Lo here the Septuagint---and Paul, He that has these may pass his life, Toast Church and Queen, explain the news, And shake his head at Doctor S---t. 15 20 24 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 information 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 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. Volume III. D P. 1 EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT. P. SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said; 5 What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. Ev'n Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me: Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Is there a parson much bemus'd in beer, A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, 10 15 21 25 And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life! (which, did not you prolong, I sit with sad civility, I read 30 35 With honest anguish, and an aching head, 39 This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." Nine years! cries he, who, high in Drury Lane, Lull'd by soft zephyrs thro' the broken pane, Rhimes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends: 50 "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, 45 "I'm all submission; what you'd have it---make it." Three things another's modest 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 "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn divine." Bless me! a packet.---" 'Tis a stranger sues, "A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." 55 |