How did they fume, and ftamp, and roar, and chafe!
And fwear, not Addison himself was fafe.
Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires
True Genius kindles, and fair Fame infpires;
Bleft with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converfe, and live with ease:
Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with fcornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife;
Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer,
And, without fneering, teach the reft to fneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Juft hint a fault, and hesitate diflike;
Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a fufpicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers belieg'd,
And fo obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
And fit attentive to his own applause;
While Wits and Templars every fentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praife-
Who but must laugh, if fuch a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!
After ver. 208. in the MS.
Who, if two Wits on rival themes conteft,
Approves of each, but likes the worft the best.
Alluding to Mr. Pope's and Tickell's Tranflation of the firft Book of the Iliad.
What though my name flood rubric on the walls, 215 Or plaifter'd pofts, with claps, in capitals? Or fmoaking 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 berhym'd fo long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday fong. I ne'er with wits or witlings pafs'd my days, To fpread about the itch of verfe and praise; Nor, like a puppy, daggled through 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
But, fick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Caftalian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill;
Fed with foft Dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand and hand in song,
His Library (where bufts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undiftinguish'd race,
Who firft his judgment afk'd, and then a place :
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd every day, and fome days eat;
After ver. 234. in the MS.
To Bards reciting he vouchfaf'd a nod,
And fnuff'd their incenfe like a gracious god.
Till, grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid fome bards with port, and fome with praife,
To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd,
And others (harder ftill) 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 every Bavius have his Bufo still!
So when a Statefman wants a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Senfe,
Or fimple pride for flattery makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whiftled off my hands!
Bleft be the Great! for thofe they take away,
And those 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 Queenfberry weeping o'er thy urn! 269 Oh 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 cafe,
And see what friends, and read what books I please:
Above a Patron, though I condefcend
Sometimes to call a Minifter my friend.
I was not born for Courts or great, affairs:
I pay my debts, believe, and fay my prayers;
Can fleep 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?
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?
"I found him clofe with Swift-Indeed? no doubt
(Cries prating Balbus) fomething will come out." 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will.
"No, fuch a Genius never can lie ftill;"
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The firft Lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I chufe but smile,
When every Coxcomb knows me by my Style?
After ver. 270. in the MS.
Friendships from youth I fought, and seek them ftill :
Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it will.
The world I knew, but made it not my school,
And in a courfe of flattery liv'd no fool.
After ver. 282. in the MS.
P. What if I fing Auguftus, great and good?
A. You did fo lately, was it understood?
Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound,
As rumbling Dennis or a Norfolk hound;
With George and Frederic roughen every verse,
Then fmooth up all, and Caroline rehearse.
P. No-the high tafk to lift up Kings to Gods,
Leave to Court fermons, and to birth-day Odes.
On themes like thefe, fuperior far to thine,
Let laurel'd Cibber and great Arnal shine.
Curft be the verfe, 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 steal a Tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults 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 abfent, wounds an author's honeft 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 ;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say,
And, if he lie not, muft 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 misapply,
Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction Lie.
A lash like mine no honest man fhall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of filk,
Sporus, that mere white curd of Afs's milk?
Satire or fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel ?
Why write at all?-A. Yes, filence if you keep, The Town, the Court, the Wits, the Dunces weep.
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