POET.

Such fair advice 'twere pity sure to lose:
I grant I printed it for public use.

FRIEND.

Yes, season'd with your own remarks between,
Inflamed with so much virulence of spleen
That the mild town (to give the devil his due)
Ascribed the whole performance to a Jew.

POET.

Jews, Turks, or Pagans--hallow'd be the mouth
That teems with moral zeal and dauntless truth!
Prove that my partial strain adopts one lie,
No penitent more mortified than I; 30
Not e'en the wretch in shackles doom'd to groan,
Beneath the inhuman scoffs of Williamson.[1]

FRIEND.

Hold--let us see this boasted self-denial--
The vanquish'd knight[2] has triumph'd in his trial.

POET.

What then?