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Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimzy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer ?
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 Bishop Philips feems a wit?

95

100

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,

105

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 prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes :
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
And more abufive, calls himfelf my friend.

VARIATIONS.

VER. III. in the MS.

For fong, for filence fome expect a bribe :
And others roar aloud, " Subfcribe, fubfcribe.”
Time, praife, or money, is the leaft they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.

110

They both spin; not from the head [reafon] but from the guts [paffions and prejudices] and fuch a thread that can entangle none but creatures weaker than themselves.

VER. 98. free-mafons Moor?] He was of this fociety, and frequently headed their proceffions:

This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud," Subfcribe, fubfcribe."
There are, who to my perfon pay their court: 115
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am short,
Amnon's great fon one shoulder 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,

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'Juft fo immortal Maro held his head :"
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.
Why did I witte? 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.

VARIATIONS.

After VER. 124. in the MS.

120

125

But friend, this shape, which You and Curl a admire,
Came not from Ammon's fon, but from my Sire b:
And for my head, if you'll the truth excufe,
I had it from my Mother, not the Mufe.
Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

a Curl fet up his head for a fign. b His father was crooked. • His Mother was much afflicted with head-achs.

VER. 181. Sir, you have an Eye] It is remarkable that amongst these compliments on his infirmities and deformities, he mentions his eye, which was fine, fharp, and piercing. It was done to intimate, that flattery was as odieus, to him when there was fome ground for commendation, as when there was none.

I left no calling for this idle trade,

No duty broke, no father difobey'd.

130

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.

But why then publish? Granville the polite, 15
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
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,
Ev'n mitred Rockefter would nod the head,

140

And St. John's felf (great Dryden's friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.
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 books,
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cocks.

146

VER. 139. Talbot, &c.] All these were Patrons or Admirers of Mr. Dryden; though a fcandalous libel against him, entitled, Dryden's Satyr to his Mufe, has been printed in the name of the Lord Somers, of which he was wholly ig

norant.

Thefe are the perfons to whofe account the Author charges the publication of his first pieces: perfons, with whom he was converfant (and he adds beloved) at 16 or 17 years of age; an early period for fuch acquaintance. The catalogue might be made yet more illustrious, had he not confined it to that time when he writ the Paflorals and Windfor Foreft, on which he paffes a fort of Cenfure in the lines following,

While pure Description held the place of Senfe? &c.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
While pure Description held the place of fenfe?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow`ry theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling ftream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;

I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate Rill.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never anfwer'd, I was not in debt.

150

If want provok'd, or madness inade them print, 155 I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

160

Did fome more sober Critic come abroad; If wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, ftudy, are their juft pretence, And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and fenfe. Comma's 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 these 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 finall Critics fome regard may claim, Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespear's name.

166

VER. 150. A painted meadow, or a purling ftream, is a verse of Mr. Addifon.

VER. 164. flashing Bentley] This great man, with all his faults, deferved to be put into better company. The following words of Cicero describe him not amifs. "Habuit " à natura genus quoddam acuminis, quod etiam arte li

maverat, quod erat in reprehendendis verbis verfutum et "follers: fed fæpe ftomachofum, nonnunquam frigidum, "interdum etiam facetum."

Pretty! in amber to obferve the forms

Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms 1 170
The things we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.

175

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, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And ftrains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a

year,

He, who ftill wanting, tho' he lives on theft,

180

Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left: 184

VER. 169. Pretty in amber, &c.] The wit and imag'ry of this paffage has been much and justly admired. The most deteftable thing in nature, as a toad, or a beetle, become pleafing when well represented in a work of Art. But it is no lefs eminent for the beauty of the thought. For though a fcribler exifts by being thus incorporated, yet he exifts intombed, a lasting monument of the wrath of the Mufes.

VER. 173. Were others angry :] The Poets.

VER. 174.---I gave them but their due.] Our Author always found thofe he commended lefs fenfible than those he reproved. The reafon is plain. He gave the latter but their due; and the other thought they had no more.

VER. 180. --- a Perfian tale.} Amb. Philips tranflated a Book called the Perfian tales.

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