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ADVERTISMENT

TO

The first publication of this Epiftle.

THIS paper is a fort of bill of complaint, begun many years fince, and drawn up by fnatches, as the feveral occafions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleafed fome perfons 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 ex→ traordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Public 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 Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most defirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am leaft 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, spared 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.

EPISTLE

то

DR. ARBUTHNOT,

BEING THE

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ ΤΗΕ

SATIRES.

P.SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd I said, Tye up the knocker, fay I'm fick, I'm dead.

The Dog-star rages! nay 'tis past 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 can hide? They pierce my thickets, thro' 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, Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme Happy to catch me, just at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parfon, much be-mus'd in beer,
A maudling Poetefs, a rhyming Peer,

A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to crofs,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engrofs?
Is there, who lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With defperate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to TwIT'NAM, and in humble ftrain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the caufe:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife clope,
And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle fong)
What Drop or Noftrum can this plague remove?
Or which muft end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped,

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Sciz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lye:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I fit with fad civility, I read

With honeft anguish, 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 ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:

"The piece, you think, is incorrect! why take it, "I'm all fubmiffion, what you'd have it, make it." Three things another's modest 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 libell'd me" but here's a letter "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine." Blefs me! a packet." Tis a stranger fues, "A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse." If I diflike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, Commend it to the Stage." There (thank my stars) my whole commiffion ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it, "And shame the fools-Your int'reft, Sir, with Lintot." Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much : "Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks; At laft he whispers, "Do; and we go fnacks." Glad of a quarrel, ftrait 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 person and a King)

His very Minifter who spy'd them first,

(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,

When every coxcomb perks them in my face?

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