And has not Colly ftill his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henly, his free-masons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?...
Still to one bishop Philips seem 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 worfe 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 prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
And more abufive, calls himself 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 shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nofe, and, "Sir! you have an eye"—
Go on, obliging creatures; make me fee
All that disgrac'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 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 disobey'd.
The Muse but ferv'd to ease some friend, not wife,
To help me thro' this long disease, 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,
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 Rochester 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 thefe approv'd!
Happier their author, when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books, 145
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.
Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
While pure description held the place of sense?
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 Aill.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never answer'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 comé 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 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 spells, 165
Each word-catcher, that lives on fyllables,
Ev'n fuch small 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! 170 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 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 Perfian tale for half a crown,
Juft writes to make his barrennefs appear,
And ftrains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; 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, 185 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 modeft fatire bad tranflate,
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 each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converfe, 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 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 fneering, teach the reft to fneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Juft hint a fault, and hesitate 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, gave his little fenate laws,
And fit attentive to his own applause;
While wits and templars ev'ry fentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise-
Who but muft laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if ATTICUS were he
What tho' my name ftood rubric on the walls,
Or plaister'd pofts, 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;
kept, like Afian monarchs, from their fight:
Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long)
No more than thou, great GEORGE! a birth-day song.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
Nor like a puppy, daggled 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 ftate.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate 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 some with praise,
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 escap'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 goofe quill! May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still!
So when a ftatéfman wants a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Senfe,
Or fimple pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whiftled off my hands!
Bleft be the Great! for thofe 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 verfe, and QUEENSB'RY Weeping o'er thy urn! 260 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 see what friends, and read what books I pleafe:
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 say 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?
"I found him clofe with Swift-Indeed! no doubt 275 "(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 miftakes
The firft lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I chufe but fmile,
When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my ftyle?
Curft be the verfe, how well foe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give Virtue fcandal, Innocence a fear,
Or from the foft-ey'd virgin fteal a tear!
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