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Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine:
With aspect open shall erect his head,
And round the orb in lasting notes be read,
“ Statesman, best friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear ;
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Muse he loved."

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT:

BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

P. Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigu’d, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The Dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can

hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.
By land, by water, they renew the charge ;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, 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 bemus'd in beer, 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, Apply to ine, 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, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! (which did you not prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song,) What drop of nostrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped; If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace; 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, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years.”

“ Nine years !" cries he, who high in Drury-lane, 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 : “ The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it ; 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: I want a patron; ask him for a place." Pitholeon libell’d me "but here's a letter Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine, He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." Bless me! a packet. - "'Tis a stranger sues, 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 players and I are, luckily, no friends. [it, Fir'd that the house reject him, “ 'Sdeath! I'll print And shame the fools- your interest, 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: At last he whispers, “ Do; and we go snacks.” Glad of a quarrel, straight 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,) His very minister, who spy'd them first, (Some say his queen,) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in' my face ? A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous

things, I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings;

Wings,

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 :
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie ?)
The queen of Midas slept, and so 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,
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack :
Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurlid,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb

through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew : Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again, Thron’d on the centre of his thin designs, Proud of a vast extent of Aimsy lines ! Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer? And has not Colly still his lord, and whore ? His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moor? Does not one table Bavius still admit ? Still to one bishop Philip seems a wit ? Still Sappho - A. Hold ! for God's sake - you'll

offend; No names-- be calm — learn prudence of a friend : I too could write, and I am twice as tall; [all. But foes like these — P. One flatterer's worse than Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, It is the slaver 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 prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes ;
One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, “ Subscribe, subscribe !"

There are, who to my person pay their court :
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short.
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nose, and, “ Sir! you have an eye!"
Go on, obliging creature, make me see
All that disgrac'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 sure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.

Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to Fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd ; The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife; To help me through this long disease, my life; To second, Arbuthnot ! thy art and care, And teach, the being you presery'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 ;

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