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What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce mythickets, thro'my Grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10
No place is sacred, not the Church is free,
Ev’n Sunday Thines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme,
I lappy! to catch me, just at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parfon, much bc-mus’d in beer, 15
A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp’rate charcoal round his darken’d walls?
All fly to Twit’NAM, and in humble strain 21
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

After y 20. in the MS.

Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free,
With all their brandish'd reams they run to me:
Is there a Prentice, having seen two plays,
Who would do something in his Scmptress' praise

NOTE S. Ver. 12. Evn Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me.] The beauty of this line arises from the figurative terms of the predicate alluding to the subject. A secret, in elegant expression, which our Author often practised.

Ver. 13. Mint.) A place to which insolvent debtors retired, to cnjoy an illegal protection, which they were there suffered to afford one another, from the persecution of their creditors.

any a

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 25 And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What Drop or Noftrum can this plague remove ?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped.
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz’d and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lye:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, 35
And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face.
I sit with fad civility, I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head;

Ver. 29. in the ist Ed.
Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse?
Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse?

VER. 23. Arthur,] Arthur Moore, Esq.

Ver. 33. Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge,] Alluding to the scene in the Plain-Dealer, where Oldfox gags, and ties down the Widow, to hear his well-pen'd fianzas.

VER, 38. honest anguish, l i. e. undissembled. : Ibid. an aching bead ;] Alluding to the disorder he was then so constantly afflicted with.

And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, 39 This faving counsel, “ Keep your piece nine years."

Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lanes Lull’d by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends : “ The piece, you think, is incorre&t? why take it,4 5 “ 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 fends to me: “ You know his Grace, “ I want a Patron ; ask him for a Place.” 50 Pitholeon libelld me---“ 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 Divinc."

VER. 53. in the MS.

If you refulo, he goes, as fates incline,
To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine.

NOTE s. Ver. 43. Rhymes ere he wakes, 1 A pleasant allusion to those words of Milton,

Dictates to me fluinb'ring, or inspires Easy my unpremeditated Verle. VER. 49. Pitholeon] The name taken from a foolish Poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek. Schol in Horat. I. i. Dr. Bentley pretends, that this Pitholcon libelled Cælar allo, Sec notes on Hor. Sat, 10. I.i.

The name Greek. Shelled Cælar

Bless me! a packet.---" 'Tis a stranger sues, 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 commission ends, The Play’rs and I are, luckily, no friends. 60 Fir'd that the house reje&t him, “ 'Sdeath I'll print it, And shame the fools---Your int’rest, Sir, with

Lintot.” 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

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VER. 60. in the former Edd.
Cibber and I are luckily no friends.

NOTES. Ver. 69. 'Tis fung, when Midas' &c.] The Poet mean; sung by Perfius; and the words alluded to are,

Vidi, vidi ipfe, Libelle ! Auriculas Afini Mida Rex habet. The transition is fine, but obscure: for he has here imitated the manner of that mysterious writer, as well as taken up his image. Our Author had been hitherto complaining of the folly

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 afses 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
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)
The queen of Midas flept, 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 únconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall’ry in convulsions hurld,
Thou stand’st unshook amidst a bursting world.

Notes. and importunity of indigent Scriblers; he now insinuates he suffered as much of both, from Poetasters of Quality.

Ver. 72. Queen] The story is told, by some of his Barber, but by Chaucer of his Queen. See Wife of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Fables.

P. Ver. 80. That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass :] i. e, that his ears (his marks of folly) are visible. VER. 88. Alluding to Horace, .

Si fractus illabatur orbis,

Impavidum ferient ruinæ,

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