EPISTLE

ΤΟ

DR. AR BUTHNOT.

Motto to the first edition, published in folio, 1734: "Neque fermonibus vulgi dederis te, nec in præmiis humanis fpem pofueris rerum tuarum; fuis te oportet illecebris ipfa virtus traliat ad verum decus. Quid de te alii loquantur, ipfi videant, fed loquentur tamen." CICERO.

ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE

FIRST PUBLICATION OF THIS EPISTLE.

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 Verses 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 those who know me not, a truer information may be requifite. Being divided between the neceflity to fay fomething of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so aukward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the laft hand to this Epiftle. If it have any thing pleafing, it will be that by which I am most defirous to pleafe, the Truth, and the Sentiment; and if any thing offenfive, it will be only to those I am least forry to offend, the vicious, or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance 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 use 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 likeness.

POPE.

Lady Wortley Montagu begins her Addrefs to Mr. Pope, on his Imitation of the 1ft Satire of the Second Book of Horace, in thefe words:

"In two large columns, on thy motley page,

Where Roman wit is ftrip'd with Englith rage;
Where ribaldry to fatire makes pretence,
And modern fcandal rolls with ancient fenfe:
Whilft on one fide we see how Horace thought,

And on the other how he never wrote:

Who can believe, who view the bad and good,
That the dull copyift better understood

That fpirit he pretends to imitate,

Than heretofore the Greek he did tranflate?
Thine is just such an image of his pen
As thou thyself art of the fons of men ;

Where our own fpecies in burlefque we trace,
A fign-poft likeness of the noble race,
That is at once refemblance and difgrace.

Horace

Horace can laugh, is delicate, is clear;
You only coarfely rail, or darkly fneer:
His ftyle is elegant, his diction pure,
Whilft none thy crabbed numbers can endure,
Hard as thy heart, and as thy birth obfcure.
If he has thorns, they all on roses grow;
Thine like rude thistles and mean brambles show,
With this exception, that though rank the foil,
Weeds, as they are, they seem produc'd by toil.
Satire fhould, like a polish'd razor keen,
Wound with a touch that's scarely felt or feen.
Thine is an oyfter-knife, that hacks and hews,
The rage, but not the talent of abuse;
And is in hate what love is in the stews;
'Tis the grofs luft of hate, that still annoys
Without distinction, as grofs love enjoys:
Neither to folly, nor to vice confin'd;
The object of thy fpleen is human-kind :
It preys on all, who yield or who refift;
To thee 'tis provocation to exist.

But if thou fee'ft a great and gen'rous heart,
Thy bow is doubly bent to force a dart.
Nor only juftice vainly we demand,
But even benefits can't rein thy hand
To this or that alike in vain we trust,
Nor find thee lefs ungrateful than unjust."

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WARTON.