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Can fleep without a Poem in my head,
Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.

Why am I aík'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 serve, 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 first Lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I chufe but smile,
When every Coxcomb knows me by my Style?



P. What if I fing Auguftus, great and good?
A. You did fo lately, was it understood?



After ver. 270. in the MS.

Friendships from youth I fought, and feek them still:
Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it will.
The world I knew, but made it not my school,
And in a course of flattery liv'd no fool.

After ver. 282. in the MS.

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 task 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.


Curst 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, whofe 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 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 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?





P. Yet


Why write at all?-A. Yes, filence if you keep, The Town, the Court, the Wits, the Dunces weep. VOL. II.


P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,

This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; 310
Whofe 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 fmiles his emptinefs betray,

As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,

And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet fqueaks;
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar Toad,

Half froth, half venom, fpits himself abroad,
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,

Or fpite, or fmut, or rhymes, or blafphemies.
His wit all fee-faw, between that and this,
Now high, now low, now mafter up, now miss,
And he himself one vile Antithefis.
Amphibious thing! that, acting either part,
The trifling head! or the corrupted heart,
Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board,
Now trips a Lady, and now ftruts 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 worshiper, nor Fashion's fool,
Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
Not proud, nor fervile; be one Poet's Praise,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:







That Flattery, even to Kings, he held a fhame,
And thought a Lie in verfe or prose the fame,
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But ftoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his fong:
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,
He ftood 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 had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The diftant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale reviv'd, the lie fo oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape,
The libel'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;
The whisper, that, to greatnefs ftill too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his Sovereign's ear-
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past:
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the laft!

A. But why infult the poor, affront the great?
P. A knave's a knave, to me, in every state:
Alike my fcorn, if he fucceed or fail,
Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail,
A hireling fcribler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the poft corrupt, or of the shire;
If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
He gain his Prince's ear, or lofe his own.
M 2








Yet foft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit :
This dreaded Sat'rift Dennis will confefs
Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress:
So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door,
Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rhym'd for Moor.
Full ten years flander'd, did he once reply?

Three thousand funs went down on Welfted's lie. 375
To please a Mistress one afpers'd his life;

He lafh'd him not, but let her be his wife :
Let Budgell charge low Grubstreet on his quill,
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will;
Let the two Curlls of town and Court, abuse
His father, mother, body, foul, and muse.
Yet why? that Father held it for a rule,
It was a fin to call our neighbour fool:
That harmless Mother thought no wife a whore:
Hear this, and spare his family, James Moore !
Unfpotted names, and memorable long!
If there be force in Virtue, or in Song.

Of gentle blood (part fhed in Honour's cause, While yet in Britain Honour had applause)





Ver. 368. in the MS.

Once, and but once, his heedlefs youth was bit,
And lik'd that dangerous thing, a female wit;
Safe as he thought, though all the prudent chid;
He writ no Libels, but my Lady did:
Great odds in amorous or poetic game,
Where Woman's is the fin, and Man's the shame.


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