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There dwelt a citizen of fober fame,
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;
His word would pafs for more than he was worth.
One folid dith his week-day meal affords,
And added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's.
Conftant at church and 'change; his gains were
His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.
The devil was piqu'd fuch faintship to behold,
And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old
But Satan now is wifer than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Rous'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds fweep
The furge, and plunge his father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornifh lands they roar,
And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky fhore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks; He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes "Live like yourfelf," was foon my lady's word; And lo two puddings fmok'd upon the board. Afleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honeft factor ftole a gem away; He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some fcruple rofe, but thus he eas'd his thought: "I'll now give fixpence where I gave a groat; "Where once I went to church, I'll now go "twice, "And am fo clear too of all other vice."
The tempter faw his time; the work he plied; Stocks and fubfcriptions pour on ev'ry fide, Till all the dæmon makes his full defcent In one abundant fhow'r of cent. per cent. Sinks deep within him, and poffeffes whole, Then dubs director, and fecures his foul.
Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Afcribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a bleffing, now was wit, And God's good providence, a lucky hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn: His compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: Seldom at church ('t was fuch a bufy life), But duly fent his family and wife. There (fo the devil ordain'd) one Chriftmas-tide My good old lady catch'd a cold, and died.
A nymph of quality admires our Knight; He marries, bows at court, and grows polite: Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to pleafe the fair) The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air: First, for his fon a gay commiffion buys, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies. His daughter flaunts a vifcount's tawdry wife; She bears a coronet and p-x for life. In Britain's fenate he a feat obtains, And one more penfioner St. Stephen gains. My lady falls to play: fo bad her chance, He muft repair it; takes a bribe from France; The Houfe impeach hira, Coningsby harangues; The Court forlake him, and Sir Balaam hangs; Wife, fon, and daughter, Satan' are thy own, His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown: The devil and the king divide the prize, And fad Sir Balaam curfes God and dies.
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted? Only to thew, how many taftes he wanted. What brought Sir Vifto`sill-got wealth to waste? Some dæmon whifper'd, "Vito! have a tafte." Heaven vifits with a tale the wealthy fool, And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule. See! fportive fate, to punish awkward pride, Bids Bubo build, and fends him fuch a guide: A ftanding fermon, at each year's expence, That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!
You show us Rome was glorious, not profufe,
And pompous buildings once were things of use.
Yet fhall (my Lord) your juft, your noble rules
Fill half the land with imitating fools;
Who random drawings from your fheets fhall take,
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load fome vain church with old theatric ftate;
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate;
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all
On fome patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall;
Then clap four flices of pilafter on 't,
That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a front:
Shall call the winds thro' long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;
Confcious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they ftarve, they ftarve by rules of art.
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,
A certain truth, which many buy too dear:
Something there is more needful than expence,
And fomething previous ev'n to tafte-'tis fenfe:
Good fenfe, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And, tho' no fcience, fairly worth the feven:
A light, which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.
To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
To fwell the terras, or to fink the grot;
In all, let nature never be forgot;
But treat the goddefs like a modeft fair,
Nor over-drefs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spied,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points who pleatingly confounds,
Surprifes, varies, and conceals the bounds.
Confult the genius of the place in all;
That tells the waters or to rife or fall;
Or helps th' ambitious hill the heavens to fcale,
Or fcoops in circling theatres the vale;
Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And swallows rooft in Nilus' dusty urn.
My lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleaiure to be seen :
But foft-by regular approach-not yet—
First thro' the length of yon hot terrace sweat ;
And when up ten steep flopes you 've dragg'd your
Juft at his ftudy-door he 'll blefs your eyes. [thighs,
His study with what authors is it ftor'd?
In books, not authors, curious is my lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round,
Thele Aldus printed, thofe Du Sueil has bound,
Lo, fome are vellum, and the reft as good
For all his lordfhip knows, but they are wood.
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look;
Thefe fhelves admit not any modern book.
Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades, Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from fhades; Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, defigns.
Still follow fenfe, of ev'ry art the foul, Parts anfwering parts fhall flide into a whole; Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start ev'n from difficulty, ftrike from chance; Nature fhall join you; time fhall make it grow A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.
Without it, proud Verfailles ! thy glory falls; And Nero's terraces defert their walls: The vaft parterres a thousand hands fhall make, Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake: Or cut wide views thro' mountains to the plain, You'll with your hill or thelter'd feat again. Ev'n in an ornament its place remark, Nor in an hermitage fet Dr. Clarke. Behold Villario's ten years toil complete; His Quincunx darkens, his Efpaliers meet; The wood fupports the plain, the parts unite, And ftrength of fhade contends with ftrength of A waving glow the bloomy beds difplay, light; Blufhing in bright diverfities of day, With filver-quiv`ring rills meander'd o'er➡ Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more; Tir'd of the fcene parterres and fountains yield, He finds at last he better likes a field.
Thro' his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus Or fate delighted in the thick 'ning shade, [stray'd, With annual joy the redd'ning shoots to greet, Or fee the ftretching branches long to meet ! His fon's fine tafte an op'ner vifta loves, Foe to the dryads of his father's groves; One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, With all the mournful family of yews; The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Now fweep thofe alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's villa let us pafs a day, [away!" Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown So proud, fo grand; of that ftupendous air, Soft and agreeable come never there. Greatness, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. To compafs this, his building is a town, His pond an occan, his parterre a down : Who but must laugh, the mafter when he fees, A puny infect, fhiv'ring at a breeze! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around! The whole, a labour'd quarry above ground. Two Cupids fquirt before: a lake behind Improves the keennefs of the northern wind. His gardens next your admiration call; On ev'ry fide you look, behold the wall! No pleafing intricacies intervene, No artful wildnefs to perplex the fcene; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform juft reflects the other. The fuff'ring eye inverted nature fees, Trees cut to ftatues, ftatues thick as trees; With here a fountain, never to be play'd; And there a fummer-houfe, that knows no fhade; Here Amphitrite fails thro' myrtle bow'rs; There gladiators fight, or die in flow`rs;
And now the chapel's filver bell you hear, That fummons you to all the pride of pray 'r: Light quirks of mufic, broken and uneven, Make the foul dance upon a jig to heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly ftare, Where fprawl the faints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or gilded clouds in fair expanfion lie, And bring all Paradife before your eye. To reft, the cushion and foft dean invite, Who never mentions hell to ears polite.
But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble hall : The rich buffet well colour'd ferpents grace, And gaping Tritons fpew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial 100m ? No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb; A folemn facrifice, perform'd in ftate; You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying courfe, you'd fwear Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. Between each act the trembling falvers ring, From foup to fweet-wine, and God bless the king, In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state, And complaifantly help'd to all I hate, Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave, Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; I curfe fuch lavish coft, and little skill, And fwear no day was ever pais'd to ill!
Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread The lab'rer bears: what his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity fupplies.
Another age shall fee the golden ear Imbrown the flope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres reaffume the land.
Who then thall grace, or who improve the foil? Who plants like Bathurft, or who builds like 'Tis ufe alone that fanétines expence, [Boyle. And splendour borrows all her rays from fenfe. His father's acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase; Whofe cheerful tenants blefs their yearly toil, Yet to their lord owe more than to the foil, Whofe ample lawns are not afham'd to feed The milky heifer and deferving fteed; Whofe rifing forefts, not for pride or show, But future buildings, future navies, grow:
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
Firft fhade a country, and then raife a town.
You too proceed! make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jenes and Palladio to themfelves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind
(Proud to accomplish what fuch hands defign'd),
Bid harbours open, public ways extend;
Bid temples, worthier of the god, afcend;
Bid the broad arch the dang'rous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main;
Back to his bounds their fub ect fea command,
And roll obedient rivers thro' the land;
Thefe honours, peace to happy Britain brings;
Thefe are imperial works, and worthy kings.
the wild waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own fad fepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken teinples fpread! The very tombs now vanifh'd like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on nations fpoil'd, Where, mix'd with flaves, the groaning martyr toil'd:
Oh when shall Britain, confcious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame ?
In living medals fee her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realins fupply recording gold?
Here, rifing bold, the patriot's honeft face;
There, warriors frowning in historic brass:
Then future ages with delight thall fee
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
18. Epifle to Mr. Addifon, occafioned by his Or in fair feries laurell'd bards be shown,
Dialogues on Medals. POPE.
A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
Then thall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
On the caft ore, another Pollio, fhine;
With afpect open fhall erect his head,
And round the orb in lafting notes be read,
"Statesman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,
"In action faithful, and in honour clear;
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a diftant country of her floods:
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride furvey,
Statues of men fcarce lefs alive than they!
Some felt the filent ftroke of mould'ring age,
Some hoftile fury, fome religious rage.
Barbarian blindncfs, Chriftian zeal confpire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruin fav'd from flame,
Some buried marble half preferves a name ;
That name the learn'd with fierce difputes purfue,
And give to Titus old Vefpafian's due.
Ambition figh'd: the found it vain to trust
The faithlefs column and the crumbling buft:
Huge moles, whofe fhadow ftretch'd from fhore
Their ruins perifh'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd, the now contracts her vaft design,
And all her triumphs fhrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps;
Beneath her palm here fad Judea weeps.
Now fcantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the proftrate Nile or Rhine;
A fmall Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd,
And little cagles wave their wings in gold.
The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Thro' climes and ages bears each form and name;
In one short view fubjected to our eye,
Gods, emp'rors, heroes, fages, beauties, lie.
With fharpen'd fight pale antiquaries pore,
Th' infcription value, but the ruft adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The facred ruft of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Pefcennius one employs his fchemes;
One grafps a Cecrops in ecflatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, long with learned fpleen devour'd,
Can tafte no pleasure since his shield was fcour'd:
And Curio, reftlefs by the fair one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine:
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories fine,
Her gods and godlike heroes rife to view,
And all her faded garments bloom a-new.
Nor blufh, thefe ftudies thy regard engage;
Thefe pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage:
The verfe and fculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.
Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end, "Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend; "Eunobled by himself, by all approv'd, "And prais'd, unenvied, by the Muse he lov'd.".
§ 19. Epifle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Prologue to the Satires. POPE.
P.SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd I
Tye up the knocker; fay I'm fick, I'm dead.
The Dog-ftar rages! nay 'tis paft a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaffus 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 fhades
They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They ftop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is facred, not the Church is free,
Ev'n Sunday thines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of
Happy! to catch me juft at Dinner time. [rhyme,
Is there a Parfon, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin Poetefs, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whofe giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus fecs his frantic wife elope;
And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope. [long,
Friend to my Life! (which did not you pro-
The world had wanted many an idle fong)
What Drop or Noftrum can this plague remove
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lye:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face:
I fit with fad civility, I read
With honeft anguifh, and an aching head;
And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,
This faving counfel, Keep your piece nine years.'
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by foft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes cr he wakes, and prints before Term
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends: [ends,
The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it.
I'm all fubmiffion; what you'd have it, make it.'
Three things another's modeft wishes bound,
My Friendfaip, and a Prologue, and Ten Pound.
Pitholt on fends to me: You know his Grace:
" I want a Patron; afk him for a Place.'
Pitholeon libell'd me→ but here's a letter [ter.
Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no
Dare you refufe him? Curl invites to dine;
He'll write a Journal, or he 'll turn Divine.'
Biefs me! a packet.- 'Tis a firanger fues,
A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufc.'
If I diflike it, Furies, death and rage!'.
If I approve, Commend it to the Stage.' [ends,
There (thank my stars!) my whole commiffion
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the houfe reject him, 'Sdeath, I'll
And fhame the fools-Your int'reft, Sir, with
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:
Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch.'
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At laft he whispers, Do; and we go fnacks.'
Glad of a quarrel, ftraight I clap the door:
Sir, let me fee your works and you no more.
'Tis fung, when Midas' Ears began to spring (Midas, a facred perfon and a King), His very Minifter who fpied them firft (Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burft. And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face? A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things,
I'd never namie Queens, Minifters, or Kings;
Keep clofe to Ears, and thofe let Alles prick,
'Tis nothing-P. Nothing, if they bite and kick
Out with it, Danciad! let the fecret pafs,
That fecret to each fool, that he 's an Afs: [lie)
The truth once told (and wherefore fhould we
The Queen of Midas flept, and fo may I.
You think this cruel take it for a rule, No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd can't hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convullions hurl'd,
Thou ftand it unfhook amidst a burfing world.
Who fhames a Scribbler break one cobweb thro',
He fins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew:
Deftroy his fib or fophiftry in vain,
The creature 's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin defigns,
Proud of a vaft extent of flimfy lines!
Whom have I hurt has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnaffian fneer?
And has not Colley fill his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henly, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit ?
Still to one Bishop Philips feem a wit?
Still Sappho-A. Hold, for God's fake-you'll
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.
bet-This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, Subfcribe, fubfcribe !'
There are, who to my perfon pay their court,
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am fhort.
Ammon's great on one fhoulder had too high;
Such Ovid's nofe; and, 'Sir! you have an Eye'
Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee
All that difgrac'd my Betters met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
Juft fo immortal Mars held his head;'
And when I die, be fure you let me know
Great Homer died three thoufand years ago.
Why did I write? what fin to me unknown
Dipp'd 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,
No duty broke, no father difobey'd: [Wife,
The Mufe but ferv'd to cafe fome Friend, not
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.
No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:
I too could write, and I am twice as tall; [all.
But foes like thefe-P. One Flatt'rer's worfe than
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worfe when they repent.
But why then publifh Granville the polite,
And knowing Walb, 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;
The courtly Tallot, Somers, Sheffield read;
Ev'n mitred Rochefer would nod the head;
And St. John's felf (great Dryden's friends be
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. [fore)
Happy my ftudies, when by thefe approv'd!
Happier their Author when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.
Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
While pure Defcription held the place of Sunfe?
gentle Fanny's was my flow ry theme,
A painted mifirefs, or a purling ftream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fat still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd, I was not in debt.
If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
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 kifs'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, 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. Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd thefe ribalds, From flashing Bentley down to piddling Tibalds: Each wight who reads not, and but scans and fpells, Each Word-catcher, that lives on fyllables, Ev'n fuch fmall Critics fome regard may claim, Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name. Pretty in Amber to obferve the forms 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.
Were others angry: I excus'd them too; 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 ftandard in his mind, That cafting-weight pride adds to emptiness, This who can gratify? for who can guess? The Bard whom pilfer'd Paftorals renown, Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown, Juft writes to make his barrenness appear, And ftrains, from hard-bound brains, cight lines
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,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning;
And He, whofe fuftian's fo fublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad :
All thefe, my modeft Satire bade translate,
And own'd that nine fuch Poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and ftamp, and roar and
And fwear, not Addison himself was safe. [chafe!
Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe
What tho' my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plafter'd pofts, with claps, in capitals? Or fimoking 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 Asian monarchs, from their fight: Poems I heeded (now berhym'd fo long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday fong. I ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days, To fpread about the itch of verfe and praife; Nor, like a puppy, dangled thro' the town, To fetch and carry fing-fong up and down; Nor at rehearsals fweat, and mouth'd, and cried, With handkerchief and orange at my side: But fick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Caflalian state.
True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires;
Bleft with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converfe, 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 rest to facer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to ftrike,
Juft hint a fault, and hesitate diflike;
Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim'rous foc, and a fufpicious friend;
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 applaufe;
While Wits and Templars ev'ry fentence raife,
And wonder with a foolish face of praife-
Who but muft laugh, if fuch a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
Proud, as Apollo on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill; Fed with foft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand and hand in fong. His library (where bufts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head) Receiv'd of wits an undiftinguifh'd race, Who firft his judgment afk'd, and then a place: Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat, And flatter'd ev'ry day, and fome days eat: Till grown more frugal in his riper days, 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 efcap'd this judging eye: But ftill the great have kindnefs in referve; He help'd to bury whom he help'd to ftarve.
May fome choice patron blefs each grey goofs
May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo ftill! [quill!
So when a statesman wants a day's defence,
Or envy holds a whole week's war with fense :
Or fimple pride for flatt'ry 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,
My Verfe and Queenfb'ry weeping o'er thy urn
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 pleafe:
Above a patron, tho' I coudefcend
Sometimes to call a minifter my friend.
I was not born for courts or great affairs:
I pay my debts, believe, and fay my pray'rs,
Can fleep without a poem in my head,
Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead.