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Religious, punctual, frugal, and fo forth;
His word would pafs for more than he was worth.
One folid difh as week-day meal affords,
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's:
Conftant at church and 'change; his gains were
fure,

His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.
The dev'l 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.
Rouz'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 thipwrecks blefs the lucky thore.
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 finok'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 di'mond; and the rogue was hit.
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 to clear too of all other vice.'

The tempter faw his time; the work he ply'd; Stocks and fubfcriptions pour on ev'ry fide, Till all the demon 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.

EPISTLE

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of fpirit, Afcribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a bletting, now was wit; And God's good providence, a lucky hit. Things change their titles as our manners turn: His compting-houfe employ'd the Sunday morn : Seldom at church ('twas fuch a bufy life) But duly fent his family and wife. There (to the dev'l ordain'd) one Chriftmas tide My good old lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd.

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 commiflion 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 must repair it; takes a bribe from France; The Houie impeach him, Coning by ha

rangues;

The Court forfake 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,

IV.

To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.
'TIS ftrange, the mifer fhould his cares employ
To gain thofe riches he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it lefs ftrange the prodigal fhould wafte
His wealth to purchafe what he ne'er can tafte
Not for himfelf he fees, or hears, or cats;
Artifts maft chufe his pictures, mufic, meats:
He buys for Topham drawings and designs;
For Pembroke ftatues, dirty gods, and coins;
And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane
Rare monkifh manufcripts for Hearne alone;

Think we all thefe are for himfelf? No more
Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted
Only to fhew how many taftes he wanted.
What brought Sir Vifto's ill-got wealth to wafte?
Some dæmon whilper'd Vifto! have a tafte.
Heav'n vifits with a taste the wealthy fool,
And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.
See! fportive fate, to punifh awkward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and fends him fuch a guide:
A ftanding fermon, at cach year's expence,
That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

You fhew us Rome was glorious, not profufe,
And pompous buildings once were things of ufe:
Yet fhall (my Lord) your just, your noble rules
Fill half the land with imitating fools; [take,
Who random drawings from your fheets fhall
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load fome vain church with old theatric state,
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate;
Reverte 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 farve, they ftarve by rules of art.

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,
A certain truth, which many buy too dear:
And fomething previous ev'n to tafte-'tis fente;
Something there is more needful than expence,
Good fenfe, which only is the gift of Heav'n,
And tho' no fcience, fairly worth the feven:
A light, which in yourfelf 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 Goddess like a modeft fair, Nor over-drefs, nor leave her wholly bare ¿ Let not each beauty ev'rywhere be ipy'd, Where half the skill is decently to hide. He gains all points who pleasingly confounds, Surprizes, 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 heav'ns to fcale, Or fcoops in circling theatres the vale; Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades, Joins willing woods, and varies thades from fhades;

Now

Now breaks, or now directs, th'intending lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.
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 shall join you, time shall 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 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 strength of
light;

A waving glow the bloomy beds difplay,
Bluthing 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
ftray'd,

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Or fat delighted in the thick'ning fhade,
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 vista loves,
Foe to the dryads of his father's groves;
One boundlef's green, or flourish'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of yews;
The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made,
Now sweep 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.
Greatnefs, 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 master when he sees,
A puny infect, fhiv'ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littlenefs 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 wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just 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-house that knows no fhade;
Here Amphitrite fails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;

Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horse mourn ;
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dufty urn.
My lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleafure 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
thighs,

Juft at his ftudy-door he'll blefs 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 rest as good For all his lordship knows, but they are wood. For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look; These shelves 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 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 footfteps 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 meafure, 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 blefs the King. In plenty ftarving, 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 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 harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres reaffume the land.

Who then fhall grace, or who improve the

foil?

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Whofe rifing forefts, not for ptide or show,
Buture buildings, future navies, grow:
Let his plantations ftretch 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;
Janes and Palladio to themfelves reftore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before :
Till kings call forth th'ideas of your mind
(Proud to accomplish what such 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, these 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 vanquish'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. Epifile to Mr. Addison, occafimed by his Or in fair feries laurell'd bards be shown,

Dialogues on Medals. POPE.

SEE the wild wafte of all devouring years!
How Rome her own fad fepulchre appears, -
With nodding atches broken temples fpread!
The very tombs now vanifh'd like their dead!
Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd,
Where, mix'd with flaves, the groaning martyr
toil'd:

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 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. [fuc,

Ambition figh'd: fhe found it vain to truft
The faithlefs column and the crumbling buft:
Huge moles, whofe fhadow ftretch'd from shore

to fhore,

Their ruins perifh'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd, the now contracts her vast design,
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 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 thort view fubjected to our eye,
Gods, emp'rors, heroes, figes, beauties, lie.
With tharpen'd fight pale antiquaries pore;
Th'infeription value, but the ruft adore.
This the blue varuifh, 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 dicans,

A Virgil there, and here an Addison.

Then fhall 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,
Statefiman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere
In action faithful, and in honour clear;
Who broke no promife, ferv'd no privare end;
Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend;
Ennobled by himfelf, by all approv'd;

And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Muse he lov❜d.'

§ 16. Epifle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Prologue to the Satires. POPE.

P.SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu’d Į

faid;

Tyc 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 shades
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 fice;
Ev'n Sunday things no Sabbath-day to me!
Then from the Mint walks forththe man of rhyme
Happy to catch me juft at dianer-time!

Is there a parfon, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin poctefs, a thyming peer,
A clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a ftanza when he thould engrofs ?
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 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.
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 honest 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 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; ask him for a place.'
Pitholeon 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.'

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If I diflike it, Furies, death and rage!' If I approve, Commend it to the ftage.' 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 print it, [Lintot.' 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, ftrait I clap the door, Sir, let me fee your works and you no more.' 'Tis fung, when Midas' ears began to fpring (Midas, a facred perfon and a king) His very minifter who fpy'd them first, (Some fay his queen) was forc'd to fpeak, or burst. 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;

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I'd never name queens, minifters, or kings;
Keep close to ears, and thofe 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 lie?)
The queen of Midas flept, and fo may I.

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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 cobwebthro',
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 defigns,
Proud of a vast 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 still 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, Subscribe, 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, languishing 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 vet 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 w 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.

wife,

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 beWith 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 still. P 3

2

Yet

Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never anfwer'd, I was not in debt.

If want provok'd, or madnefs 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 thicy 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 fcans and fpells, Each word-catcher, that lives on fyllables, Ev'n fuch finall 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 barreness 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 fcufe, 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 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 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 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, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife; Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer, And without facering, teach the reft to fucer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Juft hint a fault, and hefitate diflike; 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 feuate 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 rubric on the walls, Or plafter'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 sight :
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 praise;
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 fong.
His library (where bufts of poets, dead,
And a true Pindar ftood, 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 praises
To fome a dry rehearfal 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 kindness in referve;
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May fome choice patron blefs each grey gooseMay 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 die, and tell it on his tomb : Of all thy blamelefs 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 cafe, And fee what friends, and read what books I please: Above a patron, tho' I condefcend 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.

Poor

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