One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. No duty broke, no father disobey'd : 120 130 The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife, But why then publish? Granville the polite, And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) 150 Soft were my numbers; who could take offence While pure description held the place of sense? Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. 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. 156 160 Did some more sober critic come abroad; If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From slashing Bentley, down to piddling Tibalds: Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, 166 Ev'n such small critics, some regard may claim, Preserv'd in Milton's, or in Shakespeare's name. Pretty in amber to observe the forms 169 Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, 175 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 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, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a-year; 180 He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, All these my modest Satire bade translate, And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. 190 How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe ! And swear, not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such! But were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires, 194 205 View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, 210 216 What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I sought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight; Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long) 221 No more than thou, great George! a birthday song. I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the Town, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; 226 Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, With handkerchief and orange at my side; 230 235 But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, 240 He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; To some a dry rehearsal was assign'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 : May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still! 250 So when a statesman wants a day's defence, |