Ammon's
's great fon one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nofe, and,
Sir! you have an Eye"-

66

Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee
All that difgrac'd my Betters, met it 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
Dipt me in ink, my parent's, 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,

120

125

No duty broke, no father difobey'd:

130

The Mufe but ferv'd to ease fome friend, not Wife,

To help me thro' this long difeafe, 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 praife,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;

135

VER. 118 Sir! you have an Eye] It is remarkable that amongst thefe compliments on his infirmities and deformities, he mentions his eye, which was fine, fharp, and piercing. It was done to intimate, that flattery was as odious to him when there was fome ground for commendation, as when there was none.

-VARIATION S.

After ver. 124. in the MS.

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

His Father was crooked.

a Curl fet up his head for a fign.
His Mother was much afflicted with headachs..

140

The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,
Ev'n mitred Rochester 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 these approv'd!
Happier their Author, when by these belov'd!
From thefe the world will judge of men and books, 145
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

Scft were my numbers; who could take offence
While pure Description held the place of Sense?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted miftrefs, or a purling stream.
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.

150

If want provok'd, or madness made them print, 155
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 kiís'd the rod.
Pains, reading, ftudy, are their just 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.

160

VER. 139. Talbot, etc.] All these were Patrons or Admirers of Mr. Dryden; though a fcandalous libel against him, entitled Dryden's Satyr to his Mufe, has been printed in the name of the Lord Somers, of which he was wholly ignorant.

Thefe are the perfons to whofe account the Author charges the publication of his first pieces: perfons with whom he was converfant (and he adds beloved) at 16 or 17 years of age; an early period for fuch acquaintance. The catalogue might be made yet more illuftrious, had he not confined it to that time when he writ the Paftorals and Windfor Foreft, on which he paffes a fort of Cenfure in the lines following,

While pure Description held the place of Sense? etc.

VER. 150. A painted meadow, or a purling ftream, is a verse of

Mr. Addifon.

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 scans and spells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on fyllables,
Ev'n fuch fmail Critics fome regard may claim,
Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespear's name.
Pretty in amber to obferve the forms

166

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.

170

Were others angry: I excus'd them too;

175

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 standard in his mind,
That Cafting weight pride adds to emptinefs,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown,
Who turns a Perfian tale for half a Crown,
Juft writes to make his barrenness appear,
And ftrains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year;

180

VER. 164. flashing Bentley] This great man, with all his faults, deferved to be put into better company. The following words of Cicero defcribe him not amifs. "Habuit à natura genus quoddam "acuminis, quod etiam arte limaverat, quod erat in reprehendendis "verbis verfutum et folers: fed fæpe ftomachofum, nonnunquam frigidum, interdum etiam facetum."

VER. 169. Pretty! in amber, etc.] The wit and imagery of this paffage has been much and justly admired. The most deteftable things in nature, as a toad, or a beetle, become pleafing when well reprefented in a work of Art. But it is no lefs eminent for the beauty of the thought. For though a fcribler exifts by being thus incorporated, yet he exifts intombed, a lafting monument of the wrath of the Mufes.

VER. 173. Were others angry:] The Poets. VFR. 174.-I gave them but their due.] found thofe he commended lefs fenfible than The reafon is plain. He gave the latter but other thought they had no more.

Our Author always those he reproved. their due; and the

VER. 180-a Perfian tale] `Amb. Philips tranflated a Book called the Perfian Tales.

He, who ftill wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, fpends 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:

All thefe, my modeft Satire bade translate,

And own'd that nine fuch Poets made a Tate.

190

How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! And fwear, not ADDISON himself was fafe.

Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires

True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires;
Bleft with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with cafe :
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 rife;
Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer,
And without fneering, teach the reft to fneer
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim'rous foe, and a fufpicious friend;

195

200

205

VER. 186. Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:] A cafe common both to Poets and Critics of a certain order; only with this difference, that the Poet writes himself out of his own mean

ing; and the Critic never gets into another man's. Yet both keep going on, and blundering round about their fubject, as benighted people are wont to do, who feek for an entrance which they cannot find.

VER. 189. All thefe, my modeft Satire bade tranflate,] See their works, in the Tranflations of claffical books by feveral bands. VER. 190. nine fuch Poets, etc.] Alluding, not to the nine Mufes, but to nine Tailors.

-

VER. 192. And fwear, not ADDISON himself was safe.] This is an artful preparative for the following tranfition; and finely obviates what might be thought unfavourable of the severity of the fatire, by those who were ftrangers to the provocation.

210

Dreading ev'n Fools, by Flatterers befieg'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 ev'ry fentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
Who but muft laugh, if fuch a man there be?
Who would not weep, if ATTICUS were he?
What tho' my name ftool 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?

VER. 212. And wonder with a foolish face of praise—] When men, out of flattery, extol what they are confcious they do not understand, as is fometimes the cafe of men of education, the fear of praifing in the wrong place is likely enough to give a foolish turn to the air of an embarrafled countenance.

VER. 213. Who but must laugh, if fuch a man there be?] While a Character is unapplied, all the various parts of it will be confidered together, and if the affemblage of them be as incoherent as in this before us, it cannot fail of being the object of a malignant pleafantry.

VER. 214. Who would not weep, if ATTICUS were be?] But when we come to know it belongs to Atticus, i. e. to one whose more obvious qualities had before gained our love or esteem; then friendship, in fpite of ridicule, will make a separation; our old impreffions get the better of our new, or at least fuffer themfelves to be no further impaired than by the admiffion of a mixture of pity and

concern.

Ibid. ATTICUS] It was a great falfehood, which fome of the Libels reported, that this Character was written after the Gentleman's death: which fee refuted in the Teftimonies prefixed to the Dunciad. But the occafion of writing it was fuch as he would not make public out of regard to his memory: and all that could further be done was to omit the name, in the Edition of his works.

VER. 218. On winds of winds came flying all abroad?] Hopkins in the civth Pfalm.

VARIATION S.

After ver. 208. in the MS.

Who, if two Wits on rival themes contest,

Approves of each, but likes the worst the best.

Alluding to Mr. P.'s and Tickell's Tranflation of the first Book of the Iliad.