For which, I had resolv'd almost
To raise Tiberius Gracchus' ghost;
To get, by once more murdering Caius,
As much as did Septimuleius;
But who so dear will buy the lead
That lies within a poet's head,
As that which in the hero's pate
Deserv'd of gold an equal weight?
Sir, you're so stiff in your opinion,
I wish you do not turn Socinian;
Or prove reviver of a schism,
By modern wits call'd Quixotism.
What mov'd you, pray, without compelling,
Like Trojan true, to draw for Helen;
Quarrel with Dryden for a strumpet,
(For so she was, as e'er show'd rump, yet
Though I confess, she had much grace,
Especially about the face.)
Virgil, when call'd Pasiphae Virgo
(You say) he'd more good breeding; ergoWell argu'd, faith! Your point you urge As home as ever did Panurge:
And one may say of Dryden too,
(As once you said of you know who)
He had some fancy, and could write;
Was very learn'd, but not polite-
However from my soul I judge
He ne'er, good man, bore Helen grudge,
But lov'd her full as well, it may be,
As e'er he did his own dear Lady.6
• Dryden married Lady Elizabeth Howard.
You have no cause to take offence, sir,
Zounds, you're as sour as Cato Censor!
Ten times more like him, I profess,
Than I'm like Aristophanes.
To end with news-the best I know,
Is, I've been well a week, or so.
The season of green pease is fled,
And artichokes reign in their stead.
Th' Allies to bomb Toulon prepare;
God save the pretty ladies there!
One of our dogs is dead and gone,
And I, unhappy, left alone!
If you have any consolation
T'administer on this occasion,
Send it, I pray, by the next post,
Before my sorrow be quite lost.
The twelfth or thirteenth day of July,7 But which I cannot tell you truly.
DEAR, damn'd, distracting town, farewell!
Thy fools no more I'll tease:
This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,
Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
Soft B―s and rough C-s,1 adieu!
Earl Warwick, make your moan,
The lively H-k and you
May knock up whores alone.
To drink and drol·l be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman's toll;
Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde2
Save threepence and his soul.
Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned sot;
And Garth, the best good Christian he,
Although he knows it not.
Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonson!
Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe3
Lean Philips and fat Johnson.*
Why should I stay? Both parties rage;
My vixen mistress squalls;
The wits in envious feuds engage;
And Homer (damn him!) calls.
2 Philip Frowde, author of the tragedies of the Fall of Saguntum, and Philotas.
3 When George I. made Rowe one of the land-surveyors of the port of London.
Ambrose Philips, and Charles Johnson the dramatist.
The love of arts lies cold and dead
In Halifax's urn;
And not one muse of all he fed
Has yet the grace to mourn.
My friends, by turns, my friends confound,
Betray, and are betray'd:
Poor Y-r's sold for fifty pounds,
And B- -115 is a jade.
Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour seek?
Or follow girls seven hours in eight ?—
I need but once a week.
Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimsies to contrive;
The gayest valetudinaire,
Most thinking rake alive.
Solicitous for others' ends,
Though fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends, And frolic with my foes.
Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell
For sober, studious days!
And Burlington's delicious meal,
For salads, tarts, and pease!
Adieu to all but Gay alone,
Whose soul, sincere and free,
Loves all mankind, but flatters none,
And so may starve with me.
PROLOGUE, DESIGNED FOR MR. D'URFEY'S LAST PLAY.
GROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
Your persevering, unexhausted bard;
Damnation follows death in other men,
But your damn'd poet lives and writes again.
The adventurous lover is successful still,
Who strives to please the fair against her will:
Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy,
Who in your own despite has strove to please ye.
He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore,
But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.
You modern wits, should each man bring his claim,
Have desperate debentures on your fame;
And little would be left you, I'm afraid,
If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From this deep fund our author largely draws,
Nor sinks his credit lower than it was.
Though plays for honour in old time he made,
Tis now for better reasons-to be paid.
Believe him, he has known the world too long,
And seen the death of much immortal song.
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