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

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 muft end me, a fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma? either way I'm 1ped;
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.
I fit with fad civility; I read

39

With horeft anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at lal, but in unwilling cars,
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,
Khymes e'er he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:

The 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.

50

Pitholcon fends to me: "You know his grace; "I want a patron; ask 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 " Biefs me! a packet -- 'Tis a ftranger fucs, "A virgin tragedy, an orphan nule." If I difike it," furies, death and rage If approve, "commend it to the tage" There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion ends, 'The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the houfe reject him, " 'sdeath! I'll "print it,

199

60

"And fhame the fools-your interft, 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 lat he whilpers, "Do; and we go fnacks."
Glad of a quarrel, ftraight I clap the door,

Sir, let me fce your works and you no more." 'Tis fung, when Vidas' cars began to fpring (Midas, a facred perfon 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 1ft 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. 6o, in the former Ed.
Cibber and I are luckily no friends.

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 can't hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gallery, in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'it unhook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhamesa ftribbler? Break one cobweb through,
He fpins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew: go
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 vaft extent of flimfy lines.
Whom have I hurt? has poct yet, or peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnaffian Incer?
And has not Colly ftill his lord, and whore ?
His butchers Henley, his Free-malons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?
Still to ne bishop Philips feem a wit?

Still Sappho

99

[fend,

Hold, for God's fake—you'd ofNo names- be calm-learn prudence of a friend: I too could write, and I am twice as tall, į all. But foes like thefe-P. One flatterer's worfe than Of all mad creatures if the learn'd are right, It is the flaver kilis, and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent: Alas! 'tis ten times worse 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 himfeif my friend. This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, And others rar aloud," Subicribe, fubfcribe!"

110

There are, who to my perfon pay their court: I cough like Horace, and, though tean, am fh rt. Ammon's great fon one thoulder had too high, Such Ovic'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, languifhing in bed,

juft fo immortal Marold 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?

VARIATIONS.

Ver. III, in the MS.

120

For fong, for filence fome expect a bribe:
And ethers roar aloud," Subfcribe, fubfcribe!"
Time, praife, or money, is the leaft 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 bis beat for a fign.

+ His father was erucked,

He, who, ftill wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left :
And he, who, now to sense, now nonfenfe leaning,
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 thefe, my modeft fatire bad tranflate,

And own'd that nine fuch poets made a Tate. 190

160

Did fome more fober critic come abroad; If wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, ftudy, are their just 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 fpells, Each word-catcher, that lives on fyllables, Ev'n fuch fmall critics fome regard may claim, Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. Pretty! in amber to obferve the forms

Of hairs, or ftraws, 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 guess? The bard whom pilfer'd paftorals renown, Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown,

180

chafe!

And fwear, not Addifon 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 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 himfelf to rife; 200 Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer, And, without fneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to frike, Just 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 fentence raife, And wonder with a foolish face of praifeWho but muft laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!

210

What though my name flood rubric on the walls, Or plafter'd posts, 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 verfe and praife; 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 fong.

230

VARIATIONS.

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

⚫ His mother was much ofli&ed with beadachr.

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 208, in the MS.

Who, if two wits on rival themes conteft, Approves of each, but likes the worst the best.

Alluding to Mr. Pope's and Tickell's transtion of the first book of the Iliad.

240

His library (where bufts of poets dead
And a true Pindar ftood 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, [praife,
He paid fome 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 kindnefs in referve,
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to ftarve.
May fome choice patron bless each grey goose
quill!

250

May every Bavius have his Bufo ftill!
So when a flatefman 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 these 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 say 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 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 first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes.
Poor, guiltless I and can I chocfe but fmile,
When every coxcomb knows me by my style?

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

280

190

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, whofe pride affects a patron's name,
Yet abfent, wounds an author's honeft fame:
Who can your merit felfifhly approve,
And show 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 say,
And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
Who to the Dean and silver Bell can swear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there; 300
Who reads but with a luft to misapply,
Make fatire a lampoon, and fiction lie.

A lafh like mine no honeft man fhall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his ftead.
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 stings;
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 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 spite, or smut, 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,
Fep 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 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 fchool,
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?
A. You did so lately, was it understood?

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 task to lift up kings to gods,
Leave to court fermons, and to birth-day odes.
On themes like these, superior far to thine,
Let laurel'd Cibber and great Arnal shine.
Why write at all?-A. Yes, filence if you keep,
The town, the court, the wits, the dunces weep

340

350

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 floop'd to truth, and moraliz'd his fong:
That not for fame, but virtue's better end,
He stood 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 lie so oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trafh, and dulness not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape,
The libel'd perfon, and the pictur'd shape;
Abuse, 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 ear—
Welcome for thee, fair virtue! all the past:
For thee, fair virtue! welcome ev'n the last !
A. But why infult the poor, affront the great?
. A knave's a knave, to me, in every state: 361
Mlike 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 lofe his own.

370

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: Se humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhym'd for Moor. Fall ten years flander'd, did he once reply? Three thousand fans went down on Welfted's lie. To please his mistress one afpers'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;

Let the two Carlls 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 spare 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

Who fprung from kings fhall know lefs joy than I.

O friend! may each domeftic blifs be thine!
Be no unpleafing melancholy mine :
Me, let the tender office long engage.
To rock the cradle of repofing age,
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, 410
Make languor fmile, and smooth the bed of death,
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep a while one parent from the sky!
On cares like thefe if length of days attend,
May Heaven, to blefs those days, preferve my
friend,

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 reft 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 fhame.

VARIATIONS.

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