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"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, 45 "I'm all fubmiffion, what you'd have it, make it." Three things another's modeft wishes bound, My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon fends 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? Curl invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine." Blefs me! a packet.-" "Tis a ftranger fues, "A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse." If I diflike it," Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage." There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion ends, The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends.


VER. 53. in the MS.

If you refufe, he goes, as fates incline,
To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine.
VER. 60. in the former Edd.

Cibber and I are luckily no friends.




VER. 49. Pitholeon] The name taken from a foolish Poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek. Schol. in Horat. 1. i. Dr. Bentley pretends, that this Pitholeon libelled Cæfar alfo. See notes on Hor. Sat. 10. 1. i.


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Fir'd that the houfe reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it, "And fhame the fools-Your int'reft, Sir, with


Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch.

All my demurs but double his attacks ;

At laft he whispers, "Do; and we go fnacks."
Glad of a quarrel, ftrait I clap the door,

Sir, let me fee your works and you no more.
'Tis fung, when Midas' Ears began to spring,
(Midas, a facred person and a King)

His very Minister who spy'd them first,



(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,

When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?

A. Good friend forbear! you deal in dang'rous things.

I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;

Keep close to Ears, and those let affes prick,

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'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?

Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass,

That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:



VER. 72. Queen] The story is told, by fome, of his Barber, but by Chaucer of his Queen. See Wife of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Fables.

VER. 80. That secret to each fool, that he's an fifs ì. e. that his ears (his marks of folly) are vifible.

The truth once told (and wherefore fhould we lie?)
The Queen of Midas flept, and fo may I.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
No creature smarts fo little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85
Thou unconcern'd canft hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'ft unfhook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a Scribler? break one cobweb thro',
He fpins the flight, felf-pleafing 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 defigns,
Proud of a vast extent of flimzy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnaffian fneer?
And has not Colly ftill his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?

Still to one Bishop Philips feem a wit?





VER. 88. Alluding to Horace,

Si fractus illabatur orbis,

Impavidum ferient ruina.


VER. 96. arch'd eye-brow,] The eye-brow is raised in

the expreffion of infolent contempt.

VER. 98. free-mafons Moor?] He was of this fociety, and frequently headed their proceffions.

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Still Sappho-A. Hold! for God-fake-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 thefe-P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,


It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.

A fool quite angry is quite innocent:

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Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
And more abufive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subfcribe, fubfcribe."
There are, who to my perfon pay their court: 115
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am short,
Ammon's great fon one fhoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nofe, and "Sir! you have an Eye-
Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee
All that difgrac'd my Betters, met in me.

Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,


Juft fo immortal Maro held his head :”


VER. III. in the MS.

For fong, for filence fome expect a bribe;

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And others roar aloud, Subscribe, fubfcribe.**

Time, praife, or money, is the leaft they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.


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And when I die, be fure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.

Why did I write? what fin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lifp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,


No duty broke, no father difobey'd.


The Muse but ferv'd to eafe fome friend, not Wife, To help me thro' this long disease, my Life,

To fecond, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care,
And teach, the Being you preferv'd, to bear.

But why then publish? 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 ;


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But, Friend, this fhape, which You and Curl a admire,
Came not from Ammon's fon, but from my Sire :
And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse,
I had it from my Mother, not the Muse.
Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

• Curl fet up his head for a fign.

His Father was crooked.

• His mother was much afflicted with head-achs,

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