How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! And swear, not Addison himself was safe.

195

200

Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires True Genius kindles, and fair Fame infpires; Bleft with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with fcornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, affent with civil leer, And, without fneering, teach the reft to fneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Juft hint a fault, and hesitate diflike; Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a fufpicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd, And fo obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Like Cato, give his little Senate laws, And fit attentive to his own applause; While Wits and Templars every fentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praiseWho but muft laugh, if fuch a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!

VARIATION.

After ver. 208, in the MS.

Who, if two Wits on rival themes conteft,

Approves of each, but likes the worst the best.

205

210

Alluding to Mr. Pope's and Tickell's Tranflation of the firft

Book of the Iliad..

What

220

What though my name flood rubric on the walls, 215 Or plaister'd pofts, with claps, in capitals? Or fmoaking forth, a hundred hawkers load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I fought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Afian Monarchs, from their fight: Poems I heeded (now berhym'd fo long) No more than thou, great George! a birth-day fong. I ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the town, To fetch and carry fing-fong up and down; Nor at Rehearsals fweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, With handkerchief and orange at my fide; But, fick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Caftalian ftate. Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill; Fed with foft Dedication all day long,

225

230

Horace and he went hand and hand in fong.
His Library (where bufts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar ftood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undiftinguifh'd race,

235

Who firft his judgment afk'd, and then a place;

VARIATION.

After ver. 234, in the MS.

To Bards reciting he vouchfaf'd a nod,
And fnuff'd their incenfe like a gracious god.

Much

Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd every day, and fome days eat;
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days,

240

He paid fome bards with port, and fome with praise,
To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd,

And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh,
Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye:
But ftill the Great have kindness in referve,
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

245

May fome choice patron blefs each grey goofe

quill!

May every Bavius have his Bufo ftill!

250

So when a Statesman wants a day's defence,

Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense,
Or fimple pride for flattery makes demands,

May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Bleft be the Great! for those they take away,
And those they left me; for they left me Gay:
Left me to fee neglected Genius bloom,
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:

Of all thy blameless life the fole return

255

My Verfe, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! 260 Oh let me live my own, and die fo too!

(To live and die is all I have to do :)

Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,

And fee what friends, and read what books I please:

Above a Patron, though I condefcend

Sometimes to call a Minifter my friend.

265

I was not born for Courts or great affairs:
I pay my debts, believe, and fay my prayers;

Can

Can fleep without a Poem in my head,
Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.

Why am I afk'd what next fhall fee the light?
Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write?
Has Life no joys for me? or (to be grave)
Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to fave?
"I found him clofe with Swift-Indeed? no doubt

66

(Cries prating Balbus) something will come out." 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will.

"No, fuch a Genius never can lie ftill;"
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The firft Lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes.

Poor, guiltlefs I! and can I chufe but smile,
When every Coxcomb knows me by my Style?

270

280

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 270, in the MS.

Friendships from youth I fought, and feek them ftill:
Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it will.
The world I knew, but made it not my school,
And in a course of flattery liv'd no fool.

After ver. 282, in the MS.

P. What if I fing Auguftus, great and good?
A. You did to lately, was it understood?

Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound,
As rumbling Dennis or a Norfolk hound;
With George and Frederic roughen every verse,,
Then fmooth up all, and Caroline rehearse.
P. No-the high tafk to lift up Kings to Gods,
Leave to Court fermons, and to birth-day Odes.
On themes like thefe, fuperior far to thine,
Let laurel'd Cibber and great Arnal shine.

Curft

Why

Curft be the verfe, how well foe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give Virtue fcandal, Innocence a fear,

Or from the foft-ey'd Virgin fteal a Tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fall'n Worth, or Beauty in diftrefs,
Who loves a Lie, lame Slander helps about,
Who writes a Libel, or who copies out:
That Fop, whofe pride affects a patron's name,
Yet abfent, wounds an author's honeft fame:
Who can your merit selfishly approve,
And show the sense of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you fay,
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the Dean and filver bell can swear,

285

290

295

300

And fees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads but with a luft to misapply,
Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction Lie.
A lash like mine no honest man fhall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of filk,
Sporus, that mere white curd of Ass's milk?

Satire of fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel?

Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

VARIATION.

Why write at all?-A. Yes, filence if you keep,
The Town, the Court, the Wits, the Dunces weep.

VOL. XLVI.

M

P. Yet