University of Virginia Library

THE GREAT MAN's ANSWER TO Are these Things So?

IN A DIALOGUE BRTWEEN His Honour and the Englishman in His GROTTO.

E.M.
Hail blest Elizium! sweet, secure Retreat;
Quiet and Contemplation's sacred Seat!
Here may my Life's last Lamp in Freedom burn,
Nor live to light my Country to her Urn:
Die 'ere that huge Leviathan of State
Shall swallow all.—Who thunders at my Gate!
See John—But hah! what Tempest shakes my Cell?
Whence these big Drops that Ooze from ev'ry Shell?
From this obdurate Rock whence flow those Tears?
Sure some Ill Power's at hand—Soft! it appears.

E.M.
What's That approaches, John?

J.
Why Sir, 'tis He.

E.M.
What He?

J.
Why He Himself, Sir; the great He.

E.M.
Enough.

G.M.
Your Slave, Sir.

E.M.
No, Sir, I'm your Slave,
Or soon shall be.—How then must I behave?
Must I fall prostrate at your Feet? Or how—
I've heard the Dean, but never saw him Bow.

G.M.
Hoh! hoh! you make me laugh.

E.M.
So Nero play'd,
Whilst Rome was by his Flames in Ashes laid.

G.M.
Well, solemn Sir, I'm come, if you think fit,
To solve your Question.

E.M.
Bless me! pray, Sir, sit.

G.M.
The Door!

E.M.
No Matter, Sir, my Door won't shut:
Stay here, John; we've no Secrets.

G.M.
Surly Put!
How restiff still! but I have what will win him
Before we part, or else the Devil's in him.

E.M.
I wait your Pleasure, Sir.

G.M.
Why Fame, you say,
Reports that I'm the Author of To-Day:
I am—But not the Day that you describe,
Black with imagin'd Ills—Your Patriot Tribe,
Those growling, restless, factious Malecontents,
Who blast all Schemes, and rail at all Events;
Whom Ministers, nor Kings, nor Gods can please;
Whose Rage my Ruin only can appease:
That motley Crew, the Scum of ev'ry Sect,
Who'd fain destroy, because they can't direct;
Wits, Common-Council-Men, and Brutes in Fur,
Knights of the Shire, and of the Post.

E.M.
This, Sir,
Is Gazetteer Abuse.

G.M.
These Miscreants dire
Apply the Torch themselves, then cry out Fire;
In Rhime, in Prose, in Prints, and in Debate,
They falsly represent the Nation's State.
Go forth, and see if Britain's fall'n so low;
Fly to her Coasts, and mark the glorious Show:
See Fleets how gallant! See Marines how stout!
That wait but till the Wind shall turn about.

E.M.
What a whole Twelvemonth!

G.M.
Pray Sir, hear me out.
See all their Sails unfurl'd, their Streamers play;
You'd think old Neptune's Self kept Holiday:
These shall protect our Commerce, scour the Main,
The Honour of the British Flag maintain;
Pour the avenging Thunder on the Foe,
And—

E.M.
Mighty well; but when are they to go?

G.M.
When? Psha! why look'ee, Sir, that Time will show.
Next view the martial Guardians of the Land:
Lo! her gay Warriors redden all the Strand:
Cockade behind Cockade, each Entrance keep,
Whilst in their Sheaths ten thousand Falchions sleep.

E.M.
But, Sir, 'tis urg'd that these are needless quite,
Kept only for Review, and not for Fight:
That Fleets are Britain's Safety—

G.M.
Stupid Elves!
Why these, Sir, are to save you from yourselves:
Ye're prone, ye're prone to murmur and rebel,
And when mild Methods fail, we must compel:
Besides, consider Sir, th'Election's near—

E.M.
—O, Sir, I'm answer'd—Now the Case is clear.

G.M.
Ay,—I shall answer all the rest as well.

E.M.
I doubt it not.

G.M.
On Se**s next you fell:
Fie! that was paw—Se**s are sacred Things,
And no more capable of Ill than—Kings.

E.M.
'Tis granted.

G.M.

E.M.
Indeed—such dire Calamities attend!
O worse, Sir, worse—Heav'n knows where it might end.
Perhaps Ourself and our dear Brother too,
No longer might our Country's Business do—

E.M.
That, Sir, you've done already—rather, then,
Your Business would be done.

G.M.
Ungrateful Men!
We that have serv'd you at such vast Expence,
And gone thro' thick and thin.

E.M.
There's no Defence,
Would serve your Purpose—Hence, then, good Sirs, Hence;
Fly, for the Evil Day's at Hand, Pray fly—

G.M.

E.M.
—Nay if they will, why let 'em be enslav'd:
If they will barter all that's Good and Great,
For present Pelf, nor Mind their future State;
If none Thy baleful Influence will withstand,
Go forth, Corruption, Lord it o'er the Land;
If they are Thine for better and for worse,
On Them and on their Children light the Curse.

G.M.
Corruption, Sir!—pray use a milder Term;
'Tis only a Memento to be firm;
The Times are greatly alter'd—Years ago,
A Man would blush the World his Price should know:
Scruple to own his Voice was to be bought;
And meanly minded what the Million thought;
Our Age more Prudent, and Sincere is grown,
The Hire they wisely take, they bravely own;
Laugh at the Fool, who let's his Conscience stand,
To barr his Passage to the promis'd Land;
Or, sway'd by Prejudice, or puny Pride,
Thinks Right and Int'rest of a different Side.

E.M.
O Nation lost to Honour and to Shame!
So, then, Corruption now has chang'd its Name:
And what was once a paultry Bribe, to Day
Is gently stil'd an Honourable Pay.
Blessings on that great Genius who has wrought
This strange Conversion—Who has bravely bought
Our Liberty from Virtue—Pray go on.

G.M.
Of Commerce next you talk—pretend 'tis gone,
To Foreign Climes—Amen, for what I care,
Perdition on the Merchants—They must dare!
To thwart my Purpose—I detest them—

E.M.
How!

G.M.
Yes—And I think I'm even with 'em now.
They would not be convention'd, nor excis'd,
But they shall feel the Scourge themselves advis'd;
They shall be swingingly bewarr'd, I'll swear;
And since they'd not my little Finger bear,
My Loins shall press 'em 'till they guilty plead,
And sue for Mercy at my Feet.

E.M.
Indeed!

G.M.
Aye, trust me, shall they—

E.M.
But don't tell 'em so;
For they're a stubborn sturdy Gang you know,

G.M.
O! they'll be supple when their Cash runs low.
Their Purse, which makes them proud and insolent,
A trav'ling with their Commerce shall be sent—

E.M.
Take Care they don't send you a trav'ling first;

G.M.
No, Sir, I dare 'em now to do their Worst.
Seven Sessions more I am at least secure—

E.M.
Nay then you'll crush 'em quite?—But are you sure,
There is a Spirit, Sir?

G.M.
What Spirit pray?
A Spirit that the Treasury can't lay.

E.M.
I'm answer'd Sir,—

G.M.
Next, Friend, one Word about
Those spiteful Innuendoes you throw out,
That squint at Contracts, Forage, and what not,
'Tis more than Time that those Things were forgot.
You should not link the present with the past—

E.M.
Yes when they make one glorious Whole at last;
When, tho' Times differ, Actions still agree,
And what Men were they are—What they will be,
We safely may pronounce—

G.M.
Well, Sir, but why
On my dear Family and Friends this Cry?
Suppose they've Places, Wealth, and Titles too,
Merit like Ours should surely have its Due.
That squaemish Steward's of all Fools the worst,
That lays not up for his own Houshold first;
Nor takes a proper Care of those staunch Friends,
By whose good Services he gains his Ends.
Besides, who'd drudge the Mill-Horse of the State;
Curst by the Vulgar, envy'd by the Great;
In one fastidious Round of Hurry live,
And join, in Toil, the Matin with the Eve;
Be hourly plagu'd 'bout Pensions, Strings, Translations,
Or, worse! that damn'd Affair of Foreign Nations.
Make War and Treaties with alternate Pain:
First sweat to build, then to pull down again.
Who'd cringe at Levees, or in Closets—Oh!
Stoop to the rough Remonstrance of the Toe?
Did not some Genius whisper, “That's the Road
“To Opulence, and Honour's bless'd Abode;
“Thus you may aggrandize yourself, and Race;
“Pension this Knight, or give that Peer a Place.”

E.M.
So Angria, Sir, as justly might declare,
He plunder'd only to enrich his Heir;
Nor longer would his Piracies pursue,
Than 'till he had provided for his Crew.

G.M.
Your Servant, Sir, I think you're pretty free—

E.M.
Why Truth is Truth, Sir, and will out, you see;

G.M.
Yes, s'death! but couple Angria with me!

E.M.
I'll say no more on't—

G.M.

E.M.
That's right,

G.M.

E.M.
That's Cobweb Sophistry—Did they not fill
The noblest Posts? And had they not, pray, still,
But that they greatly scorn'd to league with those,
Who were at once their King's and Country's Foes?

G.M.
Well, Sir, as there is nothing I can say
Will with your starch'd unbending Temper weigh;
My last best Answer I'll in Writing leave;
Pray mark it—

E.M.
How! May I my Eyes believe?

G.M.
You may—I thought I should convince you,

E.M.
Yes,
That Fame for once spoke Truth—And as for This—

G.M.
Furies! My thousand Bank, Sir,

E.M.
Thus I Tear,
Go, blend, Corruption, with corrupting Air.

G.M.
Amazing Frenzie! Well, if this won't do,
What think you of a Pension?

E.M.
As of You.

G.M.
A Place—

E.M.
Be gone,

G.M.
A Title—

E.M.
is a Lie.
When ill conferr'd

G.M.
A Ribband—

E.M.
I defie
Farewell then Fool—If you'll accept of Neither,
You and your Country may be damn'd together.