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THAT the reader may judge of the fpirit of fatirical abuse, which called forth this indignant reply, I have thought it beft to infert the most material parts; from which he will be enabled to fee, at one view, the force of the Answer to the several paffages. It should be remembered, that Pope was the aggreffor (notwithstanding what he fays) in fatirifing Lord H. as Lord Fanny, and Lady M. W. Montagu as Sappho :

VERSES addreffed to the Imitator of the firft Satire of the fecond Book of Horace.

"In two large columns on thy motley page,
Where Roman wit is ftrip'd with English rage;
Where ribaldry to fatire makes pretence,

And modern scandal rolls with ancient fense:
Whilst on one fide we see how Horace thought;
And on the other how he never wrote:

Who can believe, who view the bad, the good,
That the dull copyist better understood
That spirit, he pretends to imitate,
Than heretofore that Greek he did tranflate?

"Thine is just such an image of his pen,
As thou thyfelf art of the fons of men :
Where our own species in burlesque we trace,
A figu-poft likeness of the human race;
That is at once resemblance and disgrace.



"Then whilft with coward hand you stab a name,
And try at leaft t' affaffinate our fame,
Like the first bold affaffins be thy lot,
Ne'er be thy guilt forgiven, or forgot;
But as thou hat't, be hated by mankind,
And with the emblem of thy crooked mind,
Mark'd on thy back, like Cain, by God's own hand,
Wander, like him, accurfed through the land."

"Horace can laugh, is delicate, is clear,
You only coarfely rail, or darkly fneer :
His ftyle is elegant, his diction pure,
Whilst none thy crabbed numbers can endure;
Hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obfcure.


Extract from the Epifle to a Doctor of Divinity (Dr. Sherwin). [The paffages are printed in Italics, to which Pope replies.]

"Guiltless of thought, each Blockhead may compofe
This nothing-meaning Verfe, as well as Profe;
And Pope with juftice of fuch lines may fay,
His Lordship "Spins a thousand fuch a day.”
Such Pope himself might write, who ne'er could think,
He who at crambo plays with pen and ink,
And is call'd Poet, 'cause in rhyme he wrote

What Dacier conftru'd, and what Homer thought.
But in reality this jingler's claim

A judge of writing would no more admit,
Than each dull Dictionary's claim to wit,
That nothing gives you at its own expence,
But a few modern words for ancient sense.
'Tis thus whate'er Pope writes, he's forc'd to go
To beg a little fense, as school-boys do:

For all cannot invent who can translate,

No more than those who clothe us can create.

When we see Celia shining in brocade,
Who thinks 'tis Hinchcliff all the beauty made?
And Pope in his best works we only find,
The gaudy Hinchcliff of a beauteous mind.
To bid his genius work without that aid,
Would be as much miftaking of his trade,
As 'twould to bid your Hatter make a head;
Since this Mechanic's, like the other's pains,
Are all for dreffing other people's brains," &c.


This is "Impar congreffus Achilli !”

I ought to mention, that Mr. Hayley thinks Pope was not the aggreffor in this wretched perfonal business; and that Lady Mary's Verfes ought to be fuppressed. From all I have read, I am convinced Pope was the aggreffor. Mr. Hayley's chief argument against the fuppofition, is Pope's " ipfe dixit." Valeat quantùm valere poteft; but while Pope's fcandalous couplet remains, I do not fee why the "Audi alteram" should be denied to the Lady.

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