But to his conscience true;

Do thou, O Pope, this praise rehearse,

To him I dedicate this verse,

For, Lonsdale, 'tis thy due.

A SIMILE:

PRINTED IN

GEOFFRY BROADBOTTOM'S JOURNAL;*

April 1743.

DEAR Geoffry, didst thou never meet
A beggar walking in the street,

Who, conscious of his want of sight,
Trusts others to direct him right?

Out of his doors he'll never stir,
Without his knowing faithful cur,
Well-skill'd each different way in finding,
Who knows all crossings, ev'ry winding;
By him thro' all the town is led,
And guided safely home to bed:
So fares it with our Treasury board,
Where dark and blind sits ev'ry lord
(From that grave thing † that wears a ribbon,
Quite down to that grave nothing, Gibbon);

* A weekly Paper.

+ Lord Wilmington.

Whose eyes can't see, nor heads discern,
Too dull, their own dull forms to learn;
And, therefore, wisely they've provided,
A Cur by whom they all are guided;
No warrant sign till he inspects it,
No step dare take till he directs it;
But, conscious, to his judgment stoop,
And all their strings are tied to Scrope.*

* Secretary to the Treasury. He had been so under Sir R. Walpole, and the new ministers were forced to retain him from their own ignorance of business.-W.

TO THE

REV. SAMUEL HILL,

CANON OF WELLS, &c. &c.
Written in August, 1744.

DEAR Muse, as you have nothing else to do, Write to the Canon, just a line or two;

First wish him health, then wish him joy, and

then

Wish that he may soon be preferr❜d again.
That mark of grace is to the clergy giv'n,
Never to be content on this side heav'n;
From step to step, they labour still to rise,
Until they reach, what last they seek, the skies.
For when to pray'rs they're summon'd by the

bells,

And Hill is seated in his stall at Wells;
To th' altar, at the creed, he turns about,
With eyes uplifted, and with look devout.

When, I believe in God, he chants aloud, To act his part, and to deceive the crowd; To Fortune, then, he offers up his pray'r, Who makes the clergy her peculiar care, And softly muttering his lips between, "O, goddess, make thy votary a dean; "Then I no more thro' Wells will take the air, "Slow creeping in a chariot and a pair;

"But buy a coach, and add two horses more, "And I and Molly'll troll about with four; "Then shall these Canons tremble at my nod, "And bow to me much lower than to God; "Then shall I see them seated round my table,

Flatt'ring as well as their poor wit is able;

"With beef I'll cram them, and with port I'll fill, "But while I treat them well, I'll use them ill. "My vanity they'll soothe, my pride they'll swell,

"And vouch for ev'ry story that I tell;

66

Cry up my preaching, and my learning raise, "My jokes they'll laugh at, and my wit they'll

praise,