THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE. EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES. ADVERTISEMENT To the first Publication of this Epistle. This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune, [the authors of Verses to the imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court] to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings (of which, being public, the public is judge) but my person, morals, and family; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer informa tion may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous. Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names; and they may escape being laughed at, if they please. I would have some of them to know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine; since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness. P. '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, Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, A clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? I sit with sad civility; I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years. Pitholeon sends to me; 'You know his grace; 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, Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, Sir, let me see your works and you no more.' 'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king,) 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? A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things, I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; "Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick? Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie ?) You think this cruel : take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool. Still to one bishop Phillips seem a wit? Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God's sake-you'll offend, No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend: |