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"Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end,
"Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend;
"Ennobled by himfelf, by all approv'd,
"And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Mufe he lov'd."

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EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT:

BEING THE

PROLOGUE

TO THE

SAT. I RE S.

ADVERTISEMENT

то

The first publication of this Epiftle.

TH

HIS paper is a fort of bill of complaint, begun, many years fince, and drawn up by fnatches, as the feveral occafions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleafed fome perfons of Rank and. Fortune [the Authors of Verfes to the Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton-Court] to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Public is judge) but my Perfon, Morals, and Family, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requifite. Being divided between the neceffity to fay fomething of myself, and my own lazinefs to undertake fo aukward a tafk, I thought it the shortest way to put the laft hand to this Epiftle. If it have any thing pleafing,

it will be that by which I am most defirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offenfive, it will be only to those I am least forry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumftance but what is true: but I have, for the most part, fpared their Names; and they may efcape being laughed at, if they please.

I would have fome of them to know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is infcribed, that I make not as free Ufe of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I thall have this advantage, and honour, on my fide, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can poffibly be done by mine, fince a nameless Character can never be found out, but by its truth and likeness.

P. HUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd I said,
Tye up the knocker, fay I'm fick, I'm dead.

The Dog-ftar rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaffus, is let out:

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

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What walls can guard me, or what fhades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my Grot they glide. By land, by water, they renew the charge; They ftop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10 No place is facred, not the Church is free, Ev'n Sunday fhines no Sabbath day to me;

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Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy! to catch me, juft at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parfon, much bemus'd in beer, A maudlin Poetefs, a rhyming Peer,

15

A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to crofs,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper,
fcrawls
With defperate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20
All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the caufe:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my Life! (which did you not prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle fong)
What Drop or Noftrum can this plague remove?
Or which muft end me, a Fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.

25

30

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 20, in the MS.

Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free,
With all their brandish'd reams they run to me:
Is there a 'Prentice, having feen two plays,
Who would do fomething in his Sempftrefs' praise-

Ver. 29, in the 1st Ed.

Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curfe?

Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse?

Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all Power of face.
I fit with fad civility; I read

With honeft anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,

35

This faving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." 40
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by foft Zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and requeft of friends:

“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; afk him for a Place."
Pitholeon libel'd me-" but here's a letter

"Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better.
"Dare you
refufe him? Curll 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 Mufe."
If I diflike it," Furies, death and rage!"
If I approve,

"Commend it to the Stage."

VARIATION.

Ver. 53, in the MS.

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55

If you refufe, he goes, as fates incline,

To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine.

L 4

There

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