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“ The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, 45 “ I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound, My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: “ You know his Grace, 6. I want a Patron; ask him for a Place."

50 Pitholeon libelld mem" but here's a letter Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. “ Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, “ He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine.”

Bless me! a packet.--"'Tis a stranger fues, 55 “ A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse." If I dislike it, “ Furies, death and rage !" If I approve, “ Commend it to the Stage.” There (thank my stars) my whole commiffion ends, The Play’rs and I are, luckily, no friends. 60


VER. 53. in the MS.

If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline,

To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine. VER. 60. in the former Edd.

Cibber and I are luckily no friends.


Ver. 49. Pitholeon) The name taken from a foolish Poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek. Schol. in Horat. 1. i. Dr. Bentley pretends, that this Pitholeon libelled Cæsar also. See notes on Hor. Sat. 10. 1. i.



Fir'd that the house reject him, “'Sdeath I'll print it,
“ And shame the fools-Your int'rest, Sir, with

Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:
“ Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch.”
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers, “ Do; and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, strait I clap the door,
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.

'Tis sung, when Midas' Ears began to spring,
(Midas, a sacred person and a King)

70 His very Minister who spy'd them first, (Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face? A. Good friend forbear! you deal in dang’rous things. I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings; 76 Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick, 'Tis nothing-P. Nothing ? if they bite and kick? Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass, That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass : 80


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VER. 72. Queen] The story is told, by fome, of his Barber, but by Chaucer of his Queen. See life of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Fables.

Ver. 80. That secret to each fool, that he's ar fifs:] i. e. chat his ears (his marks of folly) are visible.

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The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie ?)
The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

You think this cruel ? take it for a rule,
No creature smarts so little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall’ry in convulsions hurl'd,
Thou stand’st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who thames a Scribler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew :
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron’d in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of Alimzy lines !
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnaffian sneer?
And has not Colly still his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?

VER. 88. Alluding to Horace,

Si fra£tus illabatur orbis,
Impavidum ferient ruine.

P. VER. 96. arch'd eye-brown] The eye brow is raised in the expression of infolent contempt.

Ver. 98. free-masons Moor?] He was of this society, and frequently headed their processions.




Still Sappho---A. Hold! for God-fake-you'll offend,
No Names-be calm--learn prudence of a friend :
I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
But foes like these-P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, IOS
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.

One dedicates in high heroic prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes :
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
And more abusive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, “ Subscribe, subfcribe.''

There are, who to my person pay their court: 115
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am short,
Ammon’s great son one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nose, and “ Sir! you have an Eye-
Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee
All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
Just so immortal Maro held his head :"

Ver. 111. in the MS.

For song, for filence some expect a bribe ;
And others roar aloud, Subscribe, subscribe."
Time, praise, or money, is the least they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.

I 20


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And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.

Why did I write? what fin to me unknown 125
Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey’d.

I 36 The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife, To help me thro’ this long disease, my Life, To fecond, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care, And teach, the Being you preferv'd, to bear.

But why then publish ? Granville the polite, 135 And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise, And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;


After x 124. in the MS.

But, Friend, this shape, which You and Curl a admire,
Came not from Ammon's son, but from my Sire b
And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse,
I had it from my Mother, not the Muse.
Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

• Curl set up his head for a lign.

• His Father was crooked. ( His mother was much afflicted with head-achs,

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