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.

Fir'd that the house rejects him, " 'Sdeath, I'll print it,

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."

Ali

my demurs but double his attacks;

At last he whispers, " Do, and we go snacks." Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door;

66

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 ministers who spied 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?

The London Journal.

⚫ An allusion to Sir Robert Walpole and Queen Caroline.

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous

things;

I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings;
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 hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb thro',
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 in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has poet yet or peer
Lost the arch'd eyebrow or Parnassian sneer?
And has not Colley still his lord and whore?
His butchers Henley ?6 his freemasons Moore ??

6 Orator Henley declaimed among the butchers in Newport Market and Butcher's Row.

7 He used frequently to head the processions of the Free

masons.

Does not one table Bavius still admit?

Still to one bishops Philips seem 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;

But foes like these-P. One flatterer's worse than

all.

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 creatures! 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 died three thousand years ago. Why did I write? what sin to me unknown

8

Bishop Boulter, the friend and patron of Amorose Philipe.

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 preserv'd to bear.

A. But why then publish? P.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,
E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head,
And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one poet more.
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their author, when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books,
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 9 draw his venal quill;

• Gildon, who acquired considerable notoriety as a critic, dramatist, &c., grossly abused Pope in some of his writings: see Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. lvi., and note on Dunciad, b. i., v. 296.

I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still:
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ;
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.

Did some more sober critic come abroad; If wrong, I smil'd, if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds: Each wight who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word catcher that lives on syllables,

E'en such small critics some regard may claim, Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name. Pretty! in amber to observe the forms

Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.

Were others angry: I excus'd them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting weight pride adds to emptiness, This who can gratify? for who can guess? The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Wno turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown,1 Ambrose Philips translated the Persian Tales from the French.