« ПредишнаНапред »
O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Our fate thou only canst adjourn
To Mrs. M. B. on her Birth-Day.
Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
To Mr. T. Southern, on his Birth-Day. 1742.
With not one sin but poetry,
To Mr. Addison ; occasioned by his Dialogues on
E the wild waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears!
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
Ambition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust
shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more! Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps. Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is rolld, And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Thro' climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye, Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, The' inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years ! To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd; And Curio, restless by the fair-one's side, Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine : Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine ; Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew. Nor blush these studies thy regard engage ; These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage ;
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim,
EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT,
Being the Prologue to the Satires.
ADVERTISEMENT. 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 agthors of “ Verses to the imitator of Horace," and of an " Epistle 10 a doctor of divinity from a nobleman at Hampton-Court") 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 aukward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the
ungenerous. Maoy 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 laugbed at if they please. I would have some of them know it was owing to the
request of the learned and candld 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 honour 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 nameJess character can never be found out but by its truth
and likeness. P.“
I said; up
the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead." The dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out:
2. “SHUT, shut the door, good John!" fatigued,