35

To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all Power of face.
I fit with fad civility, I read

With honeft anguish, and an aching head;

And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

This faving counsel," Keep your piece nine years." 40 Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by foft Zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and requeft of friends:

"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, 45 "I'm all fubmiffion, what you'd have it, make it." Three things another's modest wishes bound, My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon fends to me: "You know his Grace: "I want a Patron; afk him for a Place." Pitholeon libel'd me-" but here's a letter "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refufe him? Curll invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine."

Blefs me! a packet.-" 'Tis a stranger fues, "A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe." If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, « Commend it to the Stage."

50

55

VARIATION.

Ver. 53. in the MS.

If you refufe, he goes, as fates incline,
To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine.

There

There (thank my stars) my whole commiffion ends,
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

60

Fir'd that the house reject him, " 'Sdeath I'll print it, "And shame the fools-Your intereft, 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:

Do; and we go

fnacks."

At laft he whispers, "
Glad of a quarrel, strait I clap the door,
"Sir, let me fee your works and you no more."

'Tis fung, when Midas' ears began to spring, (Midas, a facred person and a King)

His very Minifter, who fpy'd them first,

(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer case,

When every coxcomb perks them in my face?

65

79

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things,
I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let affes prick,
'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret pass,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:

The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)
The Queen of Midas flept, and so may I.

8a

You think this cruel? Take it for a rule,

No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,

85

Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:

Pít,

VARIATION.

Ver. 60. in the former Ed.

Cibber and I are luckily no friends.

Pit, box, and gallery, in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a Scribler? Break one cobweb through,
He spins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,

'The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin defigns,
Proud of a vast extent of flimzy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnaffian fneer?
And has not Colly still his lord, and whore ?
His butchers Henley, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius still admit?

Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?

90

95

100

Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God's fake-you'll offend, No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:

I too could write, and I am twice as tall;

But foes like thefe-P. One Flatterer's worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:

Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,

And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.

VARIATION.

Ver. 111. in the MS.

For fong, for filence fome expect a bribe:
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe!"

105

110

This

This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, " Subscribe, fubscribe!"

115

There are, who to my perfon pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am fhort.
Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nofe, and, "Sir! you have an Eye!"—
Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee

All that difgrac'd my Betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal Maro held his head ;”
And when I die, be fure you let me know.
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what fin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lifp'd in numbers, for the numbers came,

I left no calling for this idle trade,

No duty broke, no father difobey'd:

120

125

130

The

VARIATIONS.

Time, praife, or money, is the least they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.

After ver. 124. in the MS.

But, friend, this shape, which You and Curll a admire,
Came not from Ammon's fon, but from my Sire b
And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse,
I had it from my Mother, not the Muse.
Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

a Curll fet up his head for a fign.

b His Father was crooked.

His Mother was much afflicted with headachs.

The Mufe but ferv'd to ease fome friend, not Wife,
To help me through this long disease, my Life,
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care,
And teach, the Being you preferv'd to bear.

But why then publish? Granville the polite,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,
Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head,

And St. John's felf (great Dryden's friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.
Happy my ftudies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their Author, when by these belov'd!

135

140

From these the world will judge of men and books, 145
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.
Soft were my numbers: who could take offence
While pure Description held the place of Sense?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;

150

I never answer'd, I was not in debt,

If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

155

Did fome more fober Critic come abroad;
If wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their juft pretence,
And all they want is spirit, tafte, and sense.

160 Commas