Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame;

Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame,

Averse alike to flatter, or offend;

Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.1

[PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES ]

ADVERTISEMENT

To the first publication of this Epistle.

THIS paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some Persons. of Rank and Fortune (the Authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman_at Hampton Court) 2 to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Public is judge), but my Person, Morals, and Family, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have anything pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if anything offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but

what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their Names, and they may escape being laughed at, if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage, and honor, on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out, but by its truth and likeness.

3 John Serle, an old and faithful servant.

4 An artificial grotto was one of the features of Pope's villa at Twickenham.

An enclosure in South

wark where insolvent debtors, among others, could not be arrested. They could come out on Sundays without fear of being apprehended.

6

Does not one table Bavius 5 still admit? Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit? Still Sappho-A. Hold! for God's sakeyou'll offend,

No Names!-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 slaver kills, and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent: Alas! 't is ten times worse when they repent.

One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: 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, subscribe!"

There are, who to my person pay their

court:

And when I die, be sure you let me know

Great Homer died 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. 130
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 preserv'd, to bear.

But why then publish? Granville the polite,1

And knowing Walsh,2 would tell me I could write;

Well-natur'd Garth 3 inflam'd with early praise;

And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;

The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield,* read;

Ev'n mitred Rochester 5 would nod the head,

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140

And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before)

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,

nicknamed

8 John. Lord Hervey, Lord Fanny because of effeminate manners.

❞ Charles Gildon, who had attacked Pope.

10 See Essay on Criticism above, line 270.

11 Richard Bentley, a fa

mous classical scholar, had criticised Pope's translation of Homer. His edition of Paradise Lost is alluded to in line 168.

12 Lewis Theobald had exposed the faults of l'ope's edition of Shakespeare and had just issued 3 very much better edition.

The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,

But wonder how the devil they got there.

Were others angry: I excus'd them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.

A man's true merit 't is not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind,

That Casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,

This, who can gratify? for who can guess? The bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown,1

180

Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year;

He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,

And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;

Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers be-
sieg'd,

And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,