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SATIRES, EPISTLES, AND ODES

OF HORACE.

IMITATED.

Ludentis speciem dabit, et torquebitur.—HOR.

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 indignation 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 any 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.

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THE FIRST SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK

OF HORACE.

TO MR. FORTESCUE.1

P. THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told),
There are to whom my satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter2 complaisant enough,
And something said of Chartres 3 much too rough.
The lines are weak, another's pleas'd to say;
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Timorous by nature, of the rich in awe,

I come to counsel learned in the law:

You'll give me, like a friend both sage and free, Advice; and (as you use) without a fee.

F. I'd write no more.

P. Not write? but then I think, And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink. I nod in company, I wake at night; Fools rush into my head, and so I write.

F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. Why, if the night seem tedious-take a wife: Or rather, truly, if your point be rest, Lettuce and cowslip wine: probatum est. But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise

1 Baron of the Exchequer, and afterwards Master of the Rolls.

* See note 2 vol. ii. p. 121. 3 See note vol. ii. p.75. 4 Lord Hervey.

Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes.
Or if you needs must write, write Cæsar's praise;
You'll gain at least a knighthood or the bays.
P. What? like Sir Richard,5 rumbling, rough,
and fierce,

With arms, and George, and Brunswick, crowd the verse;

Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder, With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and

thunder?

Or nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force,
Paint angels trembling round his falling horse?6
F. Then all your Muse's softer art display,
Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay;
Lull with Amelia's liquid name the Nine,
And sweetly flow through all the royal line.

P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear;
They scarce can bear their laureate twice a year;
And justly Cæsar scorns the poet's lays;
It is to history he trusts for praise.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still, Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille, Abuse the city's best good men in metre, And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter. E'en those you touch not, hate you.

P. What should ail 'em?

F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam: The fewer still you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.

Sir Richard Blackmore.

• At the battle of Oudenard.

P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny Scarsdale his bottle, Darty7 his ham-pie: Ridotta sips and dances till she see

The doubling lustres dance as fast as she :
Floves the senate, Hockley-hole his brother,
Like in all else, as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myself as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne :
In them, as certain to be lov'd as seen,
The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within;
In me what spots (for spots I have) appear,
Will prove at least the medium must be clear.
In this impartial glass my Muse intends
Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends;
Publish the present age; but where my text
Is vice too high, reserve it for the next;
My foes shall wish my life a longer date,
And every friend the less lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing through my quill,
Verse-man or prose-man, term me which you
Papist or Protestant, or both between,
Like good Erasmus, in an honest mean,
In moderation placing all my glory,

will,

While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet

To run a muck, and tilt at all I meet ;

7 Dartineuf, a great epicure, with whom Pope appears to have lived on good terms.

8 Of this distinguished Member of Parliament, Sir Robert Walpole repeatedly said, that "he was not corruptible."

I only wear it in a land of Hectors,

Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors.
Save but our army! and let Jove incrust
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust!
Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more:
But touch me, and no minister so sore.
Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time
Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the sad burden of some merry song.

Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage;
Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page ;9
From furious Sappho1 scarce a milder fate,
Pox'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate.
Its proper power to hurt each creature feels;
Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels;
'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug;
And no man wonders he's not stung by pug.
So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat,
They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat.

Then, learned sir! (to cut the matter short)
Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at court,
Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray,
Attends to gild the evening of my day,
Or death's black wing already be display'd,
To wrap me in the universal shade;
Whether the darken'd room to muse invite,

' Judge Page is said to have treated delinquents rather too roughly.

1 See Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. xcii.

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