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Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! What ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end,
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:

Banish'd the doctor, and expellid the friend-
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, What but a want, which you perhaps think mad ?
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate ;

Yet numbers feel the want of what he had ! Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest, Cutler and Brutus dying both exclaim, The young who labour, and the old who rest. “ Virtue! and wealth! what are ye but a name?” Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves

Say, for such worth are other worlds prepar'd ? Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. Or are they both, in this, their own reward ? Is there a variance ? enter but his door,

A knotty point! to which we now proceed. Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more. But you are tir'd—I'll tell a tale-B. Agreed. Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,

P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies, And vile attorneys, now an useless race.

Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies ; B. Thrice happy man ! enabled to pursue

There dwelt a citizen of sober fame, What all so wish, but want the power to do! A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply? Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth; What mines to swell that boundless charity ? His word would pass for more than he was worth.

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, One solid dish his week-day meal affords, This man possest five hundred pounds a-year. An added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's: Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw your Constant at church, and change ; his gains were sure, Ye little stars ! hide your diminish'd rays. [blaze! His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

B. And what! no monument, inscription, stone ? The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, His race, his form, his name almost unknown? And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old:

P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
Will never mark the marble with his name : And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Go, search it there, where to be born and die,

Rouz'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds swecp Of rich and poor makes all the history;

The surge,

and plunge his father in the deep; Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between ; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, Prov'd by the ends of being to have been.

And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, The wretch, who living sav'd a candle's end ; He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes : Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands,

“ Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; Belies his features, nay extends his bands;

And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.
That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might own, Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.

An honest factor stole a gem away :
Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend ! He pledgid it to the knight, the knight had wit,
And see, what comfort it affords our end.

So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,

“ I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; On once a flock-bed, but repair’d with straw, Where once I went to church, I'll now go twiceWith tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw, And am so clear too of all other vice." The George and Garter dangling from that bed The tempter saw his time : the work he ply'd ; Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,

Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, Great Villiers lies—alas! how chang'd from him, Till all the dæmon makes his full descent That life of pleasure, and that soul of whini ! In one abundant shower of cent per cent, Gallant and gay, in Cliefden's proud alcove, Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;

Then dubs director, and secures his soul. Or just as gay, at council, in a ring

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Of mimic statesmen, and their merry king.

Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit: No wit to flatter, left of all his store !

What late he call'd a blessing now was wit, No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.

And God's good providence a lucky hit. There, victor of his hcalth, of fortune, friends, Things change their titles, as our manners turn: And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. IIis counting-house employ'd the Sunday morn :

His Grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, Seldom at church, ('twas such a busy life) And well (he thought) advis'd him, “Live like me!" But duly sent his family and wife. As well his Grace reply'd, “ Like you, Sir John ? There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide That I can do, when all I have is gone.”

My good old lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd. Resolve me, reason, which of these are worse,

A nymph of quality admires our knight; Want with a full, or with an empty purse?

He marries, bows at court, and grows polite ; Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confessid, Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd ? The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air : Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall,

First, for his son a gay commission buys, For very want; he could not build a wall.

Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies : His only daughter in a stranger's power,

His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; For very want; he could not pay a dower.

She bears a coronet and p-x for life. A few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd, In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, "T'was very want that sold them for two pound. And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains.

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My lady falls to play: so bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;
The House impeach him, Coningsby harangues ;
The Court forsakes him, and Sir Balaam hangs :
Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown:
The devil and the king divide the prize,
And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.



Of the Use of Riches.

"Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ
To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste
His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste ?
Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats ;
Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats ;
He buys for Topham drawings and designs;
For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins ;
Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone,
And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.
Think we all these are for himself? no more
Than his fine wife, alas ! or finer whore.

For what has Virto painted, built, and planted ?
Only to show, how many tastes he wanted.
What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste ?
Some dæmon whisper'd, “ Visto! have a taste.”
Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool,
And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.
See ! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide:
A standing sermon, at each year's expense,
That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence !

You show us Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use. Yet shall (my lord) your just, your noble rules Fill half the land with imitating fools ; Who random drawings from your sheets shall take, And of one beauty many blunders make; Load some vain church with old theatric state, Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate; Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall; Then clap four slices of pilaster on't, That, lac'd with bits of rustic, makes a front. Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door ; Conscious they act a true Palladian part, And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer
A certain truth, which many buy too dcar:
Something there is more needful than expense,
And something previous ev'n to taste-—'tis sense :
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And though no science, fairly worth the seven :
A light, which in yourself you must perceive ;
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot;
In all, let nature never be forgot.
But treat the goddess like a modest fair,
Nor over dress, nor leave her wholly bare ;

Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,
Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

Consult the genius of the place in all ;
That tells the waters or to rise or fall;
Or helps the ambitious hill the heavens to scale,
Or scoops in circling theatres the vale ;
Calls in the country, catches opening glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades;
Now brcaks, or now directs th' intending lines ;
Paints as you plant, and as you work, designs.

Still follow sense, of every art the soul,
Parts answering parts shall slide into a whol',
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance;
Nature shall join you ; time shall make it grow
A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.

Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls,
And Nero's terraces desert their walls :
The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,
Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake :
Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain,
You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
| Nor in an hermitage set Doctor Clarke.

Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete ; His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet ; The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, And strength of shade contends with strength of light; A waving glow the bloomy beds display, Blushing in bright diversities of day, With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'er-Enjoy them, you ! Villario can no more ; Tir'd of the scene parterres and fountains yield, He finds at last he better likes a field. (stray'd,

Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus Or sate delighted in the thickening shade, With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet ! His son's fine taste an opener vista loves, Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves ; One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, With all the mournful family of yews : The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade.

At Timon's villa let us pass a day, Where all cry out, “ What sums are thrown away!” So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Soft and agreeable come never there. Greatness with Timon dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. To compass this, his building is a town, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down : Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze ! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around ! The whole, a labour'd quarry above ground. Two Cupids squirt before: a lake behind Improves the keenness of the northern wird. His gardens next your admiration call ; On every side you look, behold the wall ! No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, cach alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other.



The suffering eye inverted nature sees,

Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feedTrees cut to statues, statues thick as trees ;

The milky heifer and deserving steed;
With here a fountain never to be play'd ;

Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,
And there a summer-house that knows no shade; But future buildings, future navies, grow :
Ilere Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers ; Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
There gladiators fight, or die in flowers ;

First shade a country, and then raise a town.
Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,

You too proceed ! make falling arts your care, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.

Erect new wonders, and the old repair ; My lord advances with majestic mien,

Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be scen :

And be whate'er Vitruvius was before : But soft_by regular approach—not yet

Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind, First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd) And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg’d your Bid harbours open, public ways extend, Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. (thighs, Bid temples worthier of the God ascend;

His study! with what authors is it stor'd ? Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain,
In books, not authors, curious is my lord ;

The mole projected break the roaring main ;
To all their dated backs he turns you round; Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound. And roll obedient rivers through the land :
Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good

These honours, peace to happy Britain brings ;
For all his lordship knows, but they are wood. These are imperial works, and worthy kings.
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of prayer;

EPISTLE TO MR. ADDISON; Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,

OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS. Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,

See the wild waste of all-devouring years ! Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre,

How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, Op gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,

With nodding arches, broken temples spread ! And bring all paradise before your eye.

The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead ! To rest the cushion and soft dean invite,

Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd: But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall:

Now drain'd a distant country of her floods :
The rich buffet well-colour'd serpents grace,

Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey ;
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Statues of men scarce less alive than they!
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?

Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age,
No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb;

Some hostile fury, some religious rage. A solemn sacrifice perform'd in state,

Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.

And papal piety, and Gothic fire.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame,
Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. Some bury'd marble half preserves a name;
Between each act the trembling salvers ring,

That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
From soup to sweet wine, and God bless the King. And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,

Amdition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,

The faithless column and the crumbling bust: Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave, Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve!

shore, I curse such lavish cost and little skill,

Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more ! And swear no day was ever past so ill.

Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed ; And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. Health to hiinself, and to his infants bread,

A narrow orb cach crowded conquest keeps, The labourer bears : what his hard heart denies, Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps. His charitable vanity supplies.

Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, Another age shall see the golden ear

And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, A small Euphrates through the piece is rollid, Deep harvests bury all his pride has plannid, And little eagles wave their wings in gold. And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.

The medal, faithful to its cliarge of fame,
Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil ? Through climes and ages bears each form and
Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle.
'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense,

In one short view subjected to our eye,
And splendour borrows all her rays from sense. Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie.
His father's acres who enjoys in peace,

With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore,
Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase ; Th' inscription value, but the rust adore :
Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil, This the blue varnishi, that the green endears,
Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil ;

The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years !


To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, Friend to my life! (which did you not prolong, Onę grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams :

The world had wanted many an idle song) Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd; Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? And Curio, restless by the fair one's side,

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped ; Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead. Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine:

Seiz'd ard ty'd down to judge, how wretched I ! Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine: Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view,

To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace ; And all her faded garlands bloom anew.

And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage;

I sit with sad civility; I read These plas'd the fathers of poetic rage:

With honest anguish, and an aching head; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,

And drop at last, but in unwilling cars, And art reflected images to art.

This saving counsel, “ Keep your piece nine years." Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, ** Nine ycars !” cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?

Lullid by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, In living medals see her wars enroll'd,

Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before tenn ends, And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold ? Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends : Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;

“The piece, you think, is incorrect ? why take it; There, warriors frowning in historic brass :

I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it.” Then future ages with delight shall see

Three things another's modest wishes bound, How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Or in fair series laureld bards be shown,

Pitholeon sends to me: “ You know his Grace; A Virgil there, and here an Addison.

I want a patron; ask him for a place.” Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) Pitholeon libellid me—" but here's a letter On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine ;

Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better With aspect open shall erect his head,

Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine,
And round the orb in lasting notes be read, - He'll write a journal, or he'll tum divine."
“ Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, Bless me ! a packet-“ 'Tis a stranger sues,
In action faithful, and in honour cluar ;

A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse."
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, If I dislike it, « furies, death, and rage !"
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;

If I approve,

'" commend it to the stage.” Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,


(thank my stars) my whole commission ends, And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Muse he lov’d.” 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 interest, sir, with Lintot.”

Lintot, dull rogue ! will think your price too much:
EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTINOT: “ Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.”

All my demurs but double his attacks:

At last he whispers, “ Do; and we go snacks." P. Shut up the door, good John ! fatigu'd I said, Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.

Sir, let me see your works and you no more." The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,

'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:

(Midas, a sacred person and a king) Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,

His very minister, who spy'd them first, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. (Some say his queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. When every coxcomb perks them in my face? By land, by water, they renew the charge;

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings ; No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, Evin Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me; "Tis nothing—P. Nothing ? if they bite and kick ? Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Out with it, Dunciad ! let the secret pass, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

That secret to each fool that he's an ass : Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,

The truth once told, (and wherefore should we lie?) A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

The queen of Midas slept, and so may I. A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,

You think this cruel? Take it for a rule, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? No creature smarts so little as a fool. Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls Let peals of laughter, Codrus ! round thee break, With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls ? Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain

Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurl'd, Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Thou stand’st unshook amidst a bursting world. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,

Who shames a scribbler ? Break one cobweb through, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause : He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew : Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,

Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

The crcature's at his dirty work again ;


Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, Proud of a vast extent of Aimsy lines !

And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Whom have I hurt ? has poet yet, or peer,

Commas and points they set exactly right, Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer ? And 'twerę a sin to rob them of their mite. And has not Colly still his lord, and whore ? Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, His butchers Henley, his freemasons Moor?

From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds : Does not one table Bavius still admit ?

Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit ? (fend - Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Still Sappho—A. Hold; for God's sake-you'll of. Ev'n such small critics some regard may claim, No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend : Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. I too could write, and I am twice as tall;

Pretty! in amber to observe the forms But foes like these—P. One flatterer's worse than all. Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms ! Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, The things we know are neither rich nor rare, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

But wonder how the devil they got there. A fool quite angry is quite innocent:

Were others angry? I excus'd them too; Alas ! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. One dedicates in high heroic prose,

A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find ; And ridicules beyond a hundred foes :

But each man's secret standard in his mind, One from all Grub-street will my fame defend, That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. This, who can gratify ? for who can guess ? This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,

The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, And others roar aloud, “ Subscribe, subscribe!” Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown,

There are, who to my person pay their court : Just writes to make his barrenness appear, (year; I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, He, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, Such Ovid's nose, and, “ Sir! you have an eye !"- Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: Go on, obliging creatures, make me see

And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me.

Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,

And he, whose fusțian's so sublimely bad, “ Just so immortal Maro held his head;"

It is not poetry, but prose run mad: And when I die, be sure you let me know

All these, my modest satire bade translate, Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.

And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! Dipp'd me in ink; my parents', or my own? And swear, not Addison himself was safe. As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,

Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.

True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; I left no calling for this idle trade,

Blest with each talent and each art to please, No duty broke, no father disobey'd :

And born to write, converse, and live with ease : The Muse but serv'd to case some friend, not wife; Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, To help me through this long disease, my life; Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, To second, Arbuthnot ! thy art and care,

View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And teach, the being you preserv'd, to bear.

And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise ;
But why then publish ? Granville the polite, Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write ; And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ;
Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise, Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike ;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,

Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,
Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head,

A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ;
And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) Dreading ey'n fools, by flatterers besieg'd,
With open arms receiv'd one poet more.

And so obliging that he ne'er oblig'd;
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd ! Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
Happier their author, when by these beloy'd ! And sit attentive to his own applause ;
From these the world will judge of men and books, While wits and templars every sentence raise,
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. And wonder with a foolish face of praise-

Soft were my numbers: who could take offence Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ?
While pure description held the place of sense ? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,

What though my name stood rubric on the walls, A painted mistress, or a purling stream.

Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;

Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still.

On wings of winds came flying all abroad ? Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;

I sought no homage from the race that write; I never answer'd, I was not in debt.

I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight; If want provok'd, or madness made them print, Poems I hecded (now berhym'd so long) I wag'd no war with bedlam or the mint.

No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. Did some more sober critic come abroad;

I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. To spread about the itch of verse and praise ;

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