That vice you combat, in the abstract—­vice: 
The very captious will be quiet then;
We all confess we are offending men: 
In lashing sin, of every stroke beware,
For sinners feel, and sinners you must spare;
In general satire, every man perceives
A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves;
But name th’ offence, and you absolve the rest,
And point the dagger at a single breast. 
   “Yet are there sinners of a class so low,
That you with safety may the lash bestow;
Poachers, and drunkards, idle rogues, who feed
At others’ cost, a mark’d correction need: 
And all the better sort, who see your zeal,
Will love and reverence for their pastor feel;
Reverence for one who can inflict the smart,
And love, because he deals them not a part. 
   “Remember well what love and age advise: 
A quiet rector is a parish prize,
Who in his learning has a decent pride;
Who to his people is a gentle guide;
Who only hints at failings that he sees;
Who loves his glebe, his patron, and his ease,
And finds the way to fame and profit is to please.” 
   The Nephew answer’d not, except a sigh
And look of sorrow might be term’d reply;
He saw the fearful hazard of his state,
And held with truth and safety strong debate;
Nor long he reason’d, for the zealous youth
Resolved, though timid, to profess the truth;
And though his friend should like a lion roar,
Truth would he preach, and neither less nor more. 
   The bells had toll’d—­arrived the time of prayer,
The flock assembled, and the ’Squire was there: 
And now can poet sing, or proseman say,
The disappointment of that trying day? 
   As he who long had train’d a favourite steed,
(Whose blood and bone gave promise of his speed,)
Sanguine with hope, he runs with partial eye
O’er every feature, and his bets are high;
Of triumph sure, he sees the rivals start,
And waits their coming with exulting heart;
Forestalling glory, with impatient glance,
And sure to see his conquering steed advance: 
The conquering steed advances—­luckless day! 
A rival’s Herod bears the prize away,
Nor second his, nor third, but lagging last,
With hanging head he comes, by all surpass’d: 
Surprise and wrath the owner’s mind inflame,
Love turns to scorn, and glory ends in shame; —
Thus waited, high in hope, the partial ’Squire,
Eager to hear, impatient to admire;
When the young Preacher, in the tones that find
A certain passage to the kindling mind,
With air and accent strange, impressive, sad,
Alarm’d the judge—­he trembled for the lad;
But when the text announced the power of grace,
Amazement scowl’d upon his clouded face
At this degenerate son of his illustrious race;
Staring he stood, till hope again arose
That James might well define the words he chose: 
For this he listen’d—­but, alas! he found
The preacher always on forbidden ground.