I grant all Courses are in vain,
Unless we can get in again:
The only Way that’s left us now,
But all the Difficulty’s How?
THE
DIFFERENCE
BETWEEN
VERBAL and PRACTICAL
VIRTUE.
| Dicendi Virtus, nisi ei, qui dicit, ea, de quibus dicit, percepta sint, extare non potest. Cic. |
WITH
A Prefatory Epistle from Mr. C—b—r to Mr. P.
| Sic ulciscar genera singula, quemadmodum à quibus sum provocatus. |
| Cic. post Redit. ad Quir. |
LONDON:
Printed for J. Roberts, near the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-Lane.
Mdccxlii.
Mr. C—b—r to Mr. P.
Have at you again, Sir. I gave you fair Warning that I would have the last Word; and by —— (I will not swear in Print) you shall find me no Lyar. I own, I am greatly elate on the Laurels the Town has bestow’d upon me for my Victory over you in my Prose Combat; and, encouraged by that Triumph, I now resolve to fight you on your own Dunghil of Poetry, and with your own jingling Weapons of Rhyme and Metre. I confess I have had some Help; but what then? since the greatest Princes are rather proud than asham’d of Allies and Auxiliaries when they make War in the Field, why should I decline such Assistance when I make War in the Press? And since you thought most unrighteously and unjustly to fall upon me and crush me, only because you imagin’d your Self strong and Me weak, as France fell upon the Queen of Hungary; if I like her (si parva licet componere magnis) by first striking a bold and desperate Stroke myself with a little Success, have encouraged such a Friend to me, as England has been to her, to espouse my Cause, and turn all the Weight of the War upon you, till you wish you had never begun it; with what reasonable and equitable Pleasure may I not pursue my Blow till I make you repent, by laying you on your Back, the ungrateful Returns you have made me for saving you from Destruction when you laid yourself on your Belly. I am, Sir, not your humble, but your devoted Servant; for I will follow you as long as I live; and as Terence says in the Eunuch, Ego pol te pro istis dictis & factis, scelus, ulciscar, ut ne impune in nos illus eris.
THE
DIFFERENCE
BETWEEN
Verbal and Practical VIRTUE
EXEMPLIFY’D,
In some Eminent Instances both Ancient and Modern.
| What awkard Judgments must they make of Men, Who think their Hearts are pictur’d by their Pen; That this observes the Rules which that approves, And what one praises, that the other loves. Few Authors tread the Paths they recommend, Or when they shew the Road, pursue the End: Few give Examples, whilst they give Advice, Or tho’ they scourge the vicious, shun the Vice; But lash the Times as Swimmers do the Tide, And kick and cuff the Stream on which they ride. His tuneful Lyre when polish’d Horace strung, [a]And all the Sweets of calm Retirement sung, In Practice still his courtly Conduct show’d His Joy was Luxury, and Power his God; []With great Mæcenas meanly proud to dine, [c]And fond to load Augustus flatter’d Shrine; [d]And whilst he rail’d at Menas ill-got Sway, [e]His numerous Train that choak’d the Appian Way, His Talents still to Perfidy apply’d, Three Times a Friend and Foe to either Side. Horace forgot, or hop’d his Readers would, [f]His Safety on the same Foundation stood. That he who once had own’d his Country’s Cause, Now kiss’d the Feet that trampled on her Laws: That till the Havock of Philippi’s Field, Where Right to Force, by Fate was taught to yield, He follow’d Brutus, and then hail’d the Sword, Which gave Mankind, whom Brutus freed, a Lord: Nor to the Guilt of a Deserter’s Name, Like Menas great (tho’ with dishonest Fame) Added the Glory, tho’ he shar’d the Shame. For whilst with Fleets and Armies Menas warr’d, Courage his Leader, Policy his Guard, Poor Horace only follow’d with a Verse That Fate the Freedman balanc’d, to rehearse; Singing the Victor for whom Menas fought, And following Triumph which the other brought. [g]Thus graver Seneca, in canting Strains, Talk’d of fair Virtue’s Charms and Vice’s Stains, And said the happy were the chaste and poor; Whilst plunder’d Provinces supply’d his Store, And Rome’s Imperial Mistress was his Whore. But tho’ he rail’d at Flattery’s dangerous Smile, A Claudius, and a Nero, all the while, With every Vice that reigns in Youth or Age, The Gilding of his venal Pen engage, And fill the slavish Fable of each Page. See Sallust too, whose Energy divine Lashes a vicious Age in ev’ry Line: With Horror painting the flagitious Times, The profligate, profuse, rapacious Crimes, That reign’d in the degenerate Sons of Rome, And made them first deserve, then caus’d their Doom; With all the Merit of his virtuous Pen, Leagu’d with the worst of these corrupted Men; The Day in Riot and Excess to waste, The Night in Taverns and in Brothels past: [h]And when the Censors, by their high Controll, Struck him, indignant, from the Senate’s Roll, From Justice he appeal’d to Cæsar’s Sword, []And by Law exil’d, was by Force restor’d. [k]What follow’d let Numidia’s Sons declare, Harrass’d in Peace with Ills surpassing War; Each Purse by Peculate and Rapine drain’d, Each House by Murder and Adult’ries stain’d: Till Africk Slaves, gall’d by the Chains of Rome, Wish’d their own Tyrants as a milder Doom. If then we turn our Eyes from Words to Fact, Comparing how Men write, with how they act, How many Authors of this Contrast kind In ev’ry Age, and ev’ry Clime we find. Thus scribbling P—— who Peter never spares, Feeds on extortious Interest from young Heirs: And whilst he made Old S—lkerk’s Bows his Sport, Dawb’d minor Courtiers, of a minor Court. If Sallust, Horace, Seneca, and He Thus in their Morals then so well agree; By what Ingredient is the Difference known? The Difference only in their Wit is shown, For all their Cant and Falshood is his own. He rails at Lies, and yet for half a Crown, Coins and disperses Lies thro’ all the Town: Of his own Crimes the Innocent accuses, And those who clubb’d to make him eat, abuses. But whilst such Features in his Works we trace, And Gifts like these his happy Genius grace; Let none his haggard Face, or Mountain Back, The Object of mistaken Satire make; Faults which the best of Men, by Nature curs’d, May chance to share in common with the worst. In Vengeance for his Insults on Mankind, Let those who blame, some truer Blemish find, And lash that worse Deformity, his Mind. Like prudent Foes attack some weaker Part, And make the War upon his Head or Heart. Prove his late Works dishonest as they’re dull; That try’d by Moral or Poetic Rule, The Verdict must be either Knave or Fool. [l]Whilst his false English, and false Facts combin’d, Betray the double Darkness of his Mind; [m]That Mind so suited to its vile Abode, The Temple so adapted to the God, It seems the Counterpart by Heav’n design’d A Symbol and a Warning to Mankind: As at some Door we find hung out a Sign, Type of the Monster to be found within. From his own Words this Scoundrel let ’em prove Unjust in Hate, incapable of Love; For all the Taste he ever has of Joy, Is like some yelping Mungril to annoy And teaze that Passenger he can’t destroy. To cast a Shadow o’er the spotless Fame, Or dye the Cheek of Innocence with Shame; To swell the Breast of Modesty with Care, Or force from Beauty’s Eye a secret Tear; And, not by Decency or Honour sway’d, Libel the Living, and asperse the Dead: Prone where he ne’er receiv’d to give Offence, But most averse to Merit and to Sense; Base to his Foe, but baser to his Friend, Lying to blame, and sneering to commend: Defaming those whom all but he must love, And praising those whom none but he approve. Then let him boast that honourable Crime, Of making those who fear not God, fear him; When the great Honour of that Boast is such That Hornets and Mad Dogs may boast as much. Such is th’ Injustice of his daily Theme, And such the Lust that breaks his nightly Dream; That vestal Fire of undecaying Hate, Which Time’s cold Tide itself can ne’er abate, But like Domitian, with a murd’rous Will, Rather than nothing, Flies he likes to kill. And in his Closet stabs some obscure Name, [n]Brought by this Hangman first to Light and Shame. Such now his Works to all the World are known, Who undeceiv’d, their former Error own; Whilst not one Man who likes his rhyming Art, Allows him Genius, or defends his Heart: But thus from Triumph snatch’d, and giv’n to Shame Lash’d into Penitence, and out of Fame. Since all Mankind these certain Truths allow, And speak so freely what so well they know; No wonder doom’d such Treatment to receive, That he can feel, and that he can’t forgive. Were I dispos’d to curse the Man I hate, Such would I wish his miserable Fate. Thus striving to inflict, to meet Disgrace, And wasted to the Ghost of what he was; And like all Ghosts which Men of Sense despise, Only the Dread of Folly’s coward Eyes. Thus would I have him despicably live, Himself, his Friends, and Credit to survive, Into Contempt from Reputation hurl’d, His own Detractor thro’ a scoffing World. |