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 commis-
sion ends,

59

The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fired that the house rejects him, ''Sdeath, I'll print it,

And shame the fools-your int'rest, 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),

70

eye-'

Go on, obliging creatures! make me see All that disgraced my betters met in me. Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, 121 '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

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,

130

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; 151
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 provoked, or madness made them
print,

I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did some more sober critic come abroad;
If wrong, I smiled, if right, I kiss'd the

rod.

Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame or to commend,
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools; by flatterers besieged,
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged;
Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause: 210
While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence
raise,

And wonder with a foolish face of praise
Who but must laugh if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
What tho' my name stood rubric on the
walls,

Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad?

Poems I heeded (now berhymed so long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday song.

I ne'er with Wits or Witlings pass'd my days

To spread about the itch of verse and praise;

Nor like a puppy daggled thro' the town
To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and
cried,

With handkerchief and orange at my side;
But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. 230
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry
quill:

Fed with soft dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
His library (where busts of poets dead,
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of Wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a
place:

Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,

And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days

May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!

May every Bavius have his Bufo still! 250 So when a statesman wants a day's defence,

Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense,

Or simple Pride for flatt'ry makes demands,

May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?

Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write?

Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? 'I found him close with Swift'-'Indeed? no doubt

(Cries prating Balbus) something will come out.'

'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will; 'No, such a genius never can lie still:' And then for mine obligingly mistakes 279 The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my style?

Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,

That tends to make one worthy man my foe, Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear,

Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear! But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,

Insults fall'n Worth, or Beauty in distress,
Who loves a lie, lame Slander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;
That fop whose pride affects a patron's

name,

290

Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame;

Who can your merit selfishly approve, And show the sense of it without the love;

Welcome for thee, fair Virtue ! all the past:

For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the last!

A. But why insult the poor? affront the great?

360

P. Aknave's a knave to me in ev'ry state; Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail; A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer, Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire; If on a Pillory, or near a Throne, 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 For to his pride, but friend to his dis

tress:

371

And better got than Bestia's from the throne.

Born to no pride, inheriting no strife,
Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious thro' his
age.

No courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle
art,

No language but the language of the heart. By Nature honest, by Experience wise, 400 Healthy by Temp'rance and by Exercise; His life, tho' long, to sickness pass'd unknown,

His death was instant and without a groan. 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,

409