THE PREVIOUS QUESTION, FROM AN ENGLISHMAN in his GROTTO, TO A GREAT MAN at COURT.

_Lusisti Satis, edisti Satis, atque_[A] _bibisti_, TEMPUS ABIRE TIBI----Horat.

The Second Edition corrected:

With the Addition of Twenty Lines omitted in the former Impressions.

_LONDON:_

Printed for T. Cooper, at the _Globe_ in _Paternoster-Row_.

MDCCXL.

[A] Some great and erudite Criticks, instead of _Bibisti_, read Bribisti in this Place. Which of the two is the most applicable, our Querist does not pretend to determine.

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Are these Things So?

The Second Edition.

With great Additions and Corrections.

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(Price One Shilling.)

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

The first Publication of the following Poem having been entrusted to the Care of the Printer, it came, thro' either his Ignorance or Timorousness, extremely mutilated, and incorrect from the Press.

The twenty last Lines were left out, which made the Conclusion very abrupt, and in a great measure destroy'd the Intention, as well as Unity, of the whole Piece. The Characters of some great Personages were entirely omitted, and fict.i.tious Names placed to others, instead of the real ones inserted by the Author, who was always of Opinion, that deserved Praise, as well as just Satire, should disdain a Mask. As to the Pointing, it was false in almost every Line, and there were many Words either mis-plac'd or mis-spell'd in almost every Page. Notwithstanding its appearing under these many Disadvantages, the Public were pleas'd to shew their Approbation of it in general, and to give it such a generous and uncommon Reception, that a large Number were obliged to be printed off, to supply the present Demand, before there was Leisure to restore or correct any thing. The following Edition was at length undertaken by the Author Himself, and is entirely agreeable to the Ma.n.u.script which he at first put into the Hands of the Printer.

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Are these Things So?

THE PREVIOUS QUESTION, From an ENGLISHMAN in his GROTTO, To a GREAT MAN at COURT.

Dead to the World's each Scene of Pomp or Care, Wrapp'd up in Apathy to all that's there; My sole _Ambition_ o'er myself to reign, My _Avarice_ to make each Hour a Gain; My _Scorn_--the Threats or Favours of a Crown, A Prince's Whisper, or a Tyrant's Frown; My _Pride_--forgetting and to be forgot; My _Lux'ry_--lolling in my peaceful Grot.

All Rancour, Party, Pique, expung'd my Mind, Free or to _laugh_ at, or _lament_ Mankind; Here my calm Hours I with the Wise employ, And the great _Greek_, or _Roman_ Sage enjoy; Or, gayly bent, the Mirth-fraught Page peruse, Or, pensive, keep a _Fast-Day_ with the Muse.

Close shut my Cottage-Gate, where none pretends To lift the Latch, but Virtue and her Friends; Tho' pardon me--a Word, Sir, in your Ear, Once, _long ago_, I think I saw You here.

Yet to the World, all Hermit as I live, From all its vain Regards a Fugitive; Still in my Breast my _Country_ claims a Part, And Love of _Britain_ clings about my Heart: Then tell me, Sir, for You, 'tis said, best know, Is She, as Fame reports her, _fall'n so low_?

Is _She_, who for so many Ages rode _Unquestion'd_ Monarch of the _Water-Flood_; Whose freighted Barks were hail'd in ev'ry Zone, And made each _India's_ envy'd Wealth her own; Protected still by such a Guardian Force, That were they e'er molested in their Course, Sure _Vengeance_ on th' Aggressor straight was pour'd, Unless _Seven-fold_ was for the Wrong restor'd?

Is She now sunk to such _low Degree_, That _Gaul_ or _Spain_ must _limit_ out her _Sea_?

That She must ask _what Winds_ her Sails shall fill, And steer by _Bounty_ who once steer'd _at Will_?

Whilst the vast _Navies_ rais'd for her Support, _Nod_ on the _Main_, or _rot_ before the _Port_; With Hands _ty'd up_ vain _Menaces_ retail, Or try by meek _Perswasion_ to prevail?

And is there--_What!_--So many _Millions_ gone, So _many_,--Heavens! yet nothing, _nothing_ done?

Do then her Pow'rs this drowsy Sabbath keep?

Is there no Trump will rouse 'em from their Sleep?

Are they, quite lost to Empire and Renown, Bemus'd at Home, or sunk in _foreign Down_?

Or, is it true, what Fame pretends to say, That You, Sir, are the _Author_ of To-day?

That You're the fatal Cause of _Britain_'s Shame, The _Spend-thrift_ of her Freedom and her Fame?

That _Albion_'s Sons are, by your Arts, become The _Dupes_ of Foreigners, and _Slaves_ of Home; That her fam'd S--te, on whose sage Debate, And _free_ Resolves, depended _Europe_'s Fate, Now meanly on your Nod _dependent_ sit, And _Yea_ or _No_ but just as you think fit; Nay, that the _Chiefs_ of even _Levi's Tribe_, Bow down to you, the _Converts_ of a _Bribe_?

Whilst our trim _Warriors_, deaf to Honour's Call, Now wage no War but in the Senate-Hall; There wait your _Generalissimo_ Command, To fight _your_ Battles 'gainst the Patriot Band?

And that should One more n.o.ble than the rest, Disdain to truckle to your high Behest, Speak what he thinks, and freely plead the Cause Of _Britain's_ Commerce, Liberty, and Laws; Exert his Pow'r to check Corruption's Swing, And serve, at _once_, his Country and his King, His _dang'rous_ Virtues are discarded straight, As sure as they are Vertues of your Hate; Stripp'd of all Honour, Dignity, and Rule, To cloath some _Kindred_ Oaf, or _t.i.tled_ Tool.

Or should a brave and honest _Adm'ral_ dare To make one Conquest tho' in Time of War, Without _your Leave_ to risk a vig'rous Blow, And shew what _Britons_, if they _might_, could do, Whilst ev'ry raptur'd Voice resounds his Praise, And grateful Hands triumphal Columns raise, Your venal Scribes are order'd all they can To _lessen_ and _prophane_ the _G.o.dlike Man_.

That thus the _Fountain_ of _Britannia's_ Health, _Source_ of her Grandeur, Liberty, and Wealth, Polluted by your _all-corrupting_ Hand, With rank Infection deluges the Land; Parent at once of _Want_ and _Luxury_, Of open Rapine and dark Treachery; The Knaves _Elixir_, and the Just Man's _Bane_, _Food_ to the _Locust_, _Mildew_ to the _Swain_; Pouring on those who once in _Goshen_ dwelt; More deadly Plagues than _aegypt_ ever felt, And _worse_ than _Israel's heaviest_ Task inflicts Tho' _gone_ our _Straw_ yet claiming _double Bricks_ Whilst _Commerce_ flies before th' oppressive Weight, And seeks in _Gaul_ a more indulgent Fate; Where, Shame to _Britain_! the fair Stranger Guest Is hail'd with Raptures, and her _Wrongs_ redress'd.

"What then?" I'm told you say, "we nothing lose, "If they've our Commerce we've their wooden Shoes; "And since our _Merchants_ are so _fancy_ grown, "'Tis Time to pull _st.u.r.dy Beggars_ down; "They mutiny'd for _War_, and _War_ they have, "But _such a one_ that soon a _Peace_ they'll crave; "_Peace_ shall be Theirs, but _such a Peace_, that then "They'll curse their Prayers and wish for War again; "Thus pois'ning to 'em what they ask as best, "I'll ruin 'em by _granting_ their Request.

Are these Things so? Or is it Fiction all?

A _sland'rous Picture_ drawn in Soot and Gall?

Offspring of Disappointment or Disgrace, Of Those who _want_ or who have _lost_ a _Place_?

If so, why lives the Scandal? up for Shame, Confront your Foes, and vindicate your Fame; For, trust me Sir, to wink at such Offence, Rather proclaims a _Fear_ than _Innocence_; "No one is guilty 'till he's guilty prou'd---- Come then, be this wild Clamour strait remov'd; In _conscious Justice_ cloath'd a.s.sert your Right, Shake off this Load of Obloquy and Spite, Like _Samuel_ dauntless cry, _Lo here I am_!

"Witness against me if I'm ought to blame.

"Before the Lord and his Anointed say "Whose _Rights_ or _Honours_ have I ta'en away?

"Whom, speak, have I _defrauded_ or _oppress_'d, "Or ever pilfer'd _Forage_ from whose Beast?

"Of what vile _Contract_ was I e'er the Scribe, "Or of whose Hands have I receiv'd a _Bribe_?

"What _Scheme_ did ever I at Home propose "But whence some _nameless_ Profit would have rose?

"Or what _C--n----n_ e're devise abroad "But such as _Britain_'s Se--e did applaud?

"What of my _Country_'s Money e'er bestow'd "Except in _secret Service_ for her Good?

"Or what _Inc.u.mbrance_ on her _Commerce_ laid, "But for th' Increase of _our_ Revenues made?

"In my dear Country's Service now _grown gray_ "_Spotless_ I've walk'd before you to this Day "My Thoughts laid out my precious Time all spent "In the hard _Slavery_ of _Government_; "My Brother too the _fruitless_ Bondage shares, "And all your _Peace_ is owing to his Cares, "Girding his Loins he Travels far and near "And brings home some _rare Treaty_ ev'ry Year.

"You have my Sons too with you who bow down "Beneath the weighty Service of the Crown; "My Cousins and their Cousins too--hard Fate!

"Are _loaded_ with the Offices of State; "And not _one Soul_ of all my Kindred's free "From _sharing_ in the Public Drudgery:

"Why then these Shafts of Calumny you throw, "This groundless _Odium_ cast on all I do?

"Speak out with Freedom what you have to say, "Aside all _Influence_, _Pow'r_, and _Skreen_ I lay, } "And put my Conduct on the Proof To-day. } This Sir, if you dare stand the Inquest, do, And then if you've but _Samuel_'s _Answer_ too, If all this heavy Charge is void of Ground, And by the _publick Voice_ you're _guiltless_ found, Resume your Power, with Terrors arm'd go forth, And blast the Villains that traduc'd your Worth; Who basely durst your Righteous Course Arraign, And Soil the Glory's of great _Brunswick_'s Reign.

But if you _know_ your Cause is not the _best_ Know that you have Defrauded and Oppress'd, That you have ta'en and giv'n many a Bribe, And of a _wicked Contract_ been the Scribe.

That you _have_ pilfer'd _Forage_ from the Beast, And with the _Publick Wealth_ your _own_ encreas'd; That a dire _Scheme_ you laid t' _Excise_ the Land, And to a vile C--v----n set your Hand; That you've _Monopoliz'd_ each Post and Place, To aggrandize your self and _Mushroom_ Race, That all your Kindred--Brother, Sons, and Cousins, Have _t.i.tles_ and _Employments_ by the _Dozens_; And for as many _Sidesmen_ as are wanted, _New Places_ are contriv'd, _new Pensions_ granted.

If you are travell'd in these _crooked_ Ways With a long Train of black _et Cetera's_; Whilst the _whole Nation_ loaths your very Name, And Babes and Sucklings your _Dispraise_ proclaim; Turn your Eyes inward, on yourself reflect, Think what you _are_, then what you're to _expect_: Pa.s.s a few Years the _Sisters_ cut your Thread, And rank you in the Number of the Dead; But of what _Dead_? not those whose Memory, Bloom with sweet Savour through Posterity.

Those deathless Worthies, who, as Good as Great, Or rais'd a fall'n, or prop'd a sinking State; Or in the breach of Desolation stood, And for their Country's Welfare pledg'd their Blood.