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In di'monds, pearls, and rich brocades,
She fhines the firft of batter'd jades,
And flutters in her pride.

So have I known thofe infects fair

(Which curious Germans hold so rare)
Still vary fhapes and dyes;

Still gain new titles with new forms;
Firft grubs obfcene, then wriggling worms,
Then painted butterflies.

VII. Dr. SWIFT.

The Happy Life of a Country Parfon.
PARSON! these things in thy poffeffing
Are better than the bishop's bleffing:
A wife that makes conferves; a iteed
That carries double when there's need;
October ftore, and beft Virginia,
Tythe pig, and mortuary guinea;
Gazettes lent gratis down and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd ;
A large concordance, bound long fince;
Sermons to Charles the Firft when prince;
A chronicle of ancient ftanding;
A Chryfoftom to smooth thy band in:
The Polyglot-three parts-my text,
Howbeit-likewife-now to my next :
Lo here the Septuagint-and Paul,
To fum the whole-the clofe of all.
He that has thefe may pafs his life,
Drink with the 'fquire, and kifs his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill,
And faft on Fridays-if he will;

Toast Church and Queen, explain the news,
Talk with churchwardens about pews,
Pray heartily for fome new gift,

And thake his head at Doctor S-t.

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BEING THE

PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

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To the First Publication of this Epifle. THIS paper is a fort of bill of complaint, begun many years fince, and drawn up by fnatches as the feveral occafions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased fome perfons of rank and fortune [the authors of Verfes to the Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton-Court] to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings, (of which, being public, the public is judge,) but my perfon, morals, and family, whereof, to thofe who know me not, a truer information may be requifite. Being divided between the neceffity to fay fomething of myself, and my own lazinefs to undertake fo awkward a task, I thought it the fhortest way to put the laft hand to this Epittle. If it have any thing pleafing, it will be that by which I am moft defirous to please, the truth and the fentiment; and if any thing offenfive, it will be only to thofe I am leaft forry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumftance but what is true: but I have, for the most part, fpared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please.

I would have fome of them know it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is infcribed, that I make not as free ufe of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I fhall have this advantage and honour on my fide, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abufe may be directed at any man, no injury can poffibly be done by mine, fince a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likenefs. P. EPISTLE

P. SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I faid ; Tie 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.

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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 ftop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10
No place is facred, not the church is free,
E'en Sunday fhines no fabbath-day to me:
'Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me juft at dinner-time.

Is there a parfon much bemus'd in beer,

A maudlin poetefs, a rhyming peer,

A clerk foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross ?

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Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20 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 elope,
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 dilemna! either way I'm fped:

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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 lie.
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

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With honeft anguish, and an aching head,

And

And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,

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This faving counfel," Keep your peace 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:

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"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; 45 "I'm all fubmiffion; what you'd have it—make it." Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon fends to me; "You know his Grace; "I want a patron; afk him for a place." Pitholeon libell'd me-" But here's a letter "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refufe him? Curll invites to dine; "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn divine.' Ble's me! a packet. 'Tis a stranger fues, "A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." If I diflike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve," Commend it to the stage. There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion ends; The play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the House rejects him, "Sdeath, I'll print it, "And thame the fools--Your int'reft, Sir, with Lintot." 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 last he whifpers, "Do, and we go fnacks." Glad of a quarrel, ftraight 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 spy'd them first, (Some fay his queen,) was forc'd to speak or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?

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A. Good friend! forbear; you deal in dang'rous I'd never name queens, minifters, or kings; [things; Keep clofe to ears, and those let affes prick, 'Tis nothing.-P. Nothing! if they bite and kick?

Out

Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an ass:

The truth once told, (and wherefore fhould we lie?) 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.

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Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break, 85
Thou unconcern'd can't hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'ft unfhook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a fcribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins 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 designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimfy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has poet yet or peer
Loft the arch'd eyebrow or Parnaffian fneer?
And has not Colly still his lord and whore ?
His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips feem a wit?

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Still Sappho.-A. Hold! for God's 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,
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 himself 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-"

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