There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath! I'll print it, "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."
demurs but double his attacks:
At last 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 fpring,
(Midas, a facred perfon and a King)
His very Minifter, who fpy'd them first,
(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,
When every coxcomb perks them in
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things,
I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let affes prick,
'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret pass,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)
The Queen of Midas flept, and fo may I.
You think this cruel? Take it for a rule,
No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
'Thou unconcern'd canft hear the mighty crack:
Ver. 60, in the former Ed.
Cibber and I are luckily no friends.
Pit, box, and gallery, in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'ft unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a Scribbler? Break one cobweb through,
He fpins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,
The creature 's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimfy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnafsian sneer?
And has not Colly still his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henley, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips feem a wit?
Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God's 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 Flatterer '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:
Alas! 'tis ten times worfe when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
And, more abufive, calls himself my friend.
Ver. 111, in the MS.
For fong, for filence fome expect a bribe:
And others roar aloud, Subscribe, subscribe!"
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, fubfcribe!"
There are, who to my perfon pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am fhort.
Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nofe, and, "Sir! you have an Eye!”—
Go on, obliging creature, 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;"
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
Dipp'd 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:
Time, praise, or money, is the leaft they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.
After ver. 124, in the MS.
But, friend, this shape, which You and Curll admire,
Came not from Ammon's fon, but from my Siret;
And for my head, if you 'll the truth excufe,
I had it from my Mothert, not the Mufe.
Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.
* Curll fet up his head for a fign.
+ His Father was crooked.
His Mother was much afflicted with headachs.
The Mufe but ferv'd to ease some friend, not Wife;
To help me through 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;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,
Ev'n mitred Rochefter would nod the head,
And St. John's felf, (great Dryden's friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.
Happy my ftudies, when by thefe approv'd!
Happier their Author, when by thefe belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books, 145
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.
Soft were my numbers: who could take offence
While pure Description held the place of Senfe?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted miftrefs, or a purling ftream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate ftill.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never anfwer'd, I was not in debt.
If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did fome more fober Critic come abroad; If wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kifs'd the rod. Pains, reading, ftudy, are their juft pretence, And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and fenfe.
Commas and points they fet exactly right,
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds:
Each wight, who reads not, and but fcans and spells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on fyllables,
Ev'n fuch fmall Critics fome regard may claim,
Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name.
Pretty! in amber to obferve the forms
Of hairs, or ftraws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 170
The things we know are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.
Were others angry: I excus'd 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 fecret ftandard in his mind,
That Cafting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
The Bard whom pilfer'd Paftorals renown,
Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown,
Juft writes to make his barrennefs appear,
And ftrains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year;
He, who, ftill wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
And He, who, now to fenfe, now nonfenfe leaning, 185
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And He, whofe fuftian 's fo fublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but profe run mad:
Il thefe, my modeft Satire bad tranflate,
/down'd that nine fuch Poets made a Tate.
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