To gain Pefcennius one employs his Schemes,
One grafps a Cecrops in extatic dreams..

Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd,
Can tafte no pleasure fince his Shield was fcour'd:
And Curio, reftlefs by the Fair-one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

Their's is the Vanity, the Learning thine:
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine:
Her Gods and godlike Heroes rife to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush, these ftudies they regard engage;
These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage:
The verfe and sculpture bore an equal part,
And Art reflected images to Art.

e

Oh, when shall Britain, confcious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals fee her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realms fupply recording gold?
Here, rifing bold, the Patriot's honeft face;
There, Warriors frowning in historic brass :
Then future ages with delight shall see

45

50

55

How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
Or in fair feries laurel'd Bards be shown,

60

A Virgil there, and here an Addison.

Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
On the caft ore, another Pollio, shine;

With aspect open shall erect his head,

65

And round the orb in lasting notes be read,
"Statesman, yet friend to Truth! of foul fincere,
"In action faithful, and in honour clear;

"Who

"Who broke no promise, served no private end, "Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend; "Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

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

70

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT,

BEING THE

PROLOGUE

TO THЕ

SATIRE S.

ADVERTISEMENT

TO

The firft Publication of this Epiftle.

THIS paper is a fort of bill of complaint, begun,

many years fince, and drawn up by fnatches, as the feveral occafions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some perfons of Rank and Fortune [the Authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace, and of an Epiftle to 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 Publick is judge) but my y Perfon, Morals, and Family, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requifite. Being divided between the neceffity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake fo aukward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the laft hand to this Epiftle. If it have any thing pleasing,

it will be that by which I am moft defirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offenfive, it will be only to those I am least forry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true: but I have, for the most part, fpared their Names; and they may efcape being laughed at, if they please.

I would have fome of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid Friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free Ufe of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I fhall have this advantage, and honour, on my fide, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can poffibly be done by mine, fince a nameless Character can never be found out, but by its truth and likeness.

P.

HUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigued I faid,

SHUT,

Tye up the knocker, fay I'm fick, 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,

5

They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ? They pierce my thickets, through my Grot they glide, By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is facred, not the Church is free, Ev'n Sunday fhines no Sabbath-day to me;

10

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy! to catch me, juft at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parfon, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin Poetefs, a rhyming Peer,

A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross ?

Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With defperate 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, whofe giddy son neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the caufe:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle fong)
What Drop or Noftrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped;
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lie:

15

20

25

30

Το

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 20. in the MS.

Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free,
With all their brandifh'd reams they run to me :
Is there a 'Prentice, having feen two plays,
Who would do fomething in his Sempftrefs' praise-
Ver. 29. in the 1ft Ed.

Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse?
Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse ?