EPISTLE II. BOOK II.

DEAR Colonel, Cobhain's and your country's You love a verse, take such as I can send. [friend! A Frenchman comes, presents you with his boy, Bows and begins" This lad, Sir, is of Blois : "Observe his shape how clean, his locks how

"curl'd!

"My only son, I'd have him see the world:
"His French is pure; his voice too-you shall

"hear,

Sir, he's your slave for twenty pounds a-year. "Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease, Yourbarber, cook, upholst'rer, what you please:

"A perfect genius at an opera song-
"To say too much, might do my honor wrong.
"Take him with all his virtues, on my word;
"His whole anibition was to serve a lord :

"

But, Sir, 1 to you, with what would I not part? "Thơ' faith, I fear, twill break his mother'sheart. Once (and "And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry: caught him in a lie,

but

once) 1

"The fault he has I fairly shall reveal;
"(Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to steal."
If, after this, you took the graceless lad,
Could you complain, my friend, he prov'd so bad?
'Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute,
I think Sir Godfrey should decide the suit,
away,

Who sent the thief, that stole the cash,
And punish'd him that put it in his way.
Consider then, and judge me in this light;
I told you, when I went, I could not write;
You said the same; and are you discontent
With laws to which you gave your own assent?
Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time!
nothing but to rhyme?

D'ye

ye think

me good for

mind,

[day,

And certain laws, by suff'rers thought unjust,
Denied all posts of profit or of trust;
While mighty William's thund'ring arm pre-
Hopes after hopes of pious Papist fail'd,
For Right Hereditary tax'd and fin'd, [vail'd.
And me the Muses help to undergo it;
He stuck to poverty with peace of mind;
Convict a Papist he, and I a Poct.
Indebted to no prince or peer alive,
But (thanl. to Homer!) since I live and thrive,
Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes,
If I would scribble rather than repose.
At last they steal us from ourselves away;
Years following years steal something ev'ry
In one our frolics, one amusements
This subtle thief of life, this paltry Time,
In one a mistress drops, in one a friend:
What will it leave me, if it snatch my rhyme ?
That turn'd ten thousand verses now stand still?
If ev'ry wheel of that unwearied mill,
But, after all, what would you have me do,
When this Heroics only deigus to praise,
When out of twenty I can please not two;
One likes the pheasant's wing, and one the leg:
Sharp Satire that, and that Pindaric lays?
The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.

end,

Hard task! to hit the palate of such guests,

When Oldfield loves what Dartincuf detests.
Again to rhyme: can London be the place?
But grant I may relapse, for want of grace,
Who there his Muse, or self, or soul attends,
In crowds and courts, law, business, feasts, and

friends?

A Poet begs me I will hear him read :
In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me there -
At ten for certain, Sir, in Bloomsbury-square-
Before the Lords at twelve my Cause comes on-
There's a Rehearsal, Sir, exact at one.
"Oh! but a Wit can study in the streets,
"And raise his mind above the mob he meets,"
Not quite so well however as one ought;
A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought;
And then a nodding-beam, or pig of lead,
God knows, may hurt the very ablest head.
Two Alderınen dispute it with an Ass;
Have you not seen, at Guildltall's narrow pass,
And Peers give way, exalted as they are,

My counsel sends to execute a deed:

In Anna's wars, a soldier poor and old
Had dearly earn'd a little purse of gold:
Tird with a tedious march, one luckless night
He slept, poor dog! and lost it to a doit.
This put the man in such a desp'rate
Between revenge, and grief, and hunger,
Against the foe, himself, and all mankind,
join'd
He leap'd the trenches, scal'd a castle wall,
Tore down a standard, took the fort and all.
"Prodigious well!" his great commander cried;
Gave him much praise, and some reward beside.
Next pleas'd his excellence a town to batter;
(Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter)
Go on, my friend (he cried) see yonder walls! Sing thy sonorous verse
Advance and conquer! go where glory calls !
"More honors, more rewards, attend the brave." To ease and silence ev'ry Muse's son:
Don't you remember what reply he gave?
"D'ye think me, noble Gen'ral, such a sot?
Let him take castles who has ne'er
Bred up at home, full early I begun
To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son.
Besides my father taught me, from a lad,
The better art to know the good from bad:
(And little sure imported to remove,
To hunt for

Ev'n to their own S-r-v-nce in a car?
Go, lofty Poet! and in such a crowd
but not aloud,
Alas! to grottos and to groves we run ;

Blackmore himself, for any grand effort,
Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl's-court.

a groat." How shall I'rhyme in this eternal roar? [before?

truth in Maudlin's learned grove),

But knottier points we knew not half so well
Depriv'd us soon of our paternal cell;

How match the bards whom none e'er match'd
The man who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat,
To books and study gives seven years complete,
See! strew'd with learned dust, his nightcap on,
He walks, an object now beneath the sun!
The boys flock round him, and the people stare:
So stiff, so mute! some statue, you would swear,
Stept from its pedestal to take the air!

S4

}

And

And here, while town, and court, and city roars,
With mobs, and duns, and soldiers, at their doors,
Shall I in London act this idle part?
Composing songs, for fools to get by heart?

The Temple late two brother Serjeants saw,
Who deem'd each other Oracles of Law:
With equal talents, these congenial souls, [Rolls;
One lull'd th' Exchequer, and one stunn'd the
Each had a gravity would make you split,
And shook his head at Murray, as a wit.
'Twas, "Sir, your law"-and Sir, your elo-
quence;'
[bot's seuse.
"Yours, Cowper's manners;' and 'Yours, Tal-
Thus we dispose of all poetic merit;
Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit.
Call Tibbald Shakspeare, and he'll swearthe Nine,
Dear Gibber! never match'd one Ode of thine.
Lord! how we strut thro' Merlin's Cave to see
No poets there but Stephen, you, and me.
Walk with respect behind, while we at ease
Weave laurel Crowns, and take what names we
"My dear Tibullus!" if that will not do, [please,
"Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you:

"Or, L'in content; allow me Dryden's strains, And you shall rise up Otway for your pains.

pains."

Much do I suffer, much to keep in peace
This jealous, waspish, wrong-head, rhymingrace;
And much must flatter, if the whim should bite
To court applause, by printing what I write:
But, let the fit pass o'er, I'm wise enough
To stop my ears to their confounded stuff.

In vain bad Rhymersall mankind reject, [spect:
They treat themselves with most profound re-
'Tis to small purpose that you hold your tongue;
Each, prais'd within, is happy all day long:
But how severely with themselves proceed

The men who write such Verse as we can read!
Their own strict Judges, not a word they spare
That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care.
Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place,
Nay tho' at Court (perhaps) it may find grace:
Such they'll degrade; and sometimes, in its stead,
In downright charity revive the dead;

Mark where a bold expressive phrase appears,
Bright thro' the rubbish of some hundred years;
Command old words that long have slept, t'awake,
Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spake;
Or bid the new be English, ages hence,
(For Use will father what's begot by Sense)
Pour the full tide of eloquence along,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong,
Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue:
Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
But show no mercy to an empty line:
Then polish all with so much life and ease,
You think 'tis Nature, and a knack to please:

But ease in writing flows from art, notchance; "As those move easiest whohavelearu'dtodance." If such the plague and pains to write by rule,

Better (say I) be pleas'd, and play the fool:
Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease;
It gives men happiness or leaves thein case.
There liv'd in primo Georgii (they record)
A worthy member, no small fool, a Lord;

Who, tho' the House was up, delighted sate,
Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate:
In all but this, a man of sober life,
Fond of his Friend, and civil to his Wife;
Not quite a madman tho' a pasty fell,
And much too wise to walk into a well. [mur'd,
Him the danın'd Doctors and his Friends im-
They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in short,
they cur'd:

Whereat the gentleman began to stare -
My friends! he cried, p-x take you for your care,
That from a Patriot of distinguish'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a simple Vote.

Well, on the whole, plain prose must be myfate:
Wisdom, curse on it! will come soon or late.
There is a time when Poets will grow dull:
I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school:
To rules of Poetry no more confin'd,

I'll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind;
Teach ev'ry thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal measure of the soul.

Soon as I enter at my country door,
My mind resumes the thread it dropp'd before;
Thought which at Hyde-park corner I forgot,
Meet and rejoin me in the pensive Grot;
There all alone, and compliment. apart,
I ask these sober questions of my heart:

If, when the more you drink, the more you

crave,

You tell the Doctor; when the more you have,
The more you want, why not with equal ease
Confess as well your Folly, as Disease?
The heart resolves this matter in a trice:

Men only feel the Smart, but not the Vice."
When golden Angels cease to cure the Evil,
You give all royal Witchcraft to the Devil;
When servile Chaplains cry that birth and place
Endue a Peer with honor, truth, and grace,
Look if that breast, most dirty D-! be fair;
'Say, can you find out one such lodger there?
Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach,
You go to church to hear these flatt'rers preach.

Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit,

A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit,
The wisest man might blush, I niust agree,
If D*** lov'd sixpence more than he.

If there be truth in Law, and Use can give
A Property, that's yours on which you live.
Delighted Abs-court, if its fields afford
Their fruits to confesses you its lord;

All Worldly's hens, nay partridge, sold to town,

His ven'son too, a guinea makes your own:
He bought at thousands what with better wit
You purchase as you want, and bit by bit;
Now, or longsince, what diff'rence will be found!
You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.

Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men,
Lords of fat E'sham, or of Lincoln fen,
Buy ev'ry stick of wood that lends them heat
Buy ev'ry pullet they afford to eat.
Yet these are Wights who fondly call their own
Half that the Devil o'erlooks from Lincoln town,
The Laws of God, as well as of the land,
Abhor a Perpetuity should stand:

Estates

Estates have wings, and hang in fortune's pow'r, With terrors round, can reason hd her throne,

Loose on the point of ev'ry waving hour,
Ready, by force, or of your own accord,
By sale, at least by death, to change their lord.
Man? and for ever? wretch! what would'stthou:
Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave. [have?
All vast possessions (just the same the case
Whether you call them Villa, Park, or Chase)
Alas, my Bathurst! what will they avail?
Join Cotswood hills to Saperton's fair dale;
Let rising granaries and temples here,
Their mingled farms and pyramids appear;
Link towns to towns with avenues of oak;
Inclose whole towns in walls - 'tis all a joke!
Inexorable Death shall level all,

And trees, and stones, and farms, and farmer fall.
Gold, Silver, Iv'ry, Vases, sculptur'd high,
Paint, Marble, Gems, and robes of Persian dye,
There are who have not-and, thank Heaven!

there

Despise the known, nor trembleat' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and etire,
In spite of witches, devils, dreamsand fire?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd topok behind,
And count each birth-day with a gateful mind?
Has life no sourness, drawn so neaits end?
Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a 'iend?
Has age but melted the rough partaway,
As winter fruits grow mild ere the decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your asiness done,
When, of a hundred thorns, you ull out one?
Learn to live well, or fairly mat your will;
You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, ad drank your
Walk sober off, before a sprightli age
[ill:
Comes titt'ringon, and shoves you on the stage;
Leave such to trifle with more gree and ease,
Whoin folly pleases, and whose fllies please.

Who if they have not, think not worth their care. $21. Epilogues to the Satires. Inwo Dialogues.

Talk what you will of Taste, iny friend, you'!! [find,

Two of a face as soon as of a mind.

DIALOGUE I.

Pope.

Why, of two brothers, rich and restlessone [sun; Fr. Nor twice a twelvemonthyou appear in

Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to

print;

The other slights, for women, sports, and wines, And when it comes, the Court se nothing in't. All Townshend's turnips, and all Grosvenor's You grow correct, that once wit rapture writ;

mines:

Why one, like Bu-with pay and scorn content,
Bows, and votes on, in Court and Parliament;
One, driven by strong Benevolence of soul,
Shall fly, like Oglethorp, from pole to pole;
Is known alone to that Directing Pow'r
Who forms the Genius in the patal hour;
That God of Nature, who, within us sti
still,
Inclines our action, not constrains our will:
Various of temper, as of face of frame,
Each individual; his great End the same.
Yes, Sir, how small soever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy as well as keep.
My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace
A man so poor would live without a place:
But sure no statute in his favor says,

How free or frugal I shall pass my days;
I, who at some times spend, at others spare,
Divided between carelessness and care.

And

"Tis one thing madly to disperse my store ;
Another, not to heed to treasure more;
Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,
nd pleas'd if sordid want be far away.
What is 't to me a passenger, (God wot)
Whether my vessel be first rate or not?
The ship itself may make a better figure,
But I that sail am neither less nor bigger;
I neither strut with ev'ry fav'ring breath,
Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth:
In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the last.
I have none."

of avarice?

But why all this
I wish you joy, Sir, of a tyrant gone;
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad the avarice of pow'r?
Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appall?
Not the black fear of death that saddens all?

And are, besides, too moral for Wit.
Decay of parts, alas! we all mu feel -
Why now, this moment, don't Isee you steal?
'Tis all from Horace; Horace, Ing before ye,
Said, Tories call'd him Whis and Whigs a
"Tory:"

And taught his Romans, in muh better metre,
"To laugh at fools who put thei trust in Peter."

But Horace, Sir, was delicate was nice;
Bubo observes, he lash'd no sor of Vice:
Horace would say, Sir Billy ser'd the Crown;
Blunt could do business, H-ggin knew the town;
In Sappho touch the Failings of the Sex,
In rev'rend Bishops note some mall neglects;
And own the Spaniard did a wiggish thing,
Who cropp'dour ears, and sent tiem to the King.
His sly, polite, insinuating styl

Could please at Court, and make Augustus smile :
An artful manager, that crept letween
His friend and shaine, and wasa kind of screen.
But, 'faith, your very friends wll soon be sore;
Patriots there are who wish you 'd jest no more
And where's the Glory? 'twill be only thought
The great man never offer'd hin a groat.

Go see Sir Robert

P. See Sir Rolert! - hun

And never laugh for all my life to come?
Seen him I have, but in his happier hour
Of Social Pleasure, ill-exchanged for for Pow'r,
Seen him, uncumber'd with avenal tribe,
Smile without art, and win without a bribe.
Would he oblige ine? let me only find
He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
Come, come-at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt,
The only
-1 dare laugh out.
F. Why yes, with Scripture still you may be free;"
A horse-langh, if you please, at Honesty;

diff'rence is

A joke

L

i

If

A Joke on JKYL, or some odd Old Whig,
Who never cang'd his principle, or wig;
A patriot is fool in ev'ry age,
Whom all Ird Chamberlains allow the stage:
These nothig hurts; they keep their fashion still,
And wear thir strange old virtue, as they will.
any aslyou, "Who's the man, so near
"His prince hat writesin writes in verse, and has his ear?"
Why answer Lyttleton; and I'll engage
The worthy puth shall ne'er be in a rage:
But were hiverses vile, his whisper base,
You'd quicky find him in Lord Fanny's case.
Sejanus, Woey, hurt not honest Fleury;
But well mayput some statesmen in a fury.

Laugh the at any but at fools or foes;
These you bu anger, and you mend not those.
Laugh at you friends; and, if your friends are

sore,

So much the etter, you may laugh the more.
To vice and ŭly to confine the jest,
Sets half the world, God knows, against the rest;
Did not the srer of more impartial men
At sense and irtue balance all again.
Judicious witspread wide the ridicule,
And charitabl comfort knave and fool,

P. Dear Si, forgive the prejudice of youth:
Adieu, distincion, satire, warmth, and truth!
Come, harmies characters that no one hit;
Come, Henleys oratory, Osborne's wit!
The honey droping from Favonio's tongue,
The flow'rs of Bubo, and the flow of Y-ng!
The gracious dw of pulpit eloquence,
And all the wel-whipp'd cream of courtly sense,
The first was Ivy's, F-'s next, and then
The S-te's, and then H-vy's once again.
O come, that esy, Ciceronian style,
So Latin, yet so English all the while,
As, thơ' the pole of Middleton and Bland,
All boys may rad, and girls may understand!
Then might Iing, without the least offence,
And all I sung should be the Nation's Sense;
Or teach the mlancholy Muse to mourn,
Hang the sad vese on Carolina's urn,

And hail her pasage to the Realms of Rest,
All parts perforn'd, and all her children blest!
So Satire is no more - I feel it die -
No Gazetteer mire innocent than I-

And let, a-God's name, ev'ry fool and knave
Be grac'd thro' lie, and flatter'd in his grave.

F. Why so? if Satire knows his time and place,
You still may last the greatest-in disgrace:
For merit will be turns forsake them all;
Would you know when? exactly when they fall.
But let all satire in all changes spare
Immortal S-k, and grave D-re.

Silent and soft assaints remov'd to heaven,
All ties dissoly'd, and ev'ry sin forgiven,
These may some gentle ministerial wing
Receive, and place for ever near a King! [sport,
There, where no passion, pride, or shame tran-
Lull'd with the sweet Nepenthe of a Court;
There, where no father's, brother's, friend's dis-
Once break their rest, or stir them from their place.

grace

P

But, past the sense of human miseries,
All tears are wip'd for ever from all eyes;
No cheek is known to blush, no heart to throb,
Save when they lose a question, or a job.

P. Good Heaven forbid that I should blast
their glory,

Who know how like Whig Ministers to Tory,
And when three Sov'reigns died, could scarce be

vext,

Consid'ring what a gracious Prince was next.
Have I, in silent wonder, seen such things
As pride in Slaves, and avarice in Kings;
And at a Peer or Peeress shall I fret,
Who starves a sister, or forswears a debt?
Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
But shall the dignity of Vice be lost?
Ye Gods! shall Cibber's son, without rebuke,
Swear like a Lord, or Rich outwhore a Duke?
A fav'rite's porter with his master vie,
Be brib'd as often, and as often lie?
Shall Ward draw contracts with a statesman's
Or Japhet pocket, like his Grace, a will? [skill?
Is it for Bond or Peter (paltry things!)
To pay their debts, or keep their faith, like kings?
If Blount dispatch'd himself, he play'd the man,
And so may'st thou, illustrious Passeran!
But shall a Printer, weary of his life,
Learn from their books to hang himself and wife?
This, this, my friend, I cannot, must not bear;
Vice thus abus'd demands a nation's care:
This calls the church to deprecate our sin,
And hurls the thunder of the laws on gis.

Let modest Foster, if he will, excel
Ten Metropolitans in preaching well;
A simple Quaker, or a Quaker's wife,
Outdo Landaff in doctrine-yea in life;
Let humble Allen, with an awkward shame,
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.
V'irtue may choose the high or low degree,
'Tis just alike to virtue, and to me;
Dwell in a Monk, or light upon a King,
She 's still the same belov'd, contented thing.
Vice is undone if she forgets her birth,
And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth.
But 'tis the Fall degrades her to a whore:

Let Greatness own her, and she 's mean no more.
Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess,
Chaste matrons praise her, and gravebishops bless;
In golden chains the willing world she draws,
And hers the gospel is, and hers the laws;
Mounts the tribunal, lifts her scarlet head,
And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead.
Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,
Old England's Genius, rough with many a sear;
Dragg'd in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
His flag inverted trains along the ground!
Our youth, all livery'd o'er with foreig foreign gold,
Before her dance; behind her, crawl the old!
See thronging millions to the Pagod run,
And offer country, parent, wife, or son!
Hear her black trumpet thro' the land proclaim,
That not to be corrupted is the shame.
"Tis av'rice all, ambition is no more!
In soldier, churchman, patriot, man in pow'r,

See

See all our nobles begging to be slaves!

See all our fools aspiring to be knaves!
The wit of cheats, the courage of a whore,
Are what ten thousand envy and adore :
All, all look up, with reverential awe,
At crimes that 'scape or triumph o'er the law;
While truth, worth, wisdom, daily they decry:
"Nothing is sacred now but villany."

Yet may this verse (if such a verse remain)
Show there was one who held it in disdain.

Tell me which knave is lawful game, which not?
Must great offenders, once escap'd the Crown,
Like royal harts, be never more run down?
Admit your law to spare the knight requires,
As beasts of nature may we hunt the 'squires?
Suppose I
you know what I mean-
To save a Bishop, may I name a Dean ?
F. A Dean, Sir? nó; his fortune is not made;
You hurt a man that's rising in the trade.

censure

Then better sure it Charity becomes
To tax Directors, who, thank God, have plums;
Still better Ministers; or, if the thing

May pinch even there - why lay it on a King.
F. Stop! stop!

P. Must satire, then, nor rise nor fall?
Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all.
F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow.
P. Strike? why the man was hang'd ten years

ago;

Who now that obsolete example fears?
Even Peter trembles only for his ears.

F. What always Peter? Peter thinks you mad;
You make men desp'rate, if they once are bad:
Else might hetake to virtue some years hence-
P. AsS-k, if he lives, will love the Prince.
F. Strange spleen to S-k!

P. Do I wrong the man?
God knows, I praise a Courtier where I can.
When I confess, there is who feels for fame,
And melts to goodness, need I Scarb'row name?
Pleas'd let me own, in Esher's peaceful grove
(Where Kent and nature vie for Pelham's love),
The scene, the master, op'ning to my view,
I sit and dream I see my Craggs anew!

Even in a Bishop I can spy desert;
Secker is decent, Rundel has a heart:
Manners with candor are to Benson given;
To Berkley ev'ry virtue under heaven.

But does the Court a virtuous man remove?

That instant, I declare, he has my love:
I shun his zenith, court his mild decline;
Thus Somers once and Halifax were mine.
Oft, in the clear still mirror of retreat,

I studied Shrewsbury, the wise and great;
Carleton's calm sense and Stanhope's noble flame
Compar'd, and knew their gen'rousend the same.
How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour!
How shin'd the soul, unconquer'd in the Tow'r
How can I Puli'ney, Chesterfield forget,
Argyle, the State's whole thunder born to wield,
While Roman spirit charms, and Attie wit?

And shake alike the senate and the field:

Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne,
The master of our passions, and his own:
I long have lov'd, nor lov'din vain,

Names which I

Rank'd with their friends, not number'd with
their train;

And if yet higher the proud list should end,
Still let me say, No follower, but a friend
Yet think not, friendship only prompts mylays;
I follow Virtue; where she shines, I praise;
or Elder, Whig or Tory,

P. If not the tradesman who set up to-day, Point she to Priest

Much less the 'prentice who to-morrow may.
Down, down proud satire! tho' a realm be spoil'd, I never (to tuy sorrow I declare)
Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild;
Or, if a court or country's made a job,

Or round a Quaker's beaver cast a glory.

Go drench a pickpocket, and join the mob. beg you (for the love of vice!)

But, Sir, I

The matter 's

Have you less pity for the needy cheat,
The poor and friendless villain, than the great?
Alas! the small discredit of a bribe

weighty, pray consider twice :

Din'd with the Man of Ross, or my Lord Mayor.

Some in the choice of friends (nay, look not

grave)

Have still a secret bias to a knave:

To find an honest man, I beat about,

And love him, court him, praise him, in or out.
F. Then why so few commended ?

P. Not se fierce;

Scarce hurts the Lawyer, but undoes the Scribe. Find you the virtue, and I'll find the verse.

But