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There (thank my stars) my whole commiffion ends,
The players and are, luckily, no friends.

60

65

Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it, "And fhame the fools-Your intereft, Sir, with Lintot." Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much : "Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks: 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 Minister, who spy'd them first,

(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer case,

When every coxcomb perks them in my face?

70

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things,
I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let affes prick,
'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret pass,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:
The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)
The Queen of Midas flept, and fo may I..

You think this cruel? Take it for a rule,

No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.

80

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85 Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:

VARIATION.

Ver. 60. in the former Ed.

Cibber and I are luckily no friends.

Pit,

90

Pit, box, and gallery, in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'ft unfhook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a Scribler? Break one cobweb through,
He spins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew :
Destroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,
'The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimzy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer?
And has not Colly ftill his lord, and whore ?
His butchers Henley, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips feem a wit?

95

100

Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God's fake-you'll offend, No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:

I too could write, and I am twice as tall;

But foes like thefe-P. One Flatterer's worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worfe when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
And, more abufive, calls himfelf my friend.

Ver. 111. in the MS.

VARIATION.

For fong, for filence fome expect a bribe:
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, fubfcribe!"

105

ΠΙΟ

This

This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subfcribe, fubfcribe!"

115

120

There are, who to my perfon pay their court: I cough like Horáce, and, though lean, am short. Ammon's great fon one fhoulder had too high, Such Ovid's nofe, and, "Sir! you have an Eye!"Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee All that difgrac'd my Betters, met in me. Say for my comfort, languifhing in bed, <6 Juft fo immortal Maro held his head;" And when I die, be fure you let me know Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago. Why did I write? what fin to me unknowh Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lifp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.

I left no calling for this idle trade,

No duty broke, no father disobey'd:

123

130

The

VARIATIONS.

Time, praife, or money, is the leaft they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.

After ver. 124. in the MS.

But, friend, this fhape, which You and Curll a admire,
Came not from Ammon's fon, but from my Sire:
And for my head, if you'll the truth excufe,
I had it from my Mother, not the Mufe.
Happy, if he, in whom thefe frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

a Curll fet up his head for a fign.

b His Father was crooked.

His Mother was much afflicted with headachs.

The Mufe but ferv'd to eafe fome friend, not Wife,
To help me through this long disease, my Life,
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care,
And teach, the Being you preferv'd to bear.

But why then publifh? Granville the polite,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth 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 would nod the head,

And St. John's felf (great Dryden's friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.
Happy my ftudies, when by thefe approv'd!
Happier their Author, when by these belov'd!

135

14.0

From these the world will judge of men and books, 145
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.
Soft were my numbers: who could take offence
While pure
Defcription held the place of Sense?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted miftrefs, or a purling ftream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate still.

150

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 Bedlam or the Mint.

155

Did fome more fober Critic come abroad; If wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kifs'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their juft pretence, And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and sense._

160 Commas

Commas and points they fet exactly right,

And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds:
Each wight, who reads not, and but fcans and spells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on fyllables,
Ev'n fuch fmall Critics fome regard may claim,
Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name.
Pretty in amber to obferve the forms

Of hairs, or ftraws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 170
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 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's fecret ftandard in his mind,
That Cafting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
The Bard whom pilfer'd Paftorals renown,
Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown,
Juft writes to make his barrenness appear,

175

180

And ftrains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year;
He, who, ftill wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left:
And He, who, now to fenfe, now nonfenfe leaning, 185
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And He, whofe fuftian's fo fublimely bad,

It is not poetry, but profe run mad:

All these, my modeft Satire bad tranflate,

And own'd that nine fuch Poets made a Tate.

190 How

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