EPISTLE to Dr Arbuthnot

P.

BEING THE

PROLOGUE

TO THE

SATIRES.

HUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,

SHUT,

Tye up the knocker, fay I'm fick, I'm dead,

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

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge,

5

They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10
No place is facred, not the Church is free,
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me:

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

VER. 1. Shut, fout the door, good John!] John Searl, his old and faithful fervant, whom he has remembered, under that character, in his Will.

Is there a Parfon, much be-mus'd in beer,
A maudlin Poetefs, a rhyming Peer,

A Clerk foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he fhould engros?

15

Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20
All fly to TWITʼNAM, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the caufe:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curfes 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.

25

30

VER. 13 Mint.] A place to which infolvent debtors retired, to enjoy an illegal protection, which they were there fuffered to afford one another, from the perfecution of their creditors.

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 seen two plays,
Who would do fomething in his Semptress' praise---

VER. 29. in the ift Ed.,

Dear Doctor tell me, is not this a curfe?
Say, is their anger or their friendship worse?

Seis'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lye :
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave exceeds all pow'r of face.

I fit with fad civility, I read

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 foft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends:

35

39

"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, 45
"I'm all fubmiffion, what you'd have it, make it. "
Three things another's modest 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."
Pitholeon libell'd me-" but here's a letter
"Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better.
"Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine,
"He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine. "

50

VER. 49. Pitholeon] The name taken from a foolish Poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek. Schol. in Horat. l. 1. Dr Bentley pretends, that this Pitholeon libelled Cæfar alfo.

VER. 53. in the MS.

If you refufe, he goes, as fates incline,
To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine.

Blefs me! a packet.-" 'Tis a ftranger fues, 55 "A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe.

If I diflike it, "Faries, 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.

Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it,
And fhame the fools-Your int'reft, Sir, with

"Lintot. "

Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch."

All demurs but double his attacks;
my

At laft he whispers, " Do, and we go fnacks.
Glad of a quarrel, ftrait I clap the door,

Sir, let me fee your works and you no more.
'Tis fung, when Midas' Ears began to spring,
(Midas, a facred perfon and a King)

His very Minifter who fpy'd them first,

(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burft. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer cafe,

When every coxcomb perks them in my face?

65

A. Good friend forbear! you deal in dang'rous things, I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;

Keep clole to Ears, and thofe let affes prick,

'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?

VER. 6o. in the former Ed.

Cibber and I are luckily no friends.

76

VFR. 72. Queen] The ftory is told, by fome, of his Barber, but by Chaucer of his Queen. See Wife of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Fables.