"Who broke no promife, ferved no private end,; "Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend; "Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd, "And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Mufe he lov'd.” 70 EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT, BEING THE PROLOGUE ΤΟ ΤΗΕ SATIRE S. ADVERTISEMENT то The first Publication of this Epiftle. HIS paper is a fort of bill of complaint, begun, ΤΗ many years fince, and drawn up by fnatches, as the several occafions offered. I had no thoughts of publifhing 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 Publick 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 laziness to undertake fo aukward a task, 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 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 fhall have this advantage, and honour, on my fide, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abufe 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. SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigued I faid, The Dog-ftar rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 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 stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is facred, not the Church is free, Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me; 10 Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Is there a Parfon, much bemus'd in beer, A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to crofs, 15 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, Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong, 25 30 Το VARIATIONS. After ver. 20. in the MS. Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free, Ver. 29. in the 1ft Ed. Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curfe? Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse ? 35 To laugh, were want of goodnefs and of grace, With honeft anguifh, and an aching head; And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears, This faving counfel," 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: 5@ "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; ask 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." 55 VARIATION. Ver. 53. in the MS. If you refufe, he goes, as fates incline, There |