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

Their own,

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And better got than Bestia's from the throne.
Born to no pride, inheriting no strise,
Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious through his age,
No courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art,
No language but the language of the heart.
By nature honest, by experience wise :
Healthy hy temperance and by exercise:
His life, though long, to sickness pass'd unknown,
His death was instant, and without a groan.
Ogrant me thus to live, and thus to die !
Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I.

O friend ! may each domestic bliss be thine!
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine:
Me, let the tender office long engage,
To rock the cradle of reposing age,
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the sky!
On cares like these if length of days attend,
May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend!
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
And just as rich as when he served a queen!

A. Whether that blessing be denied or given.
Thus far was right; the rest belongs to Heaven.




"The occasion of publishing these Imitations was the clamour raised

on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full, and of more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person : and the example of much greater freetlom in so eminent a divine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and Contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in ever so low or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and ministers under whom they lived, The satires of Dr. Donne I versified at the desire of the Earl of Oxford while he was lord treasurer, and of the duke of Shrewsbury, who had been secretary of state ; neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as any reflection on those they served in. And indeed, there is not in the world a greater error, than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for a libeller; whereas to a truc satirist, nothing is so odious as a libeller, for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite.

Uni æquus virtuti atque ejus amicis.

Whoever especis a paraphrase of Horace, or a faithful copy of his geniuz, or manner of writing, in these imitations, will be much disappointed. Our author uses the Roman poet fur little more than his canvass : and if the old design or colouring chance to suit his purpose, it is well; if not, he emyloys his own, without scruple or ceremony. Hence it is, he is so frequently serious where Horace is in jest, and at ease where Horace is disturbe:1. In a word, he regulates his movements no further on his original, than was necessary for his concurrence in promoting their cominon plan of refornirtion

of manners.

Had it been his purpose merely to paraphrase an ancient satirist, he had hardly made choice of Horace; with whom, as a poet, he

Vol. II.


held little in common, besides a comprehensive knowledge of life and manners, and a certain curious felicity of expression, whicb con. sists in using the simplest language with dignity, and the most orna. mented with ease. For the rest, his harmony and strength of numbers, his force and splendour of colouring, his gravity and sublimity of sentiment, would have rather led him to another model. Nor was his temper less u like that of Horace, than his talents. What Horace would only smile at, Mr. Pope woulu treat with the grave severity of Persius ; and what Mr. Pope would strike with the caus. tic lightning of Juvenal, Horace would content himself in turning into ridicule.

If it be asked then, why he took any body at all to imitate, he has informed us in his advertisement. To which we may add, that this sort of imitations which are of the nature of parodies, adds reflected grace and splendour on original wit. Besides, he deemed it more modest to give the name of imitations to his satire, than like Des. preaux, lo give the name of satires to imitations,



P. There are (I scarce can think it, but am told
There are, to whom my satire seems too bold ;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something said of Chartres much to rough.
The line's are weak, another's pleased to say ;
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Timorous by nature, of the rich in awe,
I come to counsel learned in the law :
You'll give me, like a friend, both sage and free,
Advice : and (as you use) without a fee.
F. I'd write no more.

P. Not write ? but then I think,
And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink.
I nod in company, I wake at night,
Fools rush into my head, and so I write.

F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. Why, if the night seems tedious-take a wife : Or rather truly, if your point be rest, Lettuce and cowslip wine ; probatum est. But talk with Celsus, Celsus wili advise Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes. Or, if you needs must write, write Cæsar's praise, You'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays. P. What, like sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce,

With arms, and George and Brunswick crowd the
Rend with tremenduous sound your ears asunder,
With gun, drum, trampet, blunderbuss, and thunder ?
Or nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force,
Paint angels trembling round his falling horse?

F. Then all your muse's softer art display,
Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay,
Luil with Amelia's liquid name the Nine,
And sweetly flow through all the royal line.

P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear;
They scarce can bear their laureat twice a year :
And justly Cæsar scorns the poet's lays:
It is to history he trusts for praise.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still,
Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille,
Abuse the city's best good inen in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter.
E'en those


touch not hate you.

P. What should ail 'em?
F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam :
The fewer still you name, you wound the more ;
Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.

P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny


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Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie :
Ridotta sips and dances, till she see
The doubling lustres dance as fast as she :
F-loves the senate, Hockleyhole his brother,
Like in all else, as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myself, as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montagne ;
In them, as certain to be loved as seen,
The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within ;
In me what spots (for spots I have) appear,

at least the medium must be clear.
In this impartial glass, my muse intends
Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends;
Publish the present age ; but where my text
Is vice too high, reserve it for the next:
My foes shall wish my life a longer date,
And every friend the less lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing through my quill,
Verseman or proseman term me which you will,
Papist or protestant, or both between,
Like good Erasmus in an honest mean.
In moderation placing all my glory,
While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.

Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet;
I only wear it in a land of Hectors,
Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors.
Save but our army! and let Jove incrust
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust!
Peace is my delight—not Fleury's more!
But touch me, and no minister so sore.
Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time
Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhym

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