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
through,
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90
Destroy his fib, or sophistry; in vain!
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Throned 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,* his freemasons Moore ? +
Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Still to one bishop 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!'
* "Orator Henley" (see Dunciad, Book I., line 216, note; also Book II., line 425, note). In allusion to his preaching in Newport and Clare markets.
+ James Moore Smythe, Esq. was a Freemason.
Ambrose Philips was secretary to B. Boulter, Primats of Ireland.
Lady Mary Wortley Montague.
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 disgraced 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
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 served 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 preserved, to bear.
A. But why then publish? P. Granville the polite,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise,
And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays ;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read;
E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head; 140
And St. John's self, great Dryden's friends before,
With open arms received one poet more.
Happy my studies, when by these approved!
Happier their author, when by these beloved!
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?
* See Dunciad, Book III., 1. 179, note.
Ibid., Book II., 1. 283, note.
Ibid., Book II., 1. 138, note.
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon* draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate 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.
Pains, reading, study are their just pretence,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense: 160
Commas and points they set exactly right,
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds,
From slashing Bentley § down to piddling Tib-
balds: ||
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,
Preserved in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name.
Pretty in amber to observe the forms
169
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 excused 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,
Who turns a Persian¶ tale for half a crown, 180
* See Dunciad, Book I., 1. 296, note.
Ibid., Book I., 1. 106, note.
See before, 1. 13, note.
See Dunciad, Book IV. 1. 201, &c.
Ibid., Book I., 1. 133, note.
Ambrose Philips translated a book called the 'Per
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines
a year;
He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left;
And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning;
And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad:
All these, my modest satire bade translate,
And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. 190
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe;
And swear, not Addison himself was safe!
Peace to all such! But were there one whose
fires
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ;
Bless'd with each talent and each art to please ;
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; 200
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike:
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserved to blame or to commend;
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading e'en 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 ;
While wits and templars every 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 though 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?
I sought no homage from the race that write;
I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight:
Poems I heeded (now be-rhymed so long)
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day 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 through 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 Castilian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sat full-blown Bufo puff'd by every 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)
Received 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 every day, and some days eat: 240
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise;
To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd,
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh;
Dryden alone escaped this judging eye:
But still the great have kindness in reserve;
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
May some choice patron bless each gray goose
quill!
May every Bavius have his Bufo still!
So when a statesman wants a day's defence,
Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense,
Or simple pride for flattery makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
* The Earl of Halifax is supposed to be intended.
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