Go on, obliging creatures! make me fee The Mufe but ferv'd to eafe fome friend, not wife, 120 125 130 140 But why then publish? Granville, the polite, 135 And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praife, And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd, my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read, E'en mitred Rochefter 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 thefe belov'd! From thefe the world will judge of men and books; 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 flow'ry theme, A painted miftrefs, or a purling stream. Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; I wish'd the man a dinner, and fat ftill: Yet then did. Dennis rave in furious fret; I never anfwer'd; I was not in debt. 146 150 If want provok'd, or madness made them print, 155 I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint. Did fome more fober critic come abroad; If wrong'd, I fmil'd; if right, I kifs the rod. Pains, 160. Pains, reading, ftudy, are their just pretence, Of hair, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 166 170 175 180 Were others angry; I excus'd them too; It is not poetry, but profe run mad: All thefe my modest Satire bade translate, And own'd that nine fuch poets made a Tate. 190 How did they fume, and ftamp, and roar, and chafe! Peace to all fuch! But were there one whofe fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires, Blefs'd with each talent, and each art to please, 195 Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne; VOL. II. D View View him with scornful yet with jealous eyes, 200 205 210 215 220 225 What tho' my name ftood rubric on the walls Or plafter'd pofts, with claps, in capitals? Or fmoaking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I fought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Afian monarchs, from their fight: Poems I heeded (now berhym'd fo long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday fong; I ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days, To spread about the itch of verfe and praise; Nor like a puppy daggled thro' the Town To fetch and carry fing-fong up and down; Nor at rehearsals fweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, With handkerchief and orange at my fide; But, fick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Caftalian state. Proud as Apollo on his forked hill Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill ; Fed with foft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song. His library (where bufts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head) Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, Who first his judgment afk'd, and then a place: 230 235 Much Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat, 240 He paid fome bards with port, and fome with praise; To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd, And others (harder still) he paid in kind. Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh; 245 But still the great have kindness in reserve, 250 May fome choice patron blefs each gray-goofe quill! May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo ftill! So when a statesman want's a day's defence, Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense, Or fimple Pride for flatt'ry makes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands! Blefs'd be the great! for these they take away, And those they left me-for they left me Gay; Left me to fee neglected genius bloom, Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Of all thy blameless life the fole return 255 My verfe, and Queensb'ry weeping o'er thy urn! 260 O! let me live my own, and die so too! (To live and die is all I have to do ;) Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, And fee what friends, and read what books, I pleafe; Above a patron, tho' I condescend Sometimes to call a minister my friend. I was not born for courts or great affairs; I pay my debts, believe, and fay my pray❜rs; Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead. Why am I afk'd what next shall see the light? 265 270 Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to fave? 274 "I found him clofe with Swift"--" Indeed? no doubt (Cries prating Balbus) fomething will come out." 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will; " "No, fuch a genius never can lie still ;” D 2 And And then for mine obligingly mistakes, Curft be the verfe, how well fo'er it flow, 280 285 290 295 300 Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of filk, Sporus! that mere white curd of affes' milk? Satire or fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel! Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, 306 This painted child of dirt, that ftinks and stings; 310 In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. 315 As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way. And as the prompter breathes the puppet squeaks, Or |