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A. Good friend forbear! you deal in dangerous things,
I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let affes prick,
"Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the fecret pass,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:
The truth once told (and wherefore fhould we lie?)
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 convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'ft unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a Scribler? break one cobweb thro',
He fpins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,

The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimfy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnaffian fneer?
And has not Colly ftill his lord, and whore ?
His butchers Henly, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?
Still to one Bifhop Philips feems a wit?

Still Sappho---A. Hold; for God fake---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 thefe---P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all.

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 worse when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
And more abusive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, fubfcribe."

Sir! you have an Eyemake me fee

There are, who to my perfon pay their court: I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am short, Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high, Such Ovid's nofe, and, Go' on, obliging creatures, All that difgrac'd my Betters, met in me. Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, "Just so immortal Maro held his head :" And when I die, be fure you let me know Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago. Why did I write? what fin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents, 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.

The Mufe but ferv'd to eafe fome friend, not Wife,
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.
VOL. III.

L

But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could writé; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise, And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Even mitred Rochefter would nod the head, And St. John's felf (great Dryden's friends before) With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. Happy my ftudies, when by these appróv'd! Happier their Author, when by these belov'd! From thefe the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence®
While pure defcription held the place of fenfe i
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted miftrefs, or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate ftill.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fict;
I never anfwer'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, ftudy, are their juft pretence,
And all they want is 1pirit, tafte, and fenfe.
Comma's and points they fet exactly right,
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their nite.
Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd thefe rit elds
From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibatas:

Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Each Word-catcher that lives on fyllables,

Ever fuch fmall Critics fome regard may claim,
Preferv'd in Milton's, or in Shakespear's name.
Pretty in amber to obferve the forms

Of hairs, or ftraws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms !
The things we know are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.

I excus'd them too;

Were others angry 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 standard in his mind, That Cafting-weight pride adds to emptines, This who can gratify? for who can guess? The Bard who pilfer'd Paftorals renown, Who turns a Perfian tale for half a Crown, Just writes to make his barrencfs appear, And ftrains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; He, who still 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 profe run mad, All these, my modest Satire bade translate,

And own'd that nine fuch poets made a Tate.

How did they fume, and ftampt and roar, and chafe!

And fwear, not ADDISON himself was fafe.

Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires True Genius kindles, and fair Fame infpires;

Bleft with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like he Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with fcornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himelf to rife;
Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer,
And without fneering teach the rest to sneer;
Wliling to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim'rous foe, and a fufpicious friend;
Dreading even fools, by Flatterers befieg'd,
And fo obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, give his little fenate laws,
And fit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise--
Who but must laugh, if fuch a man there be?
Who would not weep, if ATTICUS were he!

What tho' my name stood rubric on the walls,
Or plaifter'd pofts, with claps, in capitals?
Or fmoaking forth, a hundred hawkers load,
On wings of wind came flying all abroad?
I fought no homage from the race that write;
I kept, like Afian Monarchs, from their fight:
Poems I heeded (now berhym'd fo long)

No more than thou, great GEORGE! a birth-day fong.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days,
To fpread about the itch of verfe and praise;

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