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To gain Pescennius one employs his Schemes,
One grasps a Cecrops in extatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour’d,
Can taste no pleasure since his Shield was scour’d:
And Curio, restless by the Fair-one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Their's is the Vanity, the Learning thine:

Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine:
Her Gods and godlike Heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush, these studies they regard engage;
These pleas’d the fathers of poetic rage :
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And Art reflected images to Art.

Oh, when thall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enrolla, And vanquish'd realms fupply recording gold ? Here, rising bold, the Patriot's honest face; There, Warriors frowning in historic brass : Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree ; 60 Or in fair series laureld Bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Then thall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine). On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine; With aspect open shall erect his head, And round the orb in lasting notes be read, “ Statesman, yet friend to Truth! of soul sincere, “ In action faithful, and in honour clear;

“ Who



“Who broke no promise, served no private end,
“ Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend;
“ Ennobled by himself, by all approv’d,
And prais’d, unenvy'd, by the Muse he lov'd.”


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The first Publication of this Epistle. THIS paper is a fort of bill of complaint, begun,

many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased fome 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 Nobleman at Hampton-Court] to attack, in a very extraordinary manner,' not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Publick is judge) but my Perfon, Morals, and Family, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to fay something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so aukward a talk, I thought it the shortest 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 offenfive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true: but I have, for the most part, fpared 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, since a nameless Character can never be found out, but by its truth and likeness.


P. SHUT, shut the door, good John ! fatigued I said,

Tye up 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, through 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;


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Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy! to catch me, just at Dinner-time.
Is there a Parson, much bemus'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?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate 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, whose giddý 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?
A dire dilemma ! either way I'm fped ;
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 silent, and who will not lie:

After ver. 20. in the MS.

Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free,
With all their brandith'd reams they run to me:
Is there a 'Prentice, having feen two plays,

Who would do something in his Sempftress' praise Ver. 29. in the ist Ed.

Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse ?
Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse ?


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