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EPISTLE TO Dr. ARBUTHNOT,

BE IN G TH E

PROLOGUE

TO THE

SA TIRES.

Voli II.

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TO

The first publication of this Epistle. This paper is a fort of bill of complaine, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches , as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune (the Authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Noble. man at Hampton Court ) to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings (of which,

being public, the Public is judge ) but my person, morals, and family, whereof, to those who know me not , a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the ne. cellity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so aukward a task, I thought it the shortelt way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the unge

nerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true;

Az

but I have, for the most part, (pared their names, and they may escape being laughed at , if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage, and honour , on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine Gince a nameless character can never be found. out, but by its truth and likeness.

E PISTLE

BEING THE

PROLOGUE

TO THE

SA TIRE S.
Suur,

P. HUT, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd l said,
Tye np the knocker , say I'm sick , I'm dead,
The Dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave , recite , and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets , thro' my grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free ,
Ev'n sunday shines no sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of thyme,
Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.

Is there a parfon, much be-mus'd in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza , when he should engross?

A

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