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Load some vain church with old theatric state, At Timon's villa let us pass a day,
Turn arts of triumph to a garden-gate; 30 Where all cry oat, “What sums are thrown away!"
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, [100
On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall; Soft and agreeable come never there.
Then clap four slices of pilaster on 't,

Greatness, with Tinon, dwells in such a draught
That, lac'd with bits of rustic, makes a fronti Ay brings all Broballgag before yonr thought.
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roat, To compass this, his building is a town,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;

His pond an ocean, his parterre a down : Conscious they act a trie Palladian part,

Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, And if they starte, they starve by rules of art. A puny insect, shivering at a breeze!

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer, Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around! A certain truth, which many buy too dear: 40 The whole a labour'd quarry above ground. 110 Something there is more needful than expense, Two Cupids squirt before : a lake behind And something previous ev'n to taste'tis sense: Improves the keenness of the portierit wind. Good sense, which paly is the gift of Heaven, His gardens next your admiration call, And, though no science, fairly worth the seven : On every side you look, bahold the wall! A light which in yourself you must perceive; No pleasing intricacies intervene, Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

No artful wildness to perplex the scene; To build, to plant, whatever you intend, Grove nods at grore, each alley has a brother, To rear the column, or the arch to bend,

And half the platform just reflects the other. To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot;

T'he suffering eye inverted Nature sees, In all, let Nature never be forgot. 50 | Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;

120 But treat the goddess like a modest fair,

With bere a fountain, never to be play'd; Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare; And there a summer-house that knows no shade; Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,

Here Amphitrite sails throngh myrtle howers; Where half the skill is decently to hide.

There gladiators fight, or die in flowers;
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mour,
Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.
Consult the genius of the place in all ;

My lord advances with majestic mien,
That tells the waters or to rise, or fall ;

Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: Or helps th' ambitious hill the heavens to scale, But soft-by regular approach--not yet (130 Or scuops in circling theatres the vale; 60 First through the leng of yon hot terrace sweat; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. (thighs, Now breaks, or now directs th' intending lines ; His study! with what authors, is it stord? Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. In books, not authors, curious is my lord; Still follow sense, of every art the soul,

To all their dated backs he turns you round; Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. Spontaneous beauties all around advance,

Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance; For all his lorriship knows, but they are wood. Nature shall join you ; Time shall make it grow For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look, 149 A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow. 70 These shelves admit not any modern book.

Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls; And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, And Nero's terraces desert their walls :

That summons you to all the pride of prayer : The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake : Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, On painted cielings you devoutly stare, You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Evin in an ornament its place remark,

Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke.

And bring all Paradise before your eye. Behold Villario's ten years toil complete;

To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
His quincunx darkens, bis espaliers meet; 80 Who never mentions Hell to ears polite. 150
The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
And strength of shade contends with strength of A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall :
A waving glow the bloomy beds display, [light; / 'The rich buffet well colour'd serpents grace,
Blushing in bright diversities of day,

And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'er- Is this a dinner? this a genial rooin?
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more ;

No 'tis a temple, and a hecatoinb.
Tird of the scene parterres and fountains yield, A solemn sacrifice perform'd in state,
He finds at last he better likes a field.

You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinns So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Or sate delighted in the thickening shade, (stray'd, Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, [90 Between each act the trembling salvers ring, [160 Or see the stretching branches long to meet ! From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. His son's fine taste an opener Vista loves,

In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state, Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves ;

And complaisantly help'd to all I hate, One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, Treated, caress'd, and tird, I take my leave, With all the mournful family of yews :

Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, I curse such lavish cost, and little skill, Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade. And swear no day was ever pass'd so illa


Yet hence the poor are cloth’d, the hungry fed; Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoild, Health to himself, and to his infants bread, Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr The labourer bears : What his hard heart denies,

toil'd: His charitable vanity supplies.

Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Another age shall see the golden ear

Now drain'd a distant country of her floods : Imbrówn the slope, and nod on the parterre, Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey ; Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.

Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age,
Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? Some hostile fury, some religious rage.
Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. Barbarian blindness, christian zeal conspire,
'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense,

And papal piety, and gothic fire.
And splendour borro vs all her rays from sense. Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame,
His father's acres who enjoys in peace,

Some bury'd marble half preserves a name;
Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase : That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.
Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil;

Ambition sigh'd : she found it vain to trust Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed The faithless column and the crumbling bust : The milky heifer and deserving steed;

Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,

shore, But future buildings, future navies, grow :

Thuir ruins perish'd, and their place no more! Let his plantations stretch from down to down, Convincid, she now contracts her vast design, First shade a country, and then raise a town. And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. You too proceed! make falling arts your care,

A narrow orb each crouded conquest keeps, Erect new wonders, and the old repair ;

Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,

Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:

And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine ; Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind, A small Euphrates through the piece is rollid, (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd) And little eagles wave their wings in gold. Bid harbours open, public ways extend,

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Bid temples worthier of the God ascend;

Through clines and ages bears each form and name: Bid the broad arch the dangerous food contain, In one short view subjected to our eye The mole projected break the roaring main ; Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. Back to his bounds their subject sea command,

With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, And roll obedient rivers through the land;

Th'instription value, but the rust adore. These honours, Peace to happy Britain brings;

This the blue varnish, that the green endears, These are imperial works and worthy kings.

The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years !
To gain Pescenius one einploys his schemes,
One grasps a Cecrops in ccstatic 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 :

T'he verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
This was originally written in the year 1715, when And art reflected images to art.

Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, medals; it was some time before he was secre- Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? tary of state; but not published till Mr. Tickell's In living medals see her wars enrollid, edition of his works; at which time his verseson And vanquish'd realins supply recording gold ? Mr. Cragas, which conclude the poem, were Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face; added. viz. in 1720.

There, warriors frowning in historic brass : As the third epistle treated of the extremes of Then future ages with delight shall see

avarice and profusion; and the fourth took np How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; one particular branch of the latter, namely, the Or in fair series laureld bards be shown, vanity of expense in people of wealth and qua- A Virgil there, and here an Addison. lity, and was therefore a corollary to the third; Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) So this treats of one circumstance of that vanity, On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine : as it appears in the common collectors of old With aspect open shall erect his head, coins; and is, therefore, a corollary to the And round the orb in lasting notes be read, fourth.

“ Statesman, best friend to truth! of soul sineere,

In action faithful, and in bonour clear; See the wild waste of all-devouring years; Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, how Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no fiiend ; Wi:h nodding arches, broken temples spread ! Fonobled by himself, by all approv'd, The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead; And prais’d, unenvy'd, by the Muse he lovid" VOL XII.



Nine years

All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain 21 EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTANOT: 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 : THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life ! (which did you not prolong,

The world had wanted many an idle song)

What drop of nostrum can this plague r. more?
TO THE FIRST PUBLICATION OF THIS EPISTLE. Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? 80

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped; This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. many years since, and drawn up by snaches, as Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I! the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace ; rank and fortune (the authors of Verses to the And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor I sit with sad civility; I read of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton-Court] With honest anguish, and an aching head; to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

39 only my writings (of which, being public, the pub- | This saving counsel, “ Keep your piece nine years." lic is judge) but my person, morals, and family,

!” cries he, who high in Drury-lane, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer in- Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, formation may be requisite. Being divided be- Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, tween the necessity to say something of myself, Oblig’d by hunger and request of friends : and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a “ The piece, you think, is incorrect ?.why take it; task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it." hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleas- Three things another's modest wishes bound, ing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. please, the truth and the sentiment; and if any Pitholeon sends to me: “ you know his grace : thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least I want a patron ; ask him for a place.”

50 sorry to oflend, the vicious or the ungenerous. Pitholeon libell'd me—“ but here's a letter

Many will know their own pictures in it, there Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. being not a circumstance but what is true: but I Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, have, for the most part, spared their names; and He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." they may escape being laughed at, if they please. Bless me! a packet.-“ 'Tis a stranger sues,

I would have some of them to know, it was ow- A Virgin Tragedy, an Orpban Muse." ing to the request of the learned and candid friend | If I dislike it, Furies, death and rage !" to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free | If I approve, Commend it to the stage." use of theirs as they have done of mine. How- There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, ever, I shall have this advantage, and honour, on The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 60 (it, my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any Fir'd that the house reject him, "Sdeath! I'll print abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can And shame the fools--your interest, sir, with Lintot.” possibly be done by mine, sinre a mameless cha- Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much : racter can never be found out, but by its truth Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." and likeness.

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."
P.Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigu'd I said, 'Tis sung, wlien Midas' ears began to spring,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. (Midas, a sacred person and a king)
The Dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt, His very minister, who spy'd them first,
All Bediam, or Parnassus, is let out:

(Some say bis queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. Fire in each each eye, and papers in each hand, And is not inine, my friend, a sorer case, They rave, recite, and inadden round the land. When every coxcomb perks them in my face? What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ?

[glide. They pierce my thickets, through my grot they

After ver. 20, in the MS. By land, by water, they renew the charge ;

Is there a bard in durance ? turn them free, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.

With all their brandish'z reams they run to me: No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Is there a 'prentice, having seen two plays, Ev'n Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me; Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Ver. 29, in the 1st Fd.

Who would do something in his seipstress' praise. Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time. Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,

Dear doctor, tell me, is not this a curse ? A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse? A clerk, foredoom'd his father's sonl to cross, Ver. 53, in the MS. Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline, Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls To plague sir Robert, or to turn divine. With desperate charcoal round his darken'd

Ver. 60, in the foriner edition. walls?

Cibber and I are luckily no friends.

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A. Goo1 friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous Why did I write? what sin to me unknown things,

Dipp'd me in ink, my parents, or my own?
I'd never namne queens, ministers, or kings; As yet a child, nor yet a fool to Fame,
Keep close to eurs, and those let asses prick, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick? I left no calling for this idle trade,
Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,

No duty broke, no father disobey'd;

130 That secret to each foul, that he's an ass: 80 The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife ; The truth once told (and wherefore shonld we lie ?) To help me through this long disease, my life; The queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, You think this cruel? Tako it for a rule,

And teach, the being you preserv'd, to bear. No creaturr sinarts so little as a fool.

But why then publish ? Granville the polite, let peals of laughter, Codrus ! round thee break, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with carly praise, Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurlid, And Congreve liv'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; Thou stand'st inshook amidst a bursting world. The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb through, Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head, 140 He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew : 90 And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend before) Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,

With open arms receiv'd one poet inore. The creature's at his dirty work again,

Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,

Happier their author, when by these belor'd! Proud of a vast extent of Ainsy lines !

From these the world will judge of men and books, Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer,

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer? Soft were my numbers: who could take ofience And has not Colly still his lord, an! whore ? While pure description held the place of sense? His butchers llenley, his free-inasons Moor? Like gentle Fanny's was my fowery theme, Dexes not one table Barius still admit?

A painted mistress, or a purling stream. 150 Still to one bishop Philips seems a wit? [feni, Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; Still Sappho-A. Hold; for Gorl's sake-you'll of- I wishi'd the man a dinner, and sate still. No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend : Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I too could write, and I am twice as tall;

I never answer'd, I was not in debt. But foes like these-P. One flatterer's worse than all. If want provok'd, or madness made them print, Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint. It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

Did some more sober critic come abroad; A fool quite angry is uite innocent:

If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, One dedicates in high heroic prose,

Ani all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. 160 And ridicules beyond a hundred foes :

110 Commas and points they set exactly right, One from all Grub.street will my fame defend, And 'twere a sin to rob thern of their mite. And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds : And others roar alvud,“ Subscribe, subscribe !"" Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,

There are, who to my person pay their court : Each worl-catcher, that lives on syllables, I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short. Ev’n such small critics some regard may claim, Aminon's great son one shoulder had too high, Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name. Such Ovid's nose, and, Sir! you have an eye !" Pretty! in amber to observe the forins Go on, obliging creature, make me see

Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me. 120 The things we know are neither rich nor rare, 1771 Say for iny comfort, langaishing in bed,

But wonder how the devil they got there. Just so immortal Maro held his head ;"

Were others angry : I excus'd them too ; And when I die, be sure you let me know

Well might they rage, I gare them but their due. Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.

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?
Ver. 111, in the MS.

The bard whum pilfer'd pastorals reuown, For sons, for silence some expect a bribe : Wbo turns a Persian tale for half a crown, 180 And others roar aloul, “ Subscribe, subscribe !!! Just writes to make his barrenness appear, (year; Time, praise, or money, is the least th: y crave; And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a Yet each declares the other fool or knave.

We, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, After ver. 124, in the MS.


Sieals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: But, friend, this shape, which you and Curll'ad

And he, who, now to'sense, now nonsense leaning, Came not from Ammon's son, but from my sire?;

Means not, but blunders round abolit a meaning : And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse,

And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, I had it from my mother!, not the Muse.

It is not poetry, but prose run mad : Happy, if ne, in whom these frailties joind,

All titse, my modest satire bad translate, Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. 190

How dil they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! · Curll set up his head for a sign.

And swear, not Aildison binself was safe. ? His father was crooked.

Pence to all such! but were there one whose fires . His mother was much atticted with headachs. True geuius kindies, and fair fame inspires;

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Blest with each talent and each art to please, Or simple pride for flattery makes demands, And born to write, converse, and live with ease : May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands! Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,

Blest be the great ! for those they take away, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, And those they left me; for they left me Gay: View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, Left me to see neglected genius bloom, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; 200 Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, Of all thy blameless life the sole return And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; My verse, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,

Oh let me live my own, and die so too! 261 Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;

(To live and die is all I have to do :) Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,

Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;

And see what friends, and read what books I please: Dreading ev'n fonls by flatterers besieg'd,

Above a patron, though I condes end And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;

Sometimes to call a minister my friend. Like Cato, give his little senate laws,

I was not born for courts or great affairs : And sit attentive to his own applause; 210 1 I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; While wits and templars every sentence raise, Can sleep without a poem in my head, And wonder with a foolish face of praise

Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.

270 Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ? Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he !

Heavens ! was I born for nothing but to write ? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save ? Or smoaking forth, a hundred hawkers load, “ I found him close with Swift-Indeed? no doubt On wings of winds came fying all abroad? (Cries prating Balbus) something will come out." I sought no homage from the race that write; 'Tis all in rajn, deny it as I will, I krpt, like Asian monarchs, from their sight : 220 No, such a genjus never can lie still;" Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long)

And then for mine obligingly mistakes No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. The first lainpoon sir Will or Bubo makes. 280 I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, Poor, guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, To spread about the itch of verse and praise ; When every coxcomb knows me by my style? Nor like a puppy, daggled through the town, Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; That tends to make one worthy man my foe, Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear, With handkerchief and orange at my side! Or from the soft-ey'd virgin steal a tear! But, sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,

But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. 230 Insults fall’n worth, or beauty in distress, Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,

Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about, Sate full-blown Bufo, puflad by every quill; Who writes a libel, or who copies out:

290 Fed with soft dedication all day long,

That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name, Horace and he went hand in hand in song.

Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame : His library (where busts of poets dead

Who can your merit selfishly approve, Ind a true Pindar stood without a head)

And show the sense of it without the love ; Receiv'd of wits an indistinguish'd race,

Who has the vanity to call you friend, Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place; Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend ; Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, Aud flatter'd every day, and some days eat; 240 | And, if he lie not, must at least betray: Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, 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.

After ver. 270, in the MS. Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, Friendships from youth I sought, and seek them Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye :

still: But still the great have kindness in reserve,

Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

will. May some choice patron bless each grey goose The world I knew, but made it not my school, quill!

And in a course of flattery liv'd no fool.
May every Bavius have his Bufo still! 250
So when a statesman wants a day's defence,

After ver. 282, in the MS.
Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense,

P. What if I sing Augustus, great and good ?
A. You did so lately, was it understood?

Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound,

As rumbling Dennis or a Norfolk hound; After ver. 208, in the MS.

With Cieorge and Frederic roughen every verse, Who, if two uits on rival thernes contest,

Then smooth up all, and Caroline rehearse. Approves of each, but likes the worst the best.

P. No--the high task to lift up kings to gods, Alluding to Mr. Pope's and Tickell's Translation of

Leave to court sermons, and to birth-day odes. the first Book of the Iliad.

On themes like these, superior far to thine, After ver. 234, in the MIS.

Let laurel'd Cibber and great Arnal shine. To bards reciting he vouchsafd a nod,

Why write at all?-A. Yes, silence if you keep, And snuff d their inconise like a gracious god. The wun, the court, the wits, the dunces weep:

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