To gain Pefcennius one employs his Schemes,
One grafps a Cecrops in extatic dreams..

Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd,
Can taste no pleasure since his Shield was scour'd:
And Curio, restless by the Fair-one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Their's is the Vanity, the Learning thine:
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine:
Her Gods and godlike Heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush, these studies they regard engage;

40

45

These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage:
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And Art reflected images to Art.

50

Oh, when shall Britain, confcious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame ?
In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold ?
Here, rifing bold, the Patriot's honest face;
There, Warriors frowning in historic brass :
Then future ages with delight shall fee
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
Or in fair series laurel'd Bards be shown,

55

60

A Virgil there, and here an Addison.

Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)

On the caft ore, another Pollio, shine;

With aspect open shall erect his head,
And round the orb in lasting notes be read,

65

"Statesman, yet friend to Truth! of foul fincere,

"In action faithful, and in honour clear;

"Who

"Who broke no promise, served no private end, " Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; " Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

" And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Muse he lov'd."

70

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT,

BEING THE

PROLOGUE

TO THE

SATIRES.

T

ADVERTISEMENT

TO

The first Publication of this Epistle.

HIS paper is a fort of bill of complaint, begun, many years fince, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons 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 Publick 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 necessity to say something 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 Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing,

it will be that by which I am most defirous to please, 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, spared their Names; and they may escape being laughed at, if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free Use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage, and honour, on my fide, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, fince a nameless Character can never be found out, but by its truth and likeness.

:

P. CHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigued I faid,
Tye up the knocker, say I'm fick, I'm dead.

The Dog-ftar rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out :

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,

They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

5

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my Grot they glide, By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is facred, not the Church is free, Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;

L3

Then

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy! to catch me, just at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross ?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With defperate charcoal round his darken'd walls?

15

20

All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause :
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curses 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 must end me, a Fool's wrath or love?

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;
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:

VARIATIONS.

25

30

To

After ver. 20. in the MS.

Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free,
With all their brandish'd reams they run to me :
Is there a 'Prentice, having feen two plays,

Who would do fomething in his Sempstress' praise

Ver. 29. in the 1st Ed.

Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse ?

Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse?