Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/15

 Nor will in you those gifts despise, By which himself was taught to rise: When he has virtue to retire, He'll grieve he did not raise you higher, And place you in a better station, Although it might have pleas'd the nation. This may be true — submitting still To Walpole's more than royal will; And what condition can be worse? He comes to drain a beggar's purse; He comes to tie our chains on faster, And show us England is our master: Caressing knaves, and dunces wooing, To make them work their own undoing. What has he else to bait his traps, Or bring his vermin in, but scraps? The offals of a church distrest; A hungry vicarage at best; Or some remote inferiour post, With forty pounds a year at most? But here again you interpose — Your favourite lord is none of those Who owe their virtues to their stations, And characters to dedications: For, keep him in, or turn him out, His learning none will call in doubt; His learning, though a poet said it Before a play, would lose no credit; Nor Pope would dare deny him wit, Although to praise it Phillips writ. I own, he hates an action base, His virtues battling with his place; Nor wants a nice discerning spirit Betwixt a true and spurious merit;