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THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

ALEXANDER POPE.

VOL. II.

CONTAINING HIS

IMITATIONS OF HORACE, I EPISTLES, SATIRES OF DR. DONNE, EPITAPHS, ODES, | MISCELLANIES,

THE DUNCIAD.

Come then, my Friend! my Genius! comealong;
Oh, master of the poet and the song I
And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends,
To man's low passions, or their glorious ends,
Teach me, like thee, in various Nature wise,

To fall with dignity, with temper rise

Oh! while along the stream nt time thy namt
Expanded flics, and gathers all its fame,
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,'
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?
Shall then this Verse to future age pre', nd
Thou wort my guide, philosopher, and friend?
That, urg'd by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art
From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart?
For V* it's false mirror held up Nature's light,

Sbew'd erring Pride—whatever i-;, is right

That virtue only makes our bliss below,

And all our knowledge is—ourselves to know?

Ettay on Man.

PRINTED AND EMBELLISHED

Under the Direction tif

C. COOKE.

TO

DR. ARBUTHNOT;

BEING TUE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

ADVERTISEMENT *

To the first Publication of this Epistle.

This paper is a sort 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 some persons nf 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, bemg public, the public is judgej but my person, morals, and family; whereof, to those who know mc not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so aukward a task, I thought ft; tha shortest way to put the last hand to tills Epistle. If it have any tiling pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if any tiling offensive, it wiU 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 mo3t part, spared their names, and they rn.iy 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 1 make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advance mid honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly he done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.

P.if Shut, shut the door, good John!" fatigued, I

said; "Tie up the knocker; say I'm sick, I'm dead." The dog-star ra^cs! nay,»tis past a doubt, All Bedlam or Parnassus is ict out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5

They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hid'? They pierce my thickets, through niy grot they ^Hde, By land, by water, they renew the charge,

They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10

No pla-'.e is sa.;red, not the church is free,

Ev'n Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me:

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,

Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson much be-mus'd in beer, 15

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 21

Apply to me to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy 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 nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, arid who will not lie.
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace, 35
And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head,
And drop at last, bot in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, " Keep your peace nine years."

"Nine years!" cries J-e, who, high in Drury-
Lune,
Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends: 44

* The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; I'm all submission; what you'd have it—make it."

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