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just as gay, at council, in a ring

What late he call'd a blessing, now was wit, f'mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king. And God's good providence, a lucky hit. þ wit to flatter, left of all his store !

Things change their titles, as our manners turn : b fool to laugh at, which he valued more. His compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: pere, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, Seldom at church, ('twas such a busy life,) nd fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. But duly sent his family and wife. His grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide nd well (he thought) advis'd him, “Live like me!" | My good old lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd. $ well his grace reply'd, “ Like you, Sir John ! A nymph of quality admires our knight ; hat I can do, when all I have is gone."

He marries, bows at court, and grows polite : esolve me, Reason, which of these are worse, Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) ant with a full, or with an empty purse ?

The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air : hy life more wretched, Cutler, was confess’d, First, for his son a gay commission buys, rise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd ? Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies : itler saw tenants break, and houses fall,

His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; pr very want he could not build a wall.

She bears a coronet and px for life. is only daughter in a stranger's power,

In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, p very want; he could not pay a dower.

And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains. few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd, My lady falls to play : so bad her chance, was very want that sold them for two pound. He must repair it; takes a bribe from France: bat! ev’n deny'd a cordial at his end,

The house impeach him, Coningsby harangues ; nish'd the doctor, and expellid the friend ? The court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs : hat but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own, t numbers feel, the want of what he had ! His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown: tler and Brutus dying, both exclaim,

The devil and the king divide the prize, Virtue ! and Wealth! what are ye but a name !" And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies. |, for such worth are other worlds prepar'd ? are they both, in this, their own reward ? notty point! to which we now proceed.

To RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF BURLINGTON. t you are tir'd - I'll tell a tale. · B. Agreed. P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies

EPISTLE IV. e a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; ere dwelt a citizen of sober fame, plain good man, and Balaam was his name; ligious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;

Argument. s word would pass for inore than he was worth. e solid dish his week-day meal affords,

The vanity of expense in people of wealth and d added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's :

quality. The abuse of the word taste. That istant at church, and 'Change; his gains were the first principle and foundation in this, as in sure,

every thing else, is good sense. The chief proof givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

of it is to follow Nature, even in works of mere The devil was piqu'd such saintship to behold, luxury and elegance. Instanced in architecture di long'd to tempt him, like good job of old; and gardening, where all must be adapted to the Satan now is wiser than of yore,

genius and use of the place, and the beauties d tempts by making rich, not making poor. not forced into it, but resulting from it. How Lous'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep men are disappointed in their most expensive

surge, and plunge his father in the deep; undertakings, for want of this true foundation, -n full against his Cornish lands they roar, without which nothing can please long, if at all; d two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. and the best examples and rules will be but perSir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,

verted into something burthensome and ridiculous, takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes : A description of the false taste of magnificence; ive like yourself,” was soon my lady's word; the first grand errour of which is, to imagine that I lo! iwo puddings smok'd upon the board. greatness consists in the size and dimension, ini sleep and naked as an Indian lay,

stead of the proportion and harmony of the whole; honest factor stole a gem away :

and the second, either in joining together parts pledg'd it to the knight, the knight had wit, incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.

repetition of the same too frequently. A word or ne scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, two of false taste in books, in music, in painting, 'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; even in preaching and prayer, and lastly in enterere once I went to church, I'll now go twice tainments. Yet Providence is justified in giving d am so clear too of all other vice."

wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it tempter saw his time : the work he ply'd; is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of cks and subscriptions pour on every side,

mankind. What are the proper objects of magi all the demon makes his full descent

nificence, and a proper field for the expense of one abundant shower of cent per cent,

great men; and finally the great and public ks deep within him, and possesses whole,

works which become a prince, en dubs director, and secures his soul. Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, 'Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ ribes his gettings to his parts and merit ; To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy ;

Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste? Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake: Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats ;

Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats: You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. He buys for Topham drawings and designs; Ev'n in an ornament its place remark, For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins; Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke. Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone, Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete; And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane. His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet; Think we all these are for himself ? no more The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, Than his fine wife, alas ! or finer whore.

And strength of shade contends with strength of For what has Virro painted, built, and planted ?

Only to show how many tastes he wanted. A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste? Blushing in bright diversities of day,
Some demon whisper'd, “ Visto! have a taste. With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'er -
Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool,

Enjoy them, you ! Villario can no more;
And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.

Tir'd of the scene parterres and fountains yield, See ! sportive Fate, to punish awkward pride, He finds at last he better likes a field. Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide: Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus A standing sermon, at each year's expense,

stray'd, That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence! Or sate delighted in the thickening shade,

You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, And pompous buildings once were things of use. Or see the stretching branches long to meet ! Yet shall, my lord, your just, your noble rules His son's fine taste an opener Vista loves, Fill half the land with imitating fools;

Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves; Who random drawings from your sheets shall take, One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views And of one beauty many blunders make;

With all the mournful family of yews : Load some vain church with old theatric state, The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Turn arts of triumph to a garden-gate;

Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade. Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all

At Timon's villa let us pass a day, On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall; Where all cry out, “ What sums are thrown away" Then clap four slices of pilaster on 't,

So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, That, lac'd with bits of rustic, makes a front. Soft and agreeable come never there. Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;

As brings all Brobdignag before your thought Conscious they act a true Palladian part,

To compass this, his building is a town, And if they starve, they starve by rules of art. His pond an ocean, his parterre a down :

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer, Who but must laugh, the master when be sees, A certain truth, which many buy too dear :

A puny insect, shivering at a breeze !
Something there is more needful than expense, Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around !
And something previous ev'n to taste — 'tis sense : The whole a labour'd quarry above ground.
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, Two Cupids squirt before : a lake behind
And, though no science, fairly worth the seven : Improves the keenness of the northern wind.
A light which in yourself you must perceive; His gardens next your admiration call,
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

On every side you look, behold the wall!
To build, to plant, whatever you intend, No pleasing intricacies intervene,
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,

No artful wildness to perplex the scene ;
To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot;

Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, In all, let Nature never be forgot.

And half the platform just reflects the other But treat the goddess like a modest fair,

The suffering cye inverted Nature sees, Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare ;

Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees; Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,

With here a fountain, never to be play'd; Where half the skill is decently to hide.

And there a summer-house that knows no shade; He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers; Surprizes, varies, and conceals the bounds. There gladiators fight, or die in flowers; Consult the genius of the place in all;

Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mour, That tells the waters or to rise, or fall;

And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn. Or helps th' ambitious hill the beavens to scale, My lord advances with majestic mien, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale ;

Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : Calls in the country, catches opening glades, But soft - by regular approach - not yet Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; Now breaks, or now directs th' intending lines; And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

thighs, Still follow sense, of every art the soul,

Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, His study! with what authors is it stor'd ? Spontaneous beauties all around advance,

In books, not authors, curious is my lord; Start ey'n from difficulty, strike from chance ; To all their dated backs he turns you round; Nature shall join you ; Time shall make it grow These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. A work to wonder at — perhaps a Stow.

Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls ; For all his lordship knows, but they are wood. And Nero's terraces desert their walls :


For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.

To Mr. Addison.
And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of prayer :

Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven.
On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,

This was originally written in the year 1715, when Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre,

Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,

medals: it was some time before he was secreAnd bring all Paradise before your eye.

tary of state ; but not published till Mr. Tickell's To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,

edition of his works; at which time his verses on Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;

added, viz. in 1720. A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall: As the third Epistle treated of the extremes of The rich buffet well-colour'd serpents grace,

avarice and profusion; and the fourth took up And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.

one particular branch of the latter, namely, the Is this a dinner? this a genial room?

vanity of expense in people of wealth and quaNo, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb.

lity, and was, therefore, a corollary to the third ; A solemn sacrifice perform'd in state,

so this treats of one circumstance of that vanity, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.

as it appears in the common collectors of olá So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear

coins ; and is, therefore, a corollary to the Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there.

Between each act the trembling salvers ring,
From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. See the wild waste of all-devouring years ;
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,

How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears,
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,

With nodding arches, broken temples spread ! Treated, caress'd, and tir’d, I take my leave, The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead! Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;

Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, (toil'd: I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,

Where, mix'd with slaves, the groaning martyr And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill.

Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed ; Now drain'd a distant country of her floods : Health to himself, and to his infants bread,

Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey; The labourer bears : What his hard heart denics,

Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! His charitable vanity supplies.

Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Another age shall see the golden ear

Some hostile fury, some religious rage.
Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre,

Barbarian blindness, christian zeal conspire,
Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, And papal piety, and gothic fire.
And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.

Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame,
Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil?

Some bury'd marble half preserves a name; Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle? That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursus, 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense,

And give to Titus old Vespasian's due. And splendour borrows all her rays from sense.

Ambition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust His father's acres who enjoys in peace,

The faithless column and the crumbling bust :
Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase : Huge moles, whose shadows stretch'd from shore to
Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil,

Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil; Their ruins perish’d, and their place no more!
Whose ample lawns are not asham’d to feed Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design,
The milky heifer and deserving steed;

And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.
Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,

A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, But future buildings, future navies, grow :

Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps ; Let his plantations stretch from down to down,

Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, First shade a country, and then raise a town. And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;, You too proceed ! make falling arts your care,

A small Euphrates through the piece is roll’d, Erect new wonders, and the old repair ;

And little eagles wave their wings in gold. Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before :

Through climes and ages bears each form and name : Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind,

In one short view subjected to our eye (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd,) Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. Bid harbours open, public ways extend,

With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore,
Bid temples worthier of the God ascend;

Th'inscription value, but the rust adore.
Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain, This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The mole projected break the roaring main ;

The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years !
Back to his bounds their subject sea command, To gain Pescenius one employs his schemes,
And roll obedient rivers through the land;

One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams.
These honours, Peace to happy Britain brings; Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd,
These are imperial works, and worthy kings.

Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd:
And Curio, restless by the fair-one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and reglects his bride.

Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine :


Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view,

I sit with sad civility; I read And all her faded garlands bloom anew.

With honest anguish, and an aching head; Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage : And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage :

This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years." The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,

“ Nine years !" cries he, who high in Drury-lane, And art reflected images to art.

Lullid by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends : In living medals see her wars enrollid,

“ The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it ; And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold? I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it. Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;

Three things another's modest wishes bound, There, warriors frowning in historic brass ? My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Then future ages with delight shall see

Pitholeon sends to me: “ You know his grace: How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; I want a patron; ask him for a place." Or in fair series laurel'd bards be shown,

Pitholeon libell'd me — “but here's a letter A Virgil there, and here an Addison :

Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine :

He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." With aspect open shall erect his head,

Bless me! a packet. —“'Tis a stranger sues, And round the orb in lasting notes be read, A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse." “ Statesman, best friend to truth! of soul sincere, If I dislike it, Furies, death, and rage !". In action faithful, and in honour clear;

If I approve, “ Commend it to the stage." Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

Fir'd that the house reject him, “ 'Sdeath! I'll print And prais’d, unenvy'd, by the Muse he loved." And shame the fools- your interest, sir, with

Lintot, dull rogue ! will think your price too much:

“ Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT: All my demurs but double his attacks:

At last he whispers, “ Do; and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,

“ Sir, let me see your works and you no more."
P. SHut, shut the door, good John ! fatigu'd, I said, 'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. (Midas, a sacred person and a king,)
The Dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt, His very minister, who spy'd them first,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out :

(Some say his queen,) was forc'd to speak, or burst. Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, | And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. When every coxcomb perks them in my face? What walls can guard me, or what shades can A. Good friend, forbear ! you deal in dangerous bide?

things, They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; By land, by water, they renew the charge; Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 'Tis nothing – P. Nothing ? if they bite and kick? No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, Ev'n Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me; That secret to each fool, that he's an ass : Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time.

The queen of Midas slept, and so may I. Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,

You think this cruel ? Take it for a rule, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

No creature smarts so little as a fool. A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions burld, With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls ? Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. All fly to Twit'nam, and, in humble strain, Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

through, Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew : Imputes to me and my damn’d works the cause : Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,

The creature's at his dirty work again, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs, Friend to my life! (which did you not prolong, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines ! The world had wanted many an idle song,) Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, What drop of nostrum can this plague remove? Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? And has not Colly still his lord, and whore ? A dire dileioma! either way I'm sped ;

His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moor? It foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Does not one table Bavius still admit? Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I! Still to one bishop Philip seems a wit? Who can't be silent, and who will not lie :

Still Sappho - A. Hold! for God's sake - you'll To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;

offend; And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. | No names - be calm learn prudence of a friend :

I too could write, and I am twice as tall; fall. Were others angry: I excus'd them tvo;
But foes like these — P. One flatterer's worse than Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

But each man's secret standard in his mind,
A fool quite angry is quite innocent :

That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. This, who can gratify ? for who can guess ? One dedicates in high heroic prose,

The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes;

Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, One from all Grub-street will my fame defend, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, [year; And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,

He, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, And others roar aloud, “ Subscribe, subscribe !" Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left :

There are, who to my person pay their court : And he, who, now to sense, now nonsense leaning, I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short. Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, Such Ovid's nose, and,“ Sir! you have an eye!" It is not poetry, but prose run mad : Go on, obliging creature, make me see

All these, my modest satire bad translate, All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me.

And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,

How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe ! “ Just so immortal Maro held his head;"

And swear, not Addison himself was safe. And when I die, be sure you let me know

Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago. True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ;

Why did I write? what sin' to me unknown Blest with each talent and each art to please, Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own ? And born to write, converse, and live with ease: As yet a child, nor yet a fool to Fame,

Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.

Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, I left no calling for this idle trade,

View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, No duty broke, no father disobey'd ;

And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise ; The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, To help me through this long disease, my life; And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,

Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, And teach, the being you preserv'd, to bear. Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;

But why then publish ? Granville the polite, Alike reserv’d to blame, or to commend, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write ; A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise, Dreading ev'n fools, by Aatterers besieg'd, And Congreve lov’d, and Swift endur'd my lays; And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Like Cato, give his little senate laws, Ev'n nitred Rochester wouid nod the head, And sit attentive to his own applause; And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend before) While wits and templars every sentence raise, With open arms received one poet more.

And wonder with a foolish face of praise Happy my studies, when by these approv'd ! Who but must laugh, if such a man there be! Happier their author, when by these belov'd! Who would not weep, if Atticus were he! From these the world will judge of men and books, What, though my name stood rubric on the walls, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ?

Soft were my numbers: who could take offence Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, While pure description held the place of sense ? On wings of winds came flying all abroad? Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, I sought no homage from the race that write ; A painted mistress, or a purling stream,

I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight : Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill ;

Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long) I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate still.

No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret :

I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, I never answer'd, I was not in debt.

To spread about the itch of verse and praise ; If want provok'd, or madness made them print, Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the town, I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint. To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;

Did some more sober critic come abroad; Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. With handkerchief and orange at my side ! Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,

But, sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.

To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. Commas and points they set exactly right,

Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.

Sate full-blown Bufo, puff”d by every quill;
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, Fed with soft dedication all day long,
From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds. Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, His library (where busts of poets dead
Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables,

And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Ev’n such small critics some regard may claim,

Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place; Pretty! in amber to observe the forms

Much they extoll’d his pictures, much his seat, Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! And flatter'd every day, and some days eat; The things we know are neither rich nor rare, Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, But wonder how the devil they got there.

He paid some bards with port, and some with praise;

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