157 SATIRES EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES Neque sermonibus vulgi dederis te, nec in præmiis humanis spem posueris rerum tuarum; suis te oportet illecebris ipsa virtus trahat ad verum decus. Quid de te alii loquantur, ipsi videant, sed loquentur tamen.-CICERO. [And do not yield yourself up to the speeches of the vulgar, nor in your affairs place hope in human rewards: virtue ought to draw you to true glory by its own allurements. Why should others speak of you? Let them study themselves—yet they will speak.] ADVERTISEMENT This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of Rank and Fortune (the authors of Verses 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 Public is judge), but my Person, Morals, and Family, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have anything pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if anything offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous. Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have for the most part spared their Names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please. I would have some of them know it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless Character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness. P. SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said; Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The Dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide, Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme, Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer, A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, 10 15 20 Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. With honest anguish, and an aching head; This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." I want a Patron; ask him for a Place." 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, And last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." (Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face? 65 70 A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things, I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings; 'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick? 75 80 The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I. You think this cruel? take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool, Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85 Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. 90 The creature's at his dirty work again, Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer? And has not Colley still his lord, and whore? His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore? Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit? Still Sappho A. Hold! for God's sake-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 these- -P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, A fool quite angry is quite innocent: There are, who to my person pay their court: |