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Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;
His word would país for more than he was worth.
One folid dith luis week-day meal affords,
T, Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's : 'TIS (trange, the miser should his cares einplog
Constant at church and 'change; his gains were To gain those richies he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it less strange the prodigal should waste His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. His wealth to purchale what he ne'er can tafte!
The dev'l was piqu’d such faintship to behold, Not for himself he fees, or hears, or cats ; And long’d to tempt hiin, like good job of old! Artists mast chuse his pictures, music, meats : But Satan now is wifer than of
He buys for Topham drawings and designs ;
pore, And tempts by making rich, not inaking poor.
For Pembroke ftatues, dirty gods, and coins; Rouz'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds tiveep And books for Vicad, and butterflies for Sloane
Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone; The furgc, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full againit inis Cornish lands they roar,
Think we ali there are for himself? No more And two sich thipurecks blets the lucky thore.
Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted! Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks ;
Only to thew how many tastes he wanted. He takes his chirping pint, and crackshis jokcs: What brought Sir Vifto’s ill-got wealth to waste? • Lire like yourfelf,' was foon my lady's word; some dæmon whilper'd. Visto! have a taste.' And lo! two puddings sinok'd upon
Heav'n visits with a taste the wealthy fool, Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,
And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule. An honeft factor stole a gem away :
Sec! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride, He pledg:d it to the knight; the kniglit had wit, Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide : So kept the di'mond; and the rogue was bit. A standing sermon, at cach year's expence, Some fcruple rose, but thus hc eas'd his thought, That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence ! "l'il now give fixpence where I gave a groat; You fhew us Rome was glorious, not profuse, • Where once I went to church, I'll now go And.pompous buildings once were things of use: twice;
Yet Thall (iny Lord) your just, your noble rules And am to clear too of all other vice.'
Fill half the land with imitating fools; (take, The tempter saw his time; the work he ply'd; Who random drawings from your sheets thali Stocks and sublcriptions pour on ev'ry side,
And of onc beauty many blunders make; Till all the demon makes his full deicent.
Load some vain church with old thcatric state, In one abundant show'r of cent, per cent.
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate; Sinks deep within him, and posicfles whole,
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all Then dubs director, and secure's his foul.
On fomne patch'd dog-holc ek'd with ends of wall; Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,
Then clap four slices of pilafter on’t,
That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a front. Alcribes his gettings to his parts and merit; Shall call the winds thro' long arcades to roar, What late hc call'd a bleting, now was wit; Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door ; And God's good providence, a lucky hit.
Conícious they act a true Palladian part, Things change their titles as our manners turn :
And if they starve, they starve by rules of art. His compting-houle employ'd the Sunday morn: Seldom at church ('twas tuch a busy life)
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,
A certain truth, which many buy too dear : But duly tent his family and wife. There (to the dev'l ordaind) one Christmas tide And something previous ev'n to tatic-'tis tente;
Something there is more needful than expence, My good old lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd.
Good tense, which only is the gift of Heav'n, A nymph of quality adinires our knight; And tho' no science, fairly worth the seven : He marries, bow's at court, and grows polite: A light, which in yourself you muit perceive; Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) Jones and Le Nôtre lave it not to give. The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air : To build, to plant, whatever you intend, First, for his son a gay commillion burs, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duc dies. To livell the terras, or to link the grot; His daughter flaunts a viicourit’ tawdry wito; In all, let nature never be forgot; She bears a coronct and p-x for lifc.
But ticat the Goddels like a mudent fair, In Britain's fenatc he a scat obtains,
Nor over-drets, nor leave her wholly bare i And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains. Let not each beauty er’rywhere be ipy'd, My lady falls to play: so bad her chance, Where half the skill is decently to hide. He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; He gains all points who pleasingly confounds, The Houic impeach him, Coning by ha Surprizes, varies, and conceals the bounds. rangucs;
Consult the genius of the place in all; The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs; That tells the waters or to rise or fall ; Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own; Or helps th'ambitious hill the heav'ns to fcalc, His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the croivn: The devil and the king divide the prize,
Or scooj's in circling theatres the vale;
Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades, And fød Sir Balaain curses God and dica Joins willing woods, and varies ihades from thades;
Now breaks, or now directs, th'intending lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, defigns.
Still follow fense, 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 valt 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 wish your hill or fhelter'd feat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke.
Behold Villario's ten years toil complete ;
His Quincunx darkens, his Elpaliers meet;
The wood fupports the plain, the parts unite,
And strength of fhade contends with ftrength of
A waving glow the bloomy beds difplay,
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 laft he better likes a field.
Thro' his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus
Or fat delighted in the thick'ning shade,
With annual joy the redd'ning fhoots 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 boundlefs green, or flourifh'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 stupendous 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 ocean, his parterre a down:
Who but muft 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 scene;
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;
Unwater'd fe: the drooping fea-horse mourn ;
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dusty urn.
My lord advances with majeftic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleature to be seen :
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-
First thro' the length of yon hot terrace fweat;
And when up ten steep flopes you've dragg'd your
Juft at his ftudy-door he'll bless your eyes.
His ftudy with what authors is it ftor'd? In books, not authors, curious is my lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round; Thefe Aldus printed, thofe Du Sueil has bound. Lo, fome are vellum, and the rcft as good For all his lordship knows, but they are wood. For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look; Thefe fhelves admit not any modern book.
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 heav'n. On painted ceilings you devoutly ftare, Where fprawl the faints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or gilded clouds in fair expansion 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 room? 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 course, you'd swear Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there, Between each act the trembling falvers ring, From foup to sweet-wine, and God blefs the King. In plenty ftarving, tantaliz'd in ftate, 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 paft fo 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 fhall fee the golden ear Imbrown the flope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harveft bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres reaffume the land.
Who then fhall grace, or who improve the
Whofe rifing forefts, not for pride or show,
Bu.. rure 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;
Jones and Palladio to themselves 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 fubject fea command,
And roll obedient rivers thro' the land;
Thefe honours, peace to happy Britain brings;
Thefe arc imperial works, and worthy kings.
Poor Vadius, long with learned fpleen devour'd,
Can tafte no pleature fince his fhield was fcour'd:
And Curio, reftiefs 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 thine;
Her gods and godlike heroes rife to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush, 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.
Oh when fhall Britain, confcious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals fee her wars enroll'd,
And vanquifh'd realms fupply recording gold?
Here, rifing bold, the patriot's honeft face;
There, warriors frowning in hiftoric brafs :
Then future ages with delight fhall fee
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
15. Epifle to Mr. Addison, occafioned by his Or in fair feries laurell'd bards be shown,
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 stroke of mould'ting age,
Some hoftile fury, fome religious rage.
Barbarian blindacfs, Chriftian zeal confpire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruins fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preferves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce difputes pur-
And give to Titus old Vefpafian's due. [fue,
Ambition figh'd: fhe found it vain to truft
The faithlefs column and the crumbling buft:
Huge moles, whofe fhadow ftretch'd from shore
Their ruins perifh'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd, the now contracts her vaft defign,
And all her triumphs fhrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conqueft keeps;
Beneath her palm here fad Judea weeps.
Now feantier limits the proud arch confine,
And fearce are feen the proftrate Nile or Rhine;
A finall Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
"Thro' climes and ages bears cach forin and name;
In one thort view fubjected to our eye,
Gods, emprots, heroes, figes, beauties, lie.
With tharpen'd fight pale antiquaries pore;
Th'infeription value, but the ruft adore.
This the blue varith, that the green endears,
The facred ruft of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Pefcennius one employs his fchemes;
One grafps a Cecrops in extatic dreams.
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,
Statefman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincer
In action faithful, and in honour clear;
Who broke no promife, ferv'd 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'
16. Epifle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Proingat
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 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 thades
They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they glide,
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 fice;
Ev'n Sunday fhines no Sabbath-day to me '
Then from the Mint walks forththe man of rhyme
Happy to catch ine juft at dinner-time!
Is there a parfon, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin poctefs, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a ftanza when he thould engros?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, ferans
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd wall?
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 cause:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife clope;
And curfes wit, and poetry, and P'ope.
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 spcd;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'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 pow'r 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 requeft of friends:
The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it,
'I'm all fubmiflion, what you'd have it, make it.'
Three things another's modeft wifhes bound;
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pithcleon fends to me: You know his Grace:
I want a patron; afk him for a place.'
Pitholcon libell'd me- but here's a letter
Informs you, Sir, t'was when he knew no better.
'Dare you refufe 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 mufe.'
If I diflike it, Furies, death and rage!'
If I approve, Commend it to the stage.'
There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion
The players and I are, luckily, no friends. [ends,
Fir'd that the house 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 whifpers, 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' cars began to fpring
(Midas, a facred person and a king)
His very minifter who fpy'd them first,
(Some fay his queen) was forc'd to fpeak, 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
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 pafs,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an afs:
The truth once told (andwherefore thould we lic?)
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 stand'st unfhook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a fcribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He fpins 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 fheer?
And has not Colly ftill his lord and whore ?
His butcher's Henly, his free-mafon's Moor.
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit ?
Still to one bifhop Philips feem a wit [offend:
Still Sappho-A. Hold, for God's fake—you'll
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.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes;
One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
And, more abufive, calls himfelf my friend:
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 fon 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, languifhing in bed,
Juft fo 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 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:
The Mufe but ferv'd to cafe fome friend, not wife,
To help me thro' this long difcafe, my life;
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
And teach the being you prefery'd to bear.
But why then publith Granville the polite,"
And knowing Walth, 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 Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read;
Ev'n mitred Rochefter 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 thefe 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 fente ?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted miftrefs, or a purling ftream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fat ftill.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ;
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 fpirit, tafte, and fenfe. Commas and points tlicy 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 pidling 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 Shakespear'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 barrenefs appear, [a year; And ftrains, from hard-bound brains, eight 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 poctry, but profe run mad: All thefe, my modeft Satire bade translate, And own'd that nine fuch pocts made a Tate. How did they fume and stamp, and roar and chafe! And fwear, not Addifon himself was fafe.
Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires True genius kindles, and fair fame infpires; Bicft with cach 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, vet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife; Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer, And without fincering, teach the rest to sueer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Juft hint a fault, and hefitate dislike; Alike referv'd to blame or to commend, A tim'rous foe, 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 fenate 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? What tho' my name ftood ubric on the walls, Or platter'd potis, with claps, in capitals?
Or finoking 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 Afian 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 spread 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 cry'd,
With handkerchief and orange at my fide;
But fick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Caftalian state.
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 song.
His library (where bufts of poets, dead,
And a true Pindar ftood, without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'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 praifer
To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd;
And others (harder ftill) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder!) came not nigh;
Dryden alone efcap'd this judging eye:
But ftill the Great have kindness in referve;
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
May fome choice patron blefs each grey goofeMay ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo ftill! [quill! So when a statefinan wants a day's defence, Or envy holds a whole week's war with fenfe, 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 thofe they left me; for they left me Gay; Left me to fee neglected genius bloom, Neglected dic, and tell it on his tomb : Of all thy blameless life the fole return, My verfe, and Queensb'ry weeping o'er thy ura, 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 please: Above a patron, tho' I condescend 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,
Why am I afk'd what next fhall fee the light? Heav'ns was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to fave? [doubt "I found him clofe with Swift"- Indeed! no (Cries prating Balbus) fomething will come out. 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will;
No, fuch a genius never can lie ftill;'
And then for mine, obligingly mistakes
The firit lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes.