Page images

There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;
His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One solid dish his week-day meal affords,
And added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's;
Constant at church and 'change; his gains were

[ocr errors]


His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
The devil was piqu'd such saintship to behold,
And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old:
But Satan now is wiser than of yore,

And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Rous'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep
The surge, and plunge his father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.


Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks; He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board. Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away; He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought: "I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; "Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice, "And am so clear too of all other vice."

[ocr errors]

The tempter saw his time; the work he plied;
Stocks and subscriptions pour on ev'ry side,
'Till all the dæmon makes his full descent
In one abundant show'r of cent. per cent.
Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole,
Then dubs director, and secures his soul.

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,
A-cribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he call'd a blessing, now was wit,
And God's good providence, a lucky hit.
Things change their titles, as our manners turn:
His compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn:
Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life),
But duly sent his family and wife.
There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide
My good old lady catch'd a cold, and died.

A nymph of quality admires our knight;
He marries, bows at court, and grows polite;
Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair)
The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air;
First, for his son a gay commission buys,
Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies.
His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife;
She bears a coronet and p-x for life.
In Britain's senate he a seat obtains,
And one more pensioner St Stephen gains.
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 forsake 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.


To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.
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?
Nor 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.

Forwhat has Virro 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 expence,
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; [take,
Who random drawings from your sheets shall
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 thro' 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 dear;
Something there is more needful than expence,
And something previous ev'n to taste-'tis sense:
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And, and tho' 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 areli 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 ev'ry where be spied,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points who decently 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 help th`ambitious hill the heavens to scale,
Or scoops in circling theatres the vale ;


Calls in the country, catching op'ning glades,
Joins willing woods,and varies shadesfromshades;
Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.
Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul,
Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole;
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 thro' 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 Dr. 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
A waving glow the bloomy beds display, [light;
Blushing in bright diversities of day,
With silver-quiv'ring 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.

Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.
My lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen:
But soft-by regular approach-not yet—
First thro' the length of yon hot terrace sweat;
And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your
Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. [thighs,

His study with what authors is it stor'd?
In books, not authors, curious is my lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round,
These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound.
Lo, some are vellum; and the rest as good,
For all his lordship knows, but they are wood.
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 pray'r:
Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven.
On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To rest the cushion and soft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

Thro' his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus
Orsate delighted in the thick'ning shade, [stray'd,
With annual joy the redd'ning shoots to greet,
Or see the stretching branches long too meet!
His son's fine taste an op'ner 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 Timou's villa let us pass a day, [away!"
Where all cry out, "What sums are thrown
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, shiv'ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole a labor'd quarry above ground.
Two Cupids squirt before: a lake behind
Improves the keenness of the northern wind.
His gardens next your admiration call;
On ev'ry side you look, behold the wall!
No pleasing intricacies intervene,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene ;
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suff'ring eye inverted nature sees,
Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
With here a fountain never to be play'd;
And there a sumuner-house that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs ;

But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall :
The rich buffet well-color'd serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a temple, and a hetacomb!
A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state;
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there.
Between each act the trembling salvers ring,
From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the king.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate.
Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,
And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill!


Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed;
Health to himself, and to his infants bread
The lab'rer bears: what his hard heart denies,
His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear
Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre,
Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.

Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil?
Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like
"Tis use alone that sanctifies expence, [Boyle.
And splendor borrows all her rays from sense.

His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his neighbour glad, if he increase;
Whose cheerful tenants ble-s their yearly toil,
Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil;
Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed.
The milky heifer and deserving steed;
Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,
But future buildings, future navies, grow:


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 garments bloom a-new.
Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage;
These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage:
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.

Oh when shall Britain, conscious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold?
Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;
There, warriors frowning in historic brass :
Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's Newton's looks agree;

§ 18. Epistle to Mr. Addison, occasioned by Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shown,

his Dialogues on Medals. Pope.

A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine;
With aspect open shall erect his head,
And round the orb in lasting notes be read,


Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a country, and then raise a town.

You too proceed! make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind
(Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd),
Bids harbours open, public ways extend;
Bid temples, worthier of the God, ascend ;
Bid the broad arch the dang'rous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main;
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient rivers thro' the land;
These honors peace to happy Britain brings :
These are imperial works, and worthy kings.


SEE the wild waste of all-devouring years ! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, Where, mix'd with slaves, the groaning martyr toil'd:

Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods:
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey,
Statues of men scarce less alive than they!
Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age,
Some hostile fury, some religious rage.
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flame,
Some buried marble half preserves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust
The faithless column and the crumbling bust:
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore
to shore,

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, "In action faithful, and in honor clear; "Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, "Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend: "Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

And prais'd, unenvied, by the Muse he lov'd.”

[ocr errors]

§ 19. Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Prologue to the Satires. Pope.

P. SHUT, shut the door, good John, fatigu'd
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:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can
They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge,
No place is sacred, not the Church is free,
Evin Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of
Happy! to catch me just at dinner time. [rhyme,

Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!
Convine'd, she now contracts her vast design,
And all her trimmphs 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;
And small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza when he should engross?

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, emp'rors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie.
With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore,
Th' 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'dThe world had wanted many an idle song.)

s there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause;
Poor Cornus sees his frantie wife clope;
And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope. [long
Friend to my Life! (which did not you pro-


What Drops or Nostrum can this plague remove,
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seis'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face:
I sit with sad civility, I read

[ocr errors]


names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:
I too could write, and I am twice as tall; [all.
But foes like these-P.One Flatt'rer's worse than
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.

With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, keep your piece nine years.'
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane,No
Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term
Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends; [ends,
The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it.
I am all submission, what you'd have it make it.
Three things another's niodest wishes bound,
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and Ten Pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: you know his Grace:
I want a Patron; ask him for a Place.'
Pitholeon libell'd me- but here's a letter [ter.
Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no bet-This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
'Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine; And others roar aloud, Subscribe, subscribe,'
'He'll write a Journal, or he 'll turn Divine.' There are who to my person pay the court:
Bless me! a packet. — "Tis a stranger sues, I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, I'm short.
A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse.' Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high;
If I dislike it,Furies, death, and rage!' Such Ovid's nose; and, 'Sir! you have an Eye'→→
If I approve, Commend it to the stage.' [ends, Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
There (thank my stars!) my whole commission All that disgrac'd my Betters met in me.
The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
Fir'd that the house reject him, 'Sdeath, I'll Just so immortal Maro held his head ;'
⚫ print it,
[Lintot. And when I die, be sure you let me know
And shame the fools-Your int'rest, Sir, with Great Homer died three thousand years ago.
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too.
Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch.' [much:
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers, Do; and we go snacks.'
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door :
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.
Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring
(Midas, a sacred person and a king),
His very Minister who spied them first
(Some say his Queen) was fore'd to speak, or
And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, [burst.
When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in any face?
4. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous


Why did I write! what sin to me unknown
Dipp'd me in ink, my parent's, or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd; [Wife,
The Muse but serv'd to ease some Friend, not
To help me thro' this long disease, my Life;
To second, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care,
And teach the being you preserv'd to bear.

But why then publish? 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 self (great Dryden's friend be-
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. [fore)
Happy iny studies, when by these approvd!
Happier their Author when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and


I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and those let Asses prick,
Tis nothing-P. Nothing, if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,
That secret to each fool, that he 's an Ass: [lie?
The truth once told (and wherefore should we
The Queen of Midas slept, and so may 1.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
No creature smarts so little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd caust hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the slight self-pleasing thread anew:

Destroy his fib or sophistry in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Prond of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer;
And has not Colley still his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henly, his free-masons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Still to one Bishop Phillips seems a Wit?
Still Sappho-A. Hold, for God's sake-you 'H

[ocr errors]

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

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 Mini.

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 near one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibalds;
Each wight who reads not, and but scans andspells,
Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim,
Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name.
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things we know are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.

Were others angry: I excus'd then 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 10.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 barrenne s appear, And strains, from hard bound brains, eight lines


He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
And He,who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a incaning,
And He, whose fustian's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad :
All these my modest Satire bade translate,
And own'd that nine such Poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar and
And swear, not Addison himself was safe. [chafe!
Peace to all such! but were there one whose


True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires;
Blest with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with case:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,.
A tiarrous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n Fools, by Flatterers besieg'd,
And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, gives his little Senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise,
And wonder with a fooli h face of praise —
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?

What tho' my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaster'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 be-rhym'd so long) · No more than thou,great George! a birth-daysong. I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd iny days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor, like a puppy, dangled thro' the town, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, With handkerchief and orange at my side: But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.

Proud, as Apollo on his forkǝd hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill; Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song. His library (where busts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head) Receiv'd of wits an undistingush'd race, Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place: Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, And flaster'd ov'ry day, and some days eat : Fill grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port,andsomewithpraise; To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd; Aud others (harder still) he paid in kind. Dryden alone (what wonder!) came not nigh; Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye: But still the great have kindness in reserve; He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May some choice patron bless each grey goose May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still! [quill! So when a statesman wants a day's defence, Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense: Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands, May Dice by Dunce be whistled off my hands! Blest be the great for tliose they take away, And those they left me, for they left me Gay ; Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Of all thy blameless life the sole return, My Verse and Queensb'ry weeping o'er thy urn. 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 see what friends, and read what books I please. 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 say my pray'rs; Can sleep without a poem in my head, Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead.

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? [doubt


I found him close with Swift"— Indeed? no (Cries prating Ballus) something will come out. Tis all in vain, deny it as I will; No, such a Genius never can lie still ;'


« PreviousContinue »