Who can your merit selfishly approve, A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk? P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. And as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks, Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies, Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies : Eve's tempter thus the rabbins have express'd, The whisper, that, to greatness still too near, A. But why insult the poor, affront the great! He gain his prince's ear, or lose his own. Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, Sappho can tell you how this man was bit; This dreaded satirist Dennis will confess Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress! So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhymed for Moore: Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply ? Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's lie To please a mistress one aspersed his life; He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife : Let Budgell charge low Grub street on his quill, That harmless mother thought no wife a whore : If there be force in virtue or in song. Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause, And better got than Bestia's from the throne. The good man walk'd innoxious through his age Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie. Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, His life, though long, to sickness pass'd unknown, O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! Be no unpleasing melancholy mine; Me, let the tender office long engage, To rock the cradle of reposing age, With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, Make languor smile, and smooth the 'bed of death; May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend! A. Whether that blessing be denied or given, SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE, IMITATED. ADVERTISEMENT. The occasion of publishing these Imitations was the clamour raised on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full, and of more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person: and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what indig nation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in ever so low or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and ministers under whom they lived. The satires of Dr. Donne I versified at the desire of the earl of Oxford, while he was lord treasurer, and of the duke of Shrewsbury, who had been secretary of state; neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as ary reflection on those they served in. And, indeed there is not in the world a greater error, than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for a libeller; whereas to a true satirist nothing is so odious as a libeller, for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite. Uni æquus virtuti atque ejus amicis. Whoever expects a paraphrase of Horace, or a faithful copy of his genius, or manner of writing, in these imitations, will be much disappointed. Our author uses the Roman poet for little more than his canvass: and if the old design or colouring chance to suit his purpose, it is well; if not, he employs his own, without scruple or ceremony. Hence it is, he is so frequently serious where Horace is in jest, and at ease where Horace is disturbed. In a word, he regulates his movements no further on his original, than was necessary for his concurrence in promoting their common plan of reformation of manners. Had it been his purpose merely to paraphrase an ancient satirist, he had hardly made choice of Horace : with whom, as a poet, he held little in common, besides a comprehensive knowledge of life and manners, and a certain curious felicity of expression, which consists in using the simplest language with dignity and the most ornamented with ease. For the rest, his harmony and strength of numbers, his force and splendour of colouring, his gravity and sublimity of sentiment, would have rather led him to another mo del. Nor was his temper less unlike that of Horace than his talents. What Horace would only smile at, Mr. Pope would treat with the grave severity of Persius; and what Mr. Pope would strike with the caustic lightning of Juvenal, Horace would content him. self in turning into ridicule. If it be asked, then, why he took any body at all to |