Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause :
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curfes wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life (which did you not 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? 30
A dire dilemma? either way I'm fped;
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 power of face.
1 fit with fad civility; I read

39

With honeft anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,
This faving counfel," Keep your piece nine years'
Nine years. cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by fof zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes e'er he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and requeft of friends :
"Ihe piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it;
"I'm all fubmiffion; what you'd have it, make it."
Three things another's model 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." 50 Pitholeon libell'd me" but here's a letter "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,' "He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." Blefs me! a packet.-"'Tis a ftranger 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 players and I are, luckily, no friends.

60

Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath! I'll | print it,

"And fhame the fools-your interft, Sir, with

Lintot."

Lintet, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks : At laft he whispers, "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 person and a king), His very minifter, who fpy'd them first, Some fay his queen), was forc'd to fpeak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe, When every coxcomb perks them in my face?

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 29, in the 1st Ed.

Dear doctor, tell me, is not this a curfe?

Say, is their anger, or their friendship worfe?
Ver. 53, in the MS.

If you refufe, he goes, as fates incline,
To plague Sir Robert or to turn divine.
Ver. 60, in the former Ed.

70

A.Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerousthings;
I'd never name queens, minifters, or kings;
Keep close to ears, and those let affes prick,
'Tis nothing--P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret país,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an afs: 80
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.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gallery, in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhamesa fcribbler? Break one cobweb through,
He fpins the flight, felf-pleasing thread anew: 9
Deftroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,

99

[fend,

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 till his lord, and whore ?
His butchers Henley, his Free-malons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?
Still to one bifhop Philips feem a wit?
Still Sappho-4. Hold for God's fake-you'll of-
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 flatterer's worse than
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.

[all.

120

There are, who to my perfon pay their court: I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short. Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high, Such Ovid's nofe, and," Sir! you have an eye."'Go on, obliging creature, make me fee All that difgrac'd my betters, met in me. Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, Juft fo immortal Maro eld 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 Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?

66

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 111, in the MS.

For fong, for filence fome expect a bribe:
And others roar aloud, "Subfcribe, fubfcribe !""
Time, praife. or money, is the least they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.

After ver. 124, in the MS.

But, friend, this fhape, which you and Curll admire, Came not from Ammon's fon, but from my fire † ;

Curll fet up his head for a fign.

The mufe but ferv'd to ease some friend, not wife;
To help me through this long disease, my life;
To fec nd, 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, 140
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,

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

160

Did fome more fober critic come abroad; If wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kifs'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and fenfe. Commas and points they fet exactly right, And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds: Each wight, who reads not, and but fcans and fpells, Each word-catcher, that lives on fyllables, Ev'n fuch small critics fome regard may claim, Prefery'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. Pretty! in amber to obferve the forms

Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things we know are neither rich nor rare, 171 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 guefs? The bard whom pilfer'd paftorals renown, Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown,

180

Juft writes to make his barrennefs appear,

And trains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a-year;

He, who, ftill wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left:
And he, who, now to fenfe, now nonfense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning
And he, whofe fustian's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but profe run mad :
All thefe, my modeft fatire bad tranflate,
And own'd that nine fuch poets made a fate. 190
How did they fume, and stamp, 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 inspires; Bleft with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converfe, and live with cafe: 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; 200 Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer, And, without fneering, teach the reft to fneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to ftrike, Juft hint a fault, and hesitate diflike; Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a fufpicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers befieg'd, And fo obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Like Cato, give his little fenate laws, And fit attentive to his own applaufe; While wits and templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praifeWho but must laugh, if fuch a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!

216

What though my name flood rubric on the walls, Or plafter'd pofts, with claps, in capitals? Or fmoking 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; 220 Poems I heeded (now berhym'd fo long) [fong. No more than thou, great George! a birth day I ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days, To fpread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor, like a puppy, daggled through 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 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 song.

230

VARIATIONS.

And for my head, if you'll the truth excufe, I had it from my mother *, not the muse. Happy, if he, in whom thefe frailties join'd, Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

• His mether was much afflicted with headachs.

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 208, in the MS.

Who, if two wits on rival themes conteft,
Approves of each, but likes he will the heft.

Alluding to Mr. Pope's and Tickell's tranflation of the firit book of the ad.

His library (where busts of ports dead
And a true Pindar flood without a head),
Receiv'd of wits an undiftinguish'd race,
Who firft his judgment afk'd, and then a place;
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd every day, and fome days eat; 240
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, [praife.
He paid feme bards with port, and fome with
To fome a dry rehearfal was affign'd,
And others (harder fill) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder!) came not nigh,
Dryden alone efcap'd this judging eye:
But ftill the great have kindness in referve,
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to ftarve.
May fome choice patron biefs each grey goofe
quill!

250

May every Bavius have his Bufo ftill! }
So when a ftatelman wants a day's defence,
Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense,
Or fimple pride for flattery makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Bleft be the great! for those they take away,
And thofe 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 Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn!
Oh, let me live my own, and die fo too! 261
(To live and die is all I have to do :)
Maintain a poet's dignity and ease,
And fee what friends, and read what
Above a patron, though I condefcend
Sometimes to call a minifter my friend.
I was not born for courts or great affairs;
I pay my debts, believe, and fay my prayers;
Can fleep without a poem in my head,
Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.

[pleafe:

books 1

270

Why am I afk'd what next fhall fee the light? Heavens! 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 "(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 mistakes The firft lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. Poor, guiltless I and can I chocfe but (mile, When every coxcomb knows me by my ftyle?

Curft be the verfe, how well fee'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe,

280

290

Give virtue fcandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the foft-ey'd virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fall'n worth, or beauty in diftrefs,
Who loves a lie, lame flander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out:
That fop, whose pride affects à patron's name,
Yet abfent, wounds an author's honeft fame:
Who can your merit felfishly approve,
And fhow the fenfe of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend ;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you fay,.
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the Dean and filver Bell can fwear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there; 300
Who reads but with a luft to mifapply,
Make fatire a lampoon, and fiction lie.

A lafh like mine no honeft man shall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of
filk,

Sperus, that mere white curd of afs's milk?
Satire of fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and ftings;
Whofe buzz the witty and the fair annoys, 310
Yet wit ne'er taftes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal fmiles his emptinefs betray,

As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,

And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
Half froth, half venom, fpits himself abroad, 320
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
Or fpite, or fmut, or rhymes, or blafphemies.
His wit all fee faw, between that and this,
Now high, now low, now mafter up, now miss,
And he himself one vile antithefis.
Amphibious thing! that, acting either part,
The trifling head or the corrupted heart,
Frp at the toilet, flatterer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now ftruts a lord.
Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have expreft, 330
A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest.
Beauty that fhocks you, parts that none will truft,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the duft.
Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool,
Not lucre's madman, nor ambition's tool,

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 234, in the MS.

To bards reciting he vouchfaf'd a nod,
And fnuff'd their incenfe like a gracious God.
After ver. 270, in the MS.

[fill Friendships from youth I fought, and feek them Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it will. The world I knew, but made it not my school, And in a courfe of flattery liv'd no fool.

After ver. 282, in the MS.

P. What if fing Augustus great and good?

VARIATIONS.

Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound,
As rumbling Dennis or a Norfolk hound;
With George and Frederic roughen every verse,
Then fmooth up all, and Caroline rehearse.
P. No-the high talk to lift up kings to gods,
Leave to court fermons, and to birth-day odes.
On themes like thefe, fuperior far to thine,
Let laurel'd Cibber and great Arnal shine.
Why write at all?-A. Yes, filence if you keep,

340

Not proud, nor fervile; be one poet's praise.
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:
That flattery, ev'n to kings, he held a fhame,
And thought a lie in verfe or profe the fame;
That not in fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But ftoop'd to truth, and moraliz'd his fong:
That not for fame, but virtue's better end,
He flood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half-approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the lofs of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The diftant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never fhed;
The tale reviv'd, the fie fo oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trafh, and dulnefs not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape,
The libel'd perfon, and the pictur'd shape;
Abufe, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread,
A friend in exile, or a father dead;
The whisper, that, to greatness still too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his fovereign's car-
Welcome for thee, fair virtue! all the past:
For thee, fair virtue! welcome ev'n the last!

350

1

A. But why infult the poor, affront the great? P. A knave's a knave, to me, in every ftate: 361 Alike my scorn, if he fucceed or fail. Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail; A hireling fcribbler, or a hireling peer, Knight of the poft corrupt, or of the fhire; If on a pillory, or near a throne, He gain his prince's ear, or lose his own.

Let the two Curlls of town and court, abuse 380
His father, mother, body, foul, and muse.
Yet why? that father held it for a rule,
It was a fin to call our neighbour fool:
That harmless mother thought no wife a whore:
Hear this, and fpare his family, James Moore !
Unfpotted names, and memorable long!

If there be force in virtue, or in fong.

Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause,
While yet in Britain honour had applause)
Each parent fprung-A. What, fortune, pray?-
P. Their own,

And better got, than Beftia's from the throne.
Born to no pride, inheriting no ftrife,

Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,
Stranger to civil and religious rage,

The good man walk'd innoxious through his

Yet foft by nature, more a dupe than wit, Sappho can tell you how this man was bit: This dreaded fat'rift Dennis will confefs Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress: So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, Has drunk with Cibber,nay, has rhym'd for Moor. Full ten years flander'd, did he once reply? Three thousand funs went down on Welfted's lie. To please his mistress one aspers'd his life; He lafh'd him not, but let her be his wife : Let Budgell charge low Grub-street on his quill, And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his will;

Preferve him focial, cheerful, and ferene,
And just as rich as when he ferv'd a queen!
A. Whether that bleffings be deny'd or given,
Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven.

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 368, in the MS.

Once, and but once, his heedlefs youth was bit,
And lik'd that dangerous thing, a female wit;
Safe as he thought, though all the prudent chid;
He writ no libels, but my lady did :
Great odds in amorous or poetic game,
Where woman's is the fin, and man's the shame.

VARIATIONS.

After vcr. 405, in the MS. And of myself, too, fomething muft I fay! Take then this verfe, the trifle of a day. And if it live, it lives but to commend The man whofe heart has ne'er forgot a friend, Or head, an author; critic, yet polite, And friend to learning, yet too wise to write. '

240

His library (where bufts of poets dead
And a true Pindar food without a head),
Receiv'd of wits an undiftinguish'd race,
Who firft his judgment afk'd, and then a place;
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd every day, and fome days eat;
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, [praise.
He paid feme bards with port, and fome with
To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd,
And others (harder fill) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder!) came not nigh,
Dryden alone efcap'd this judging eye:
But still the great have kindness in reserve,
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to ftarve.
May fome choice patron blefs each grey goofe
·quill!

250

May every Bavius have his Bufo ftill!
So when a ftatefman wants a day's defence,
Or envy holds a whole week's war with fenfe,
Or fimple pride for flattery makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Bleft be the great! for thofe they take away,
And thofe 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 Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn!
Oh, let me live my own, and die so too! 261
(To live and die is all I have to do :)
Maintain a poet's dignity and cafe,
And fee what friends, and read what
Above a patron, though I condefcend
Sometimes to call a minifter my friend.
I was not born for courts or great affairs;
I pay my debts, believe, and fay my prayers;
Can fleep without a poem in my head,
Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.

[pleafe: books I

270

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? Heavens! 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 "(Cries prating Balbus) fomething will come out." ""Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. “No, fuch a genius never can lie still;” And then for mine obligingly mistakes The firft lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. Poor, guiltless I and can I chocfe but fmile, When every coxcomb knows me by my ftyle?

Curft be the verfe, how well fee'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe,

280

290

Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the foft-ey'd virgin fteal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fall'n worth, or beauty in diftrefs,
Who loves a lie, lame flander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out :
That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name,
Yet abfent, wounds an author's honeft fame:
Who can your merit selfishly approve,
And fhow the fenfe of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you fay,
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the Dean and filver Bell can fwear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there; 300
Who reads but with a luft to mifapply,
Make fatire a lampoon, and fiction lie.

A lafh like mine no honeft man shall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble—A. What? that thing of
filk,

Sporus, that mere white curd of afs's milk?
Satire of fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and ftings;
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, 310
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys :
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal fmiles his emptiness betray,

As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,

And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,

Half froth, half venom, fpits himself abroad, 320
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,

Or fpite, or fmut, or rhymes, or blafphemies.
His wit all fee faw, between that and this,
Now high, now low, now mafter up, now miss,
And he himself one vile antithefis.
Amphibious thing! that, acting either part,
The trifling head or the corrupted heart,
Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now ftruts a lord.
Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest, 330
A cherub's face, a reptile all the reft.
Beauty that fhocks you, parts that none will troft,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool,
Not lucre's madman, nor ambition's tool,

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 234, in the MS.

To bards reciting he vouchfaf'd a nod,
And fnuff'd their incenfe like a gracious God.
After ver. 270, in the MS.

[fill: Friendships from youth I fought, and feek them Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it will. The world I knew, but made it not my school, And in a courfe of flattery liv'd no fool.

After ver. 282, in the MS.

P. What if I fing Auguftus great and good?

VARIATIONS.

Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound,
As rumbling Dennis or a Norfolk hound;
With George and Frederic roughen every verse,
Then fmooth up all, and Caroline rehearse.
P. No-the high talk to lift up kings to gods,
Leave to court fermons, and to birth-day odes.
On themes like thefe, fuperior far to thine,
Let laurel'd Cibber and great Arnal shine.
Why write at all?-A. Yes, filence if you keep,