Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieg'd,
And so obliging that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise---
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!

210

220

What tho' my name stood rubric on the walls, 215 Or plaister'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 berhym'd so long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday song. I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise ; Nor, like a puppy, daggled 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;

225

But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate 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)

230

235

Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place:
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat;
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,

240

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.

Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not night,

245

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 gray-goose quill!

May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still!

250

So when a statesman wants a day's defence,

Or Envy holds a whole weeks war with Sense,
Or simple Pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!

Bless'd be the great! for those they take away,

255

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 Queesnb'ry weeping o'er thy urn! 260 Oh! 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

265

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? Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)

270

Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?

274

"I found him close with Swift---Indeed? no doubt

"(Cries prating Balbus) something will come out." 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will;

"No, such a genius never can lie still;" And then for mine obligingly mistakes

The first lampoon Sir Will. or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I chuse but smile,
When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my Style?
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,

280

285

Or from the soft-ey'd virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Insults fall'n worth, or beauty in distress,
Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;
That fop whose pride affects a patron's name,
Yet absent wounds an author's honest fame;
Who can your merit selfishly approve,
And show the sense of it, without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you Friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;

290!

295

Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say,
And, if he lie not, must at least betray;
Who to the Dean and silver bell can swear,
And sees at Canons what was never there;
Who reads, but with a lust to misapply,
Makes satire a lampoon. and fiction lie;
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.

300

Let Sporus tremble---A. What? that thing of silk, Sporus! that mere white curd of asses' milk?

Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

306

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; 310
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,

Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:

So well-bred spaniels civilly delight

In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.

Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,

315

As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,

And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,

Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,

In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,

Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies;
His wit all see-saw between that and this,
Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,
And he himself one vile antithesis.

320

325

2

Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head, or the corrupted heart,
Fop at the toilette, flatt'rer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord.
Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest,
A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest;

Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.

Not Fortune's worshipper, nor Fashion's fool,
Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
Not proud nor servile, be one poet's praise;

That if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways;
That flatt'ry, ev'n to kings, he held a shame,
And thought a lie in verse or prose the same;
That not in fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But stoop'd to truth, and moraliz'd his song ;
That not for fame, but virtue's better end,
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half-approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The distant threats of vengeance on his head,

330

335

340

345

The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft' o'erthrown,

350

Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape,

The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape;
Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread,
A friend in exile, or a father dead;

Volume III.

E

355