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“ The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, 45 " 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 sends to me: “ You know his Grace, 6. I want a Patron; ask him for a Place."
50 Pitholeon libell’d me" but here's a letter 68 Informs
Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. “ Dare you refuse him ? Curl invites to dine, " He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine,”
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
Ver. 53. in the MS.
If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline,
To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine. Ver. 60. in the former Edd.
Cibber and I are luckily no friends.'
VER. 49. Pitholeon] The name taken from a foolish Poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek. Schol, in Horat. l. i. Dr. Bentley pretends, that this Picho. leon libelled C. also. Se notes on Hor. Såt. 1o. l. i.
Fir'd that the house reject him, “ 'Sdeath I'll print it, “ And shame the fools-Your int'reft, 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;
65 At last he whispers, “ Do; and we go snacks.” Glad of a quarrel, ftrait 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 His very Minister who spy'd them first, , (Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer 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 asses 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
VER. 72. Queen] The story is told, by fome, of his Barber, but by Chaucer of his Queen. See Wife of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Fables.
Ver. 80. That secret to each foal, that he's ar 415:] i. c. shat his ears (his marks of "folly) are visible.
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie ? The Queen of Midas flept, and fo 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 unconcern’d canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gall’ry in convulfions hursd, Thou stand'ft unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a Scribler ? break one cobweb thro', He spins the flight, self-pleasing thread anew : Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again, Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs, Proud of a vast extent of flimzy lines ! Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer, 95 Loft the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnaffian sneer? And has not Colly still his lord, and whore? His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moor? Does not one table Bavius ftill admit? Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?
100 NOTES, Ver. 88. Alluding to Horace,
Si fractus illabatur orbis,
P. VER. 96. arch'd eye-brow,] The eye-brow is raised in the expression of insolent contempt.
Ver. 98. free-masons Moor ?] He was of this fociety, and frequently headed their proceffions.
Still Sappho–A. Hold ! for God-fake-you'll offend,
One dedicates in high heroic prose,
110 One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, And more abusive, calls himself my friend. This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, “ Subscribe, fubfcribe.”
There are, who to my perfon pay their court: 115 I cough like Horace, and, tho’ lean, am short, Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, Such Ovid's nose, and “ Sir! you have an EyeGo on, obliging creatures, make me fee All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me. Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, “ Just so immortal Maro held his head :"
For song, for filence some expect a bribe ;
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown 125
130 The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife, To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care, And teach, the Being you preserv'd, to bear.
But why then publish? Granville the polite, 135 And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write ; Well-natur'd Garth infiam’d with early praise, And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;
After ý 124. in the MS.
But, Friend, this shape, which You and Curl a admire,
• Curl set up his head for a sign. • His Father was croaked, ( His mother was much afflicted with head-achs,