TO David Polhill Esq, PART II

Now Muse, pursue the Satyrist again, Wipe off the Blotts of his Invenom'd Pen; Hark, how he bids the Servile Painter draw In monstrous Shapes the Patrons of our Law; At one slight Dash he cancels every Name From the white Rolls of Honesty and Fame: This Scribbling Wretch marks all he meets for Knave, Shoots sudden Bolts promiscuous at the Base and Brave, And with unpardonable Malice sheds Poison and Spite on undistinguish'd Heads. Painter, forbear; or if thy bolder Hand Dares to attempt the Villains of the Land, Draw first this Poet, like some baleful Star With silent Influence shedding Civil War; Or Factious Trumpeter, whose Magick Sound Calls off the Subjects to the Hostile Ground, And scatters Hellish Feuds the Nation Round. These are the Imps of Hell, that cursed Tribe That first create the Plague, and then the Pain describe.

Draw next above, the Great Ones of our Isle, Still from the Good distinguishing the Vile; Seat 'em in Pomp, in Grandeur, and Command, Feeling the Subjects with a greedy Hand: Paint forth the Knaves that have the Nation sold, And tinge their greedy Looks with sordid Gold. Mark what a selfish Faction undermines The Pious Monarch's generous Designs, Spoil their own Native Land as Vipers do, Vipers that tear their Mothers Bowels thro'. Let great NASSAW beneath a careful Crown Mournful in Majesty, look gently down, Mingling soft Pity with an Awful Frown: He grieves to see how long in vain he strove To make us blest, how vain his Labours prove To save the stubborn Land he condescends to Love.