When, by the rarest luck, we ran here High words are bandied, high and strong, So did Apollo rescue me. Horace 27 EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT1 POPE. 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, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? 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, Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, 1 Approximately the first half of the poem. Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it, 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." If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, "Commend it to the stage.” There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, Fired that the house reject him, ""Sdeath I'll print it, And shame the fools "Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:" "Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.” All my demurs but double his attacks; At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." His very minister who spied them first, (Some say his queen) was forced to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face? Arbuthnot. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous. things. I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick; No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, The creature's at his dirty work again, Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit? Still Sappho A. Hold! for God's sake-you'll offend, No names!-be calm!-learn prudence of a friend: I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these P. One flatterer's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right, It is the slaver 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 prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes; One from all Grub Street will my fame defend, There are, who to my person pay their court: 1 The two following lines are omitted. Go on, obliging creatures, make me see I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. No duty broke, no father disobeyed. The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, And teach the being you preserved, to bear. But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise; And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head, And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) With open arms received one poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approved! Happier their author, when by these beloved! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes. Soft were my numbers; who could take offense While pure description held the place of sense? Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. |