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Is there, who , lock'd from ink and paper , scrawls
Friend to my life!( which did not you prolong,
Nine years! cries he , who high in Drury-lane,
Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: » You know his Grace,
» 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,
That secret to each fool, that he's an afs':
You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
One dedicates in high heroic profe ,
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
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 )
With open arms receiv'd one poet more.
numbers ; who could take offence
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.