Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine: Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) With aspect open shall erect his head, And round the orb in lasting notes be read,— 50 60 70 END OF VOL. 1. THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE. EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES. ADVERTISEMENT To the first Publication of this Epistle. This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune, [the authors of Verses to the imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle 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 public is judge) but my person, morals, and family; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer informa tion may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry 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, spared their names; and they may escape being laughed at, if they please. I would have some of them to know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine; since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness. P. 'SHUT, shut the door, good John,' fatigued, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead' The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, 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 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 sacred, not the church is free, E'en Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me!--just at dinner time. Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, A clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, |