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Les pictations ftretch from down to down, Faza country, and then raife a town. "repared! make falling arts your care, Enter waders, and the old repair; Just Patio to themselves reftore, ae water Virtruvius was before: Ting call forth th' ideas of your mind Accomplish what fuch hands defign'd), Bare open, public ways extend; Baterworthier of the God, afcend; triarch the dang`rous flood contain, Twented break the roaring main, unds their fubject fea command, Andecient rivers thro' the land;

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Temurs peace to happy Britain brings: at imperial works, and worthy kings.

Epifle to Mr. Addifon, occafioned by Disques on Medals. Pope. Sarthe wild waste of all-devouring years! me her own fad fepulchre appears, Vadding arches, broken temples (pread! Tents now vinifh'd like their dead! onders rais'd on nations spoil'd,

And Curio, reftlefs by the fair one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine:
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories thine,
Her gods and godlike heroes rife to view,
And all her faded garments bloom a-new.
Nor bluth, these ftudies thy regard engage;
Thefe pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage:
The verte and fculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.

Oh when thall Britain, confcious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman famer
In living medals fee her wars enroll'd,
And vanquith'd realms fupply recording gold?
Here, riting bold, the patriot's honeft face;
There, warriors frowning in historic brass:
Then future ages with delight fhall fee
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's, looks agree;
Or in fair feries laurell'd bards be fhown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
Then fhall thyCraggs (and let me call him mine)
On the caft ore, another Pollio, fhine;
With afpect open thall erect his head,
And round the orb in lafting notes be read,
"Statefman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,

*, 'x'd with flaves, the groaning martyr" In action faithful, and in honour clear;

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Fratres, that now unpeopled woods, ⚫trin'd a diftant country of her floods:

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"Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end, "Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend : "Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,

ch admiring gods with pride furvey," And prais'd, unenvied, by the Muse he lov'd.”

of men scarce leis alive than they! the filent stroke of mould'ring age, he fay, fome religious rage. budnefs, Chriftian zeal confpire, pl piety, and Gothic fire. ** by its own ruin fav'd from fame, el marble half preferves a name; the learn'dwith fierce difputes purfue, A to Titus old Vefpafian's due.

on figh'd: the found it vain to trust is column and the crumbling bust: Ees, whofe fhadow itretch'd from shore * fhore,

as perish'd, and their place no more! red, the now contracts hier vaft defign, her triumphs fhrink into a coin.

• ̄ˆw orb each crowded conquest keeps ; aber palm here fad Judea weeps.

kantier limits the proud arch confine, arce are feen the proftrate Nile or Rhine; Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd, eagles wave their wings in gold. : M. daí, faithful to its charge of fame, nes and ages bears each form and name; Lort view fubiected to our eye, , emp'rors, heroes, fages, beauties, lie. "aren'd fight pale antiquaries pore, cription value, but the ruft adore. the blue varnish, that the green endears, red ruft of twice ten hundred years gan Pefcennius one employs his fchemes; pa Cecrops in ectatic dreams. Vdius, Ing with learned fpleen devour'd, Catate no pleafure fince his fhield was fcour'd:

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P. SHUT, fhut the door, good John, fatigu'd

I faid,

Tye up the knocker; fay I'm fick, I'm dead.
The Dog-ftar rages! nay 'tis palt a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaffus, is let out:
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?

[glide;
They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They itop the chariot, and they board the barge,
No place is facred, not the Church is free,
Ev'n Sunday thines no Sabbath day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of
Happy! to catch me juft at dinner time. [rhyme,
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
Withdefp'rate charcoal round his darken'd wallst
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whofe giddy fon 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. [long
Friend to my Life! (which did not you pro
The world had wanted many an idle fong,)
S4

What

Destroy his fib or fophiftry in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimfy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnaffian fneer
And has not Colley still his lord, and whore
His butchers Henly, his free-masons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?
Still to one Bishop Philips feems a Wit?
Still Sappho-A. Hold, for God's fake-you
offend,

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub-street will my fame defen
And, more abufive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, Subfcribe, fubfcrib

What Drops or Noftrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemina! either way I'm sped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Stiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face:
I fit with fad civility, I read
With honeft anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,
This faving counfel, 'keepyourpiece nine years."
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane, No names-be calm-learn prudence of a frier
Lull'd by foft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane, I too could write, and I am twice as tall; [
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term But foes like thefe-P.OneFlatt'rer's worse th
Oblig'd by hunger and requeft of friends; [ends.
The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it;
I am all fubmiffion, what you'd have it make it.
Three things another's modeft wishes bound,
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and Ten Pound,
Pitholeon fends to me: 'you know his Grace:
'I want a Patron; ask him for a Place.'
Pitholeon libell'd me- but here's a letter [ter
Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no bet-
Dare you refufe him? Curl invites to dine;
'He'll write a Journal, or he 'll turn Divine.'
Blefs me! a packet. 'Tis a stranger fues,
A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe.'
If I diflike it, Furies, death and rage!'
If I approve, Commend it to the stage.' [ends,
There (thank my stars!) my whole commiffion
The players and I are, luckily, no friends."
Fir'd that the house reject him, ''Sdeath, I'll
'print it,
[Lintot.
And thame the fools-Your int'reft, Sir, with
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too
Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch.' [much:
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he wifpers, Do; and we go fnacks.'
Glad of a quarrel, ftraight I clap the door :
Sir, let me fee your works and you no more.
'Tis fung, when Midas' ears began to fpring
(Midas, a facred perfon and a king),
His very Minifter who fpied them first
(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to fpeak, or
And is not mine, my friend, a forer case, [burst.
When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous
things,

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I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and thofe let Affes prick,
'Tis Nothing-P. Nothing, if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret pafs,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs: [lie?
The truth once told (and wherefore fhould we
The Queen of Midas flept, and fo may I.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canft hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand it unhook amidit a bursting world.
Who fhames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro'
He pins the flight felt-pleating thread anew :

2

There are who to my perfon pay the court,
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am fhort
Ammon's great fon one fhoulder had too high;
Such Ovid's nofe; and, 'Sir! you have an Eye-
Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee
All that difgrac'd my Betters met in me.
Say for my comfort, languifhing in bed,
just so immortal Maro held his head;'
And when I die, be fure you let me know
Great Homer died three thousand years ago.

Why did I write! what fin to me unknown
Dipp'd me in ink, my parent's, or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lifp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father difobey'd [Wife
The Mufe but ferv'd to cafe fome Friend, no
To help me thro' this long disease, my Life;
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care,
And teach the being you preferv'd to bear.

But why then publish? Granville the polite,
And knowing Walb, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth, inflam'd with early praise,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read;
Ev'n mitred Rochefler would nod the head;
And St. John's felf (great Dryden's friend be
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. [fore)
Happy my ftudies, when by thefe approved!
Happier their Author when by these belov'd!
From thefe the world will judge of men and

books,

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

Soft were my numbers, who could take offence
While pure Defcription held the place of Senie?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted miftreis, or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fat still.

Yet

Yetten did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never anwer'd, I was not in debt.
If at provok'd, or madness made them print,
Id no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

Die fome more fober Critic come abroad;
wrong, I fail'd; if right, I kifs'd the rod.
Ps, reading, ftudy, are their juft pretence;
And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and fenfe.
Com and points they fet exactly right;
And were a fin to rob them of their mite.
Ye'erne fprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
Framing Bentley down to piddling Tibalds;
Each ght boreads not,and butfcans and fpells,
Each Ward-atcher, that lives on fyllables,
I fact mall Critics fome regard may claim,
Ferv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name.

in Amber to obferve the forms

or traws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! Tags we know are neither rich nor rare, Bywonder how the devil they got there. Were others angry: I excus'd them too; they rage, I gave them but their due. true merit 'tis not hard to find; od man's fecret standard in his mind, ng-weight pride adds to emptiness, can gratify? for who can guess? d whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown, tras a Perfian tale for half a crown, *s to make his barrenness appear, Tars, from hard bound brains, eight lines

a year;

wall wanting, tho' he lives on theft, ach, fpends little, yet has nothing left: And He, who now to fenfe, now nonfenfe leaning, sot, but blunders round about a meaning, He, whofe fuftian's fo fublimely bad, poetry, but profe run mad:

my modeft Satire bade tranflate, Add that nine fuch Poets made a Tate. they fume, and ftamp, and roar and Arnot Addifon himself was fafe. [chafe! Pace to all fuch! but were there one whofe

fres

The Genius kindles, and fair Fame infpires;

with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converfe, and live with eafe: ad fuch a man, too fond to rule alone, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, him with fcornful, yet with jealous eyes, ate for arts that caus'd himself to rife; with faint praife, affent with civil leer, without ineering, teach the reft to fneer; g to wound, and yet afraid to strike, at a fault, and hesitate dislike; referv'd to blame, or to commend, m'rous foe, and a fufpicious friend; ing evn Fools, by Flatterers befieg'd, liging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Cato, gives his little Senate laws, fit attentive to his own applaufe;

What, tho' my name ftood rubric on the walls,
Or plafter'd pofts, with claps, in capitals ?
Or fmoking forth, a hundred hawkers load,
On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
I fought no homage from the race that write :
I kept, like Afian monarchs, from their fight:
Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd fo long)
No more than thou,great George! a birthday fong.
I ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days,
To spread about the itch of verfe and praise;
Nor, like a puppy, dangled thro' the town,
To fetch and carry fing-fong up and down;
Nor at rehearsals fweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd,
With handkerchief and orange at my fide:
But fick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Caftalian state.

Proud, as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill;
Fed with foft dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand in hand in fong.
His library (where bufts of poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who firft his judgment afk'd, and then a place:
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and fome days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid fome bards withport,and fomewithpraife;
To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd;
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder!) came not nigh;
Dryden alone efcap'd this judging eye:
But ftill the great have kindness in referve;
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May fome choice patron blefs each grey goofe
May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo ftill! quill!
So when a ftatefman wants a day's defence,
Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense:
Or fimple pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
May Dunce by Dunce be whittled off my hands!
Bleft be the great for thofe they take away,
And thofe they left me, for they left me Gay;
Left me to fee neglected Genius bloom,
Neglected die, and tell it on his.tomb:
Of all thy blameless life the fole return,
My Verfe and Queensb'ry weeping o'er thy urn.

O let me live my own, and die fo too!
(To live and die is all I have to do):
Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,
Andfeewhat friends,and readwhatbooks I please.
Above a patron, tho' I condefcend
Sometimes to call a minister my friend.
I was not born for courts or great affairs:
I pay my debts, believe, and lay my pray'rs ;
Can fleep without a poem in my head,
Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead.

Why am I afk'd what next fhall fee the light?
Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write?
Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)
Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to fave? [doubt
Indeed? no
(Cries prating Balbus) fomething will come out.
Tis all in vain, deny it as I will;
No, fuch a Genius never can lie ftill;'

Wr's and Templars ev'ry fentence raife," I found him clofe with Swift"

won er with a foolish face of praife

at met laugh, if fuch a man there be? would not weep, if Atticus were he?

And

And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but fmile,
When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my flyle?
Curit be the verse, how well foe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give virtue fcandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the foft-ey`d virgin iteal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fallen worth, or beauty in diftrefs;
Who loves a lie, lame flander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;
That fop whofe pride affects a patron's name,
Yet ablent wounds an author's honeft fame;
Who can your merit felfifbly approve,
And how the fenfe of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you Friend,
Yet wants the honour injur'd to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you fay,
And, if he lie not, must at least betray :
Who to the dean and filver bell can fwear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads but with a luft to mifapply,
Make fatire a lampoon, and fiction lie-
A lafh like mine no honeft man thall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble.-A. What! that thing of
filk?

Storus, that mere white curd of afs's milk?
Satire or fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that itinks and ftings;
Whole buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er taftes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred fpaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal miles his emptinefs betray,
As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
And,as theprompter breathes,the puppetíqueaks
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
Half froth, half venom, fpits himself abroad,
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,

That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end
He flood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half-approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
Laugh'd at the lofs of friends he never h
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the
The diftant threats of vengeance on his h
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale reviv'd, the lie fo oft o'erthrown
Th' imputed trath and dulnefs not his ow
The morals blacken'd when the writings
The libell'd perfon, and the pictur'd thape
Abufe on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, fprea
A friend in exile, or a father dead;
The whifper that, to greatnefs ftill too near
Perhaps yet vibrates on his Sov'reign's ear-
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the patt
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome even the laj

A. But why infult the poor, affront the g
P. A knave's a knave to me in ev'ry itat
Alike my fcorn if he fucceed or fail,
Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail,
A hireling fcribbler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the poft corrupt, or of the thir
If on a pillory, or near a throne,
He gain his Prince's ear, or lofe his own.

Yet foft by nature, more a dupe than w
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
This dreaded Sat'rift Dennis will confefs
Foe to his pride, but friend to his diftrefs:
So humble, he has knock'd at Tibald's don
Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rhym d
Moor.

Full ten years flander'd, did he once reply
Three thousand funs went down on Welfied's
To please a Mitreis, one afpers'd his life;
He lath'd him not, but let her be his wife:
Let Budgel charge low Grubfireet on his qu
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his V
Let the two Curls of Town and Court abu
His father, mother, body, foul, and mufe.
Yet why? that Father held it for a rule,
It was a fin to call our neighbour fool:
That harnlefs Mother thought no wife av
Hear this, and fpare his family, James M
Unfpotted names, and memorable long!

Or fpite, or imut, or rhymes, or blafphemies.
His wit all fee-faw, between that and this;
Now high, now low, now mafter up, now mifs,If
And he himself one vile antithefis.

Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head, or the corrupted heart;
Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now ftruts a lord.
Eve's tempter thus the rabbins have exprefs'd:
A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest.
Beauty that fhocks you, parts that none will truft,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the duit.
Not fortune's worshipper, nor fafhion's fool,
Not lucre's madman, nor ambition's tool,
Not proud, nor fervile; be one Poet's praife,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:
That flatt'ry evin to Kings he held a fhame,
And thought a lie in verle or profe the fame:
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his fong:

there be force in Virtue or in Song.
Of gentle blood (part thed in Honour's c
While yet in Britam Honour had applau.c)
Each parent fprung.-A. What fortune, pray
P. Their own;
And better got than Beflia's from the throne
Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife,
Nor marrying Difcord in a noble wife;
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious through his
No Courts he few, no Suits would ever try,
Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lie.
Unlearn'd, he knew no fchoolman's fubtle a
No language but the language of the heart.
By nature honeft, by experience wife,
Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercife;
His life, tho' long, to fickness pafs'd unknow
His death was inftant, and without a gro

0thus to live, and thus to die! Wag from Kings fhall know lefs joy al.

ay each domeftic blifs be thine! orang Melancholy mine: at the tence oface long engage, nkte cradle of repoting Age;

ats extend a Mother's breath, Dhanurtuarımile, and imooth the bed of death; in the thought, explain the asking eye,

le one parent from the íky! theke thele, if length of days attend, tebicisthofe days,preferve my friend, ocial, cheerful, and ferene, anch as when he ferv'd a Queen. wether that bleffing be denied or given, er was right, the reit belongs to Heaven.

Abuse the city's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their truit in Peter.
Ev'n thofe you touch not, hate you.

P. What should ail them? F. A hundred fmart in Timon and in Balaam. The fewer ftill you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a fcore.

P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny Scarfdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pye; Ridotta fips and dances, till the fee The doubling luftres dance as faft as fhe; F-loves the fenate, Hockley hole his brother, Like in all elfe as one egg to another. love to pour out all myfelf, as plain As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne : In them, as certain to be lov'd as seen. The foul food forth, nor kept a thought within:

I

Am wires and Fpiftles of Horace imitated. Pope. Will prove at least the medium must be clear. In me what spots (for fpots I have) appear,

SATIRE 1.

To Mr. Fortefcue.

THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told) re to whom my Satire feems too bold; to wile Peter complaifant enough, mething faid of Chartres much too rough. The ate weak, another's pleas'd to fay; Lanny fpins a thousand fuch a day.

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as by nature, of the rich in awe, to counsel learned in the law: give me, like a friend both fage and free, 5, and (as you ufe) without a fee. 1. I'd write no more.

A. Not write? but then I think: Army foul I cannot fleep a wink. 4 company, I wake at night; leh into my head, and fo I write.

could not do a worie thing for your life. the nights feem tedious, take a wife: * truly, if your point be reft, and cowlip wine-probatum eft.

A with Celfus, Celfus will advife *a*ion,or fomething that fhall clofeyour eyes. so needs must write, write Cæfar's praife; gain at least a knighthood, or the bays. What like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce, [the verse, Arms, and George, and Brunfwick crowd wita tremendous found your ears afunder, 12 gan, drum, trumpet, blunderbuis, and

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tuander?

by wild, with Budgel's fire and force, angtis trembling round his falling horfe? f. Then all your Mufe's fofter art difplay, L: Carolina imooth the tuneful lay, Laib Amelia's liquid name the Nine,

weetly now thro' all the royal line. P. Alas! tew verfes touch their nicer ear; cecan bear their Laureate twice a year; hat any Calar fcoras the poet's lays; Itory he trults for plaife.

7. Bette-be Cibber, I'll maintain it ftill, Tralicule all taite, blafpheme quadrile,

In this impartial glaís my Mute intends
Fair to expofe myself, my foes, my friends;
Publish the prefent age; but where my text
Is vice too high, referve it for the next:
My foes fhall with my life a longer date,
And ev`ry friend the less lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing thro' my quill,
Verseman or Profeman, term me which you will,
Papift or Proteftant, or both between,
Like good Erafmus, in an honeft mean,
In moderation placing all my glory,
While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run a-muck, and tilt at all I meet;
I only wear it in a land of hectors,
Thieves, fupercargoes, fharpers, and directors.
Save but our army! and let Jove incruft
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting ruft!
Peace is my dear delight-not Fleury's more
But touch me, and no minifter fo fore.
Who'er offends, at fome unlucky time
Slides into verfe, and hitches in a rhyme,
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the fad burthen of fome merry fong.

Slander or poifon dread from Delia's rage;
Hard words, or hanging, if your judge be l'age:
From furious Sappho fcarce a milder fate,
P-x'd by her love, or libell`d by her hate,
Its proper pow'r to hurt, each creature feels;
Bulls aim their horns, and afies lift their heels;
'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug;
And no man wonders he's not stung by pug.
So drink with Waters, or with Chartres eat;
They'll never poifon you, they'll only cheat.

Then, learned Sir! (to cut the matter fhort) Whate'er my fate, or well or. ill at Court, Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, Attends to gild the ev'ning of my day; Or death's black wing already be display'd, To wrap me in the univerfal fhade; Whether the darken'd room to mute invite, Or whiten'd woll provoke the skewer to write, In durance, exile; Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee or Budgel, I will rhyme. and print.

F. Alas,

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