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Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause :
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curfes 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 nastrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
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,
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face,
I fit with fad civility, I read

With honeft anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

This faving counsel, » Keep your piece nine years «.
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by foft zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and requeft of friends:

>> The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, » I'm all fubmiffion, what you'd have it, make it «. Three things another's modeft 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 «. Pitholeon libell'd me · - » But here's a letter

» Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. >> Dare refuse him? Curl invites to dine,

you

» He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine «.

Blefs me! a packet.

'Tis a ftranger fues,

» A Virgin tragedy, an orphan Mufe «.
If I diflike it,» Furies, death and rage «<!
If I approve, » Commend it to the stage «.

There (thank my stars) my whole commiffion ends,
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

Fir'd that the house reject him, » 'Sdeath I'll print it, » And shame the fools. Your int'reft, Sir, with

Lintot «.

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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 laft he whispers, » Do ; and we go fnacks «.
Glad of a quarrel, ftrait I clap the door,

Sir, let me fee your works and you no more.
'Tis fung, when Midas' ears began to fpring,
(Midas, a facred person and a king)

His very minifter who spy'd them first,

(Some fay his queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,

When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend forbear! you deal in dangʼrous things,
I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings;

Keep close to ears, and those let affes prick,

'Tis nothing

-

·P. Nothing? if they bite and kick? Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret pass,

That fecret to each fool, that he's an afs:
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 fmarts fo little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canft hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'ft unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a feribler? break ore cobweb thro',
He fpins the flight, felf-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fb or fophiftry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin defigns,
Proud of a vaft extent of flimzy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer,
Loft the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnaffian fneer?
And has not Colly ftill his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henly, his free-masons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?

Still to one bishop Philips seems a wit?

Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God-sake—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 the fe-P. One flatt'rer's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

It is the flaver 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 profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:

One from all Grubftreet will my fame defend,

And more abusive, calls himself my

friend.

This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, » Subscribe, subscribe «. There are, who to my perfon pay their court: 1 cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am short, Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high, Such Ovid's nose, and, » Sir! you have an eyeGo on, obliging creatures, make me fee All that difgrac'd my betters, met in me. Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, >> Juft fo immortal Maro held his head <<: 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 Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, Ilifp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade,

No duty broke, no father disobey'd.

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,
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;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,
Ev'n mitred Rochefter would nod the head,
And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before )

As

With open arms receiv'd one poet more.
Happy my ftudies, when by these approv❜d!
Happier their author, when by these belov❜d!
From these the world will judge of men and books,
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
While pure description held the place of sense?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling ftream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ;
I never anfwer'd, I was not in debt.

If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

Did fome more fober critic come abroad;
If wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Comma's and points they fet exactly right,
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds :
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Each word-catcher, that lives on fyllables,
Ev'n fuch small critics fome regard may claim,
Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespear's name.
Pretty! in amber to obferve the forms

Of hairs, or ftraws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms;
The things we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.

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