 | Poems on several occasions |  |
II.—PIIS ET GRATULANTIBUS WHIGGIS RESPONSIO.
Yours I received; and stood surprised to see
Your Calves'-Head “gratitude and piety;”
To me, I own, beyond my merit kind,—
As friends make beauties which they cannot find.
But this and greater errors I pass by:
All faults are venial in a lover's eye.
Your Calves'-Head “gratitude and piety;”
To me, I own, beyond my merit kind,—
As friends make beauties which they cannot find.
527
All faults are venial in a lover's eye.
Long ere I wrote, your politics had shown
You fear'd no more the' encroachments of the throne.
Let wicked Stuarts dare to' affect the power
Your suffrage often gave their successor,
Hampden in arms his sovereign shall defy,
And Sandys the blood-hound open with full cry,
Bradshaw expect his death for public good,
And Onslow sign petitions for his blood.
You fear'd no more the' encroachments of the throne.
Let wicked Stuarts dare to' affect the power
Your suffrage often gave their successor,
Hampden in arms his sovereign shall defy,
And Sandys the blood-hound open with full cry,
Bradshaw expect his death for public good,
And Onslow sign petitions for his blood.
Though compliments you strain, this pen of mine
Like root-and-branch work authors cannot shine.
Peers, prelates, kings they strike: My lower flight
Can only reach the gewgaws of a knight.
Did knighthood catch the peerage in a string?
Or did St. George's Garter make him king?
If so, then Charles's sentence let him bear,
And lose his head for signing with an R;
While “Like for like” may sneaking Tories please,
Who wish no more than Pains and Penalties!
Did half your ardour but my breast inspire;
My soul did Sidney, Locke, or Hoadly fire;
I'd act the Roman tyrant-killer's part,
And stab him, though unsceptred, to the heart,
For senates, armies, taxes, without end,
A plot decipher'd and a South Sea screen'd;
Serene and pleased to' avenge my native isle,
And prove my poniard sharper than my style!
Through you secure of endless fame, should I,
Like Felton, Sindercomb, or Brutus, die.
Like root-and-branch work authors cannot shine.
Peers, prelates, kings they strike: My lower flight
Can only reach the gewgaws of a knight.
Did knighthood catch the peerage in a string?
Or did St. George's Garter make him king?
If so, then Charles's sentence let him bear,
And lose his head for signing with an R;
While “Like for like” may sneaking Tories please,
Who wish no more than Pains and Penalties!
Did half your ardour but my breast inspire;
My soul did Sidney, Locke, or Hoadly fire;
I'd act the Roman tyrant-killer's part,
And stab him, though unsceptred, to the heart,
For senates, armies, taxes, without end,
A plot decipher'd and a South Sea screen'd;
Serene and pleased to' avenge my native isle,
And prove my poniard sharper than my style!
Through you secure of endless fame, should I,
Like Felton, Sindercomb, or Brutus, die.
528
Yet think not I applauded verse disclaim;
For who denies the works that bring him fame?
Whate'er you please is mine: your word's enough;
Or add your oath too,—never want for proof.
What, though your saviour Oates has closed his eyes?
Decipherers breathe, and circumstances rise.
Thus friends and foes my merit shall descry,
While you shall swear it, and I not deny.
For who denies the works that bring him fame?
Whate'er you please is mine: your word's enough;
Or add your oath too,—never want for proof.
What, though your saviour Oates has closed his eyes?
Decipherers breathe, and circumstances rise.
Thus friends and foes my merit shall descry,
While you shall swear it, and I not deny.
| Poems on several occasions | |