
Bad Men their Agents oftentimes I name,
And may perhaps with too much Heat declaim:
But never yet did any Verse of mine
Th' Offender to eternal Flames consign.
Not the rash Man, who, joyful to offend,
Drank deep Damnation to my dearest Friend:
Nor threaten'd Murder to my self, could e'er
Extort a Sentence, that is so severe.
No, tho' harsh Terms the Criminals pursue,
Yet whilst I blame 'em I forgive 'em too.
My utmost Wish is that they might be brought,
To mourn the Mischiefs which their Madness wrought.
But the leud Race of these degen'rate Times
Rejoice in Guilt, and triumph in their Crimes.
So cruel Nero once his Harp employ'd,
When his curst Arts imperial Rome destroy'd.
Thus far at least I've kept my Conscience free,
I've done no more than I'd have done to me,
Should I at any time false Witness bear,
Oppress a Widow or an Infant Heir:
If e'er I travel in the Wanton's Road,
Or with licentious Tongue prophane my God;
Insult my Neighbour, wound his honest Fame,
Or with false Scandals blast his precious Name.
For Crimes like these the Lash would be my Due,
I should deserve it, and expect it too.
Yet think not, Sir, that your Advice is vain,
Who can be careless of so sweet a Strain?
Fools hate Reproof, and scorn to be made wise,
But gen'rous Minds will prudent Counsel prize:
Th' instructive Theme is wrought with so much Art,
I'll wear the golden Precepts in my Heart.
The Rules you give, I gladly would pursue,
But find the Task more adequate to you:
You best can teach the Christian's sacred Law,
And Vice in all her guilty Colours draw:
'Tis more than time you should th' Attempt begin,
To check the monstrous growth of ev'ry Sin.
The daily Practice of unthinking Men
Loudly demands the Censor's striking Pen;
Divine Astrea from the Earth is fled,
And proud Oppression governs in her stead.
Pleasures forbid are lawlessly enjoy'd,
And Babes in Embryo secretly destroy'd:
Man preys on Man, the Tyrant gains Applause,
And few durst plead the injur'd Widow's Cause.
Rapine, Revenge, Hypocrisy and Pride,
Dire Perjury, cruel Uxoricide,
Pass with Impunity in these sad Days,
And some ev'n dare the vilest Acts to praise:
Tormenting Passions tear the human Breast;
For Minds implacable can never rest.
Avarice in some does most intensely glow,
And Gold's the brightest Deity they know.
The poor Man labours for his Bread in vain,
Whilst the stern Master, heedless of his Pain,
Keeps back the Wages of his weekly Task,
And frowns and threatens, if he's bold to ask:
The weary Slave goes home with wat'ry Eyes,
And lanquishes for Nature's due Supplies.
The Mother and her Babes together mourn,
Finding no kind Relief at his return:
They all are pinch'd, all want the dear earn'd Stock
That should suffice himself and little Flock.
Un-nam'd, un-number'd Vices more there are,
Which well deserve your kind, correcting Care;
And while your friendly and judicious Page
Rebukes the Follies of this sinful Age,
Your pious Arguments shall strongly move,
Enforc'd by Reason and impress'd by Love;
Shall stop the Venom of the Sland'rer's Tongue,
And bold Oppressors cease from doing Wrong;
Repenting Souls shall humbly bow to Heav'n,
And supplicating beg to be forgiv'n.
Where soft Humanity retains her Seat,
Your tender Lines will kind Acceptance meet;
But let the Vengeance of thy Verse be shed,
In Terms of Terror, on the perjur'd Head:
Correct with freedom, and with warmth reprove;
His Heart's too hard for gentle Strokes to move:
His Conscience sleeps, whilst mild Perswasion charms,
And must be wak'd by Dread and loud Alarms:
He (for you cannot well be too severe)
A publick Mark of Infamy should wear,
Lest others fall in his perfidious Snare.
From him, let Virtue's honest Sons recede,
For 'tis a Crime to countenance the Deed.
Of all the Vices that I yet have nam'd,
Perj'ry's the blackest, and should most be blam'd;
It strikes whole Families in one sad Hour,
And quite subverts the Legislative Pow'r.
In vain are wholesome Laws for Justice meant,
When faithless Oaths can frustrate their Intent.
For other Faults some little may be said,
The Man of Pleasure is by Sense betray'd;
By beauteous Looks the Am'rous are undone,
While native Frailty helps their Ruin on.
Delicious Morsels court the Glutton's Taste,
And he offends at the luxurious Feast.
The sparkling Glass allures the Drunkard's Eye,
It warms his Blood and lifts his Spirits high;
He drinks, grows mad, becomes a guilty Soul,
Deceiv'd by the inebriating Bowl.
And Cholerick Men, by Provocation fir'd,
Are with a transient Lunacy inspir'd:
In height of Rage they deal the hasty Blow,
And inadvertent strike at Friend or Foe;
Without Design a hasty Blow may kill:
The perjur'd Man's deliberately Ill.
'Tis not an inconsiderate, sudden Start,
He meditates the Mischief in his Heart:
'Tis all injurious, wicked, full of Spite,
And not one Sense regal'd with soft Delight.
So far from Pleasure is the cruel Fact,
That Nature shrinks in the detested Act.
Shews her Abhorrence, and her deep Regrets,
In trembling Agonies, and dewy Sweats.
But the bold Sinner scorns to quit the Field,
Resolv'd he swears, and Nature's forc'd to yield.
Affronted Conscience too retires to Rest,
And sleeps unactive in his guilty Breast.
Till Death or some kind Monitor, like you,
Shall with strong Hand the dismal Scene renew,
Shall sting his Bosom with unwonted Pain,
And make him wish for Innocence again.