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Is there, who , lock'd from ink and paper , scrawls
With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur , whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause :
Poor Cornus sees 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 song)
What drop or nastrum 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.
Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge , how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, 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 sad civility, I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head ;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, » Keep your piece nine years cr.

Nine years! cries he , who high in Drury-lane,
Lulld by soft zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere 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 submission, what you'd have it, make it c.

Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: » You know his Grace,

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» I want a patron; ask him for a place ce, Pitholeon libell'd me » But here's a letter » Informs you, Şir, 'twas when he knew no better, » Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, » He'll write a journal, or he'll rurn divine cc.

Biefs me !'a packet. -» 'Tis a stranger sucs , » A Virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse c. If I dislike it,» Furies, death and rage «! If I approve, » Commend it to the stage c. There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the house reject him, » 'Sdeath I'll print it, » And shame the fools Your intrest, Sir, with

Lintot a. Lintot , dull rogue! will think your price too much : » Not, Sir , if you revise it, and retouch << All my demurs but double his attacks ; At last he whispers , » Do; and we go snacks cc, Glad of a quarrel, strait I clap the door , Sir, let me see your works and you no more.

'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, ( Midas, a sacred person and a king.) His very

minister who spy'd them first, (Some say his queen ) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face? A. Good friend forbear! you deal in dang'rous things, I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick , 'Tis nothing P. Nothing? if they bite and kick:

Out with it, Dunciad! les the secret pass,

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That secret to each fool, that he's an afs':
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lic?)
The queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
No creature smarts so little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter , Codrus ! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canft hear ihe mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall’ry in convulsions hurld,
Thou stand'st uns hook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a feribler ? break ore cobweb thro',
He spins the light , self-pleasirg thread anew :
Destroy kis fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin defigns,
Proud of a vast extent of flimzy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer,
Loft the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian (neer?
And has not Colly still his lord, and whore !
His butchers Henly, his free-masons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Still to one bishop Philips seems a wit?
Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God-fake-you'll offend,
No naines be calm learn prudence of a friend:
I too could write , and I am twice as tall;
But foes like these-P.One flatt'rer's worse than all.
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the Naver kills, 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 :

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» Sir!

One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
And more abusive, calls himself

my

friend. This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, » Subscribe, subscribec

There are, who to my person pay their court: I cough like Horace, and, tho’lean, am short, Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, Such Ovid's nose, and, you

have an eye Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee All that difgrac'd my betters, met in me. Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, » Just so immortal Maro held his head cs: And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.

Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink , my parents”, or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke , no father disobey'd. The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife To help me thro’ this long disease , my life, To second , 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 loy'd, and Swift.endur'd my lays ; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Ev'n mitred Rochefter would nod the head, And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before )

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With open arms receiv'd one poet more.
Happy my studies , when by these 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.
Soft were

numbers ; who could take offence
While pure description held the place of sense?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill ;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd, I was not in debt.
If want provok’d, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlain or the Mint.

Did some more sober critic come abroad; If wrong, I smild ; if right, I kiss?d the rod. Pains, reading, study , are their just pretence , And all they want is fpirit , taste, and sense. Comma's and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From Nashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds : Each wight , who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Ev'n fuch small critics some regard may claim , Preserv’d in Milton's or in Shakespear's name. Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms ; The things we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.

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