Commas and points they set exactly right,
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds :
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on fyllables,
Ev'n fuch small Critics some regard may claim,
Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name.
Pretty! in amber to observe 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 secret standard 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 Persian tale for half a crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year;
He, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left :
And He, who, now to sense, now nonsense leaning, 185
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And He, whose fustian's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad:
All these, my modest Satire bad translate,
And own'd that nine such Poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe ! And swear, not Addison himself was fafe.
Peace to all fuch! but were there one whose fires
True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires;
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 the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hefitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers beseg'd,
And fo obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
And fit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praife-
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!
After ver. 208. in the MS.
Who, if two Wits on rival themes conteft,
Approves of each, but likes the worst the best.
Alluding to Mr. Pope's and Tickell's Translation of the first Book of the Iliad.
What though my name stood rubric on the walls, 215 Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? Or smoaking 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 so long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday song.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the town,
To fetch and carry sing-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 Castalian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill;
Fed with foft Dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand and hand in fong,
His Library (where busts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment afk'd, and then a place :
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd every day, and some days eat;
After ver. 234. in the MS.
To Bards reciting he vouchsaf'd a nod,
And snuff'd their incense like a gracious god.
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid fome bards with port, and some with praise,
To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd,
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh,
Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye :
But still the Great have kindness in reserve,
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.
May some choice patron bless each grey goofe
May every Bavius have his Bufo still.!
So when a Statesman wants a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Senfe,
Or fimple pride for flattery makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Blest be the Great! for those they take away,
And those 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 blameless life the fole return
My Verse, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! 260 Oh let me live my own, and die so 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, though I condescend
Sometimes to call a Minister my friend.
I was not born for Courts or great affairs:
I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers;
What though my name stood rubric on the walls, 215 Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals?
Or fmoaking 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 so long)
No more than thou, great George! a birthday song.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the town,
To fetch and carry sing-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 Castalian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill;
Fed with foft Dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand and hand in fong,
His Library (where busts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment afk'd, and then a place :
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd every day, and some days eat;
After ver. 234. in the MS.
To Bards reciting he vouchsaf'd a nod,
And snuff'd their incense like a gracious god.
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