SATIRES AND EPISTLES.

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT;

BEING THE

PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

P. SHUT, shut the door, good John !* fatigued 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,
E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me :

9

Then from the Mint+ walks forth the man of rhyme,

Happy! to catch me just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson much bemused 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

* John Searle, Pope's servant.

+ Formerly a sanctuary for insolvent debtors in Southwark.

21

All fly to Twit'nam,* and in humble strain
Apply to me 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 not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song,)
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seized and tied 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.'

40

'Nine years!' cries he, who high in Drurylane,

Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,

Obliged 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.' 50

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.'

Pope's favourite mode of writing Twickenham.
Arthur Moore, Esq.

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. Fired that the house reject him,—“’Sdeath, I'll print it,

60

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.'

70

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 spied them first,
Some say his queen, was forced 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.
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:

80

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.

Alluding to a tragedy called 'The Virgin Queen,' by

Mr. R. Barford.

+ See Dunciad, Book I., line 40, note.

Lines 69-82 allude to the King, Queen Caroline, and Sir Robert Walpole.