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Or just as gay, at council, in a ring

What late he call’d a blessing, now was wit, or mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king. And God's good providence, a lucky hit. No wit to flatter, left of all his store;

Things change their titles, as our manners turn : No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. His compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, Seldom at church, ('twas such a busy life,) And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. But duly sent his family and wife.

His grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide And well (he thought) advis'd him, “Live like me!" My good old lady catch'd a cold, and died. As well his grace replied, “ Like you, Sir John! A nymph of quality admires our knight; That I can do, when all I have is gone."

He marries, bows at court, and grows polite : Resolve me, Reason, which of these are worse, Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) Want with a full, or with an empty purse ? The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air: Thy life more wretched, Culler, was confess'd : First, for his son a gay commission buys, Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd ? Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies : Cutier saw tenants break, and houses fall, His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wise; For every want he could not build a wall. She bears a coronet and p-x for life. His only daughter in a stranger's power,

In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, For very want; he could not pay a dower. And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains. A few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd, My lady falls to play: so bad her chance, 'Twas very want that sold them for two pound. He must repair it; takes a bribe from France: What! ev'n denied a cordial at his end,

The house impeach him, Coningsby harangues ; Banish'd the doctor, and expellid the frien ?

The court orsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs : What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own, Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had ! His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown: Cutler and Brutus dying, both exclaim,

The devil and the king divide the prize, “ Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name !" And sad Sir Balaara curses God and dies. Say, for such worth are other worlds prepar'd ? Or are they both, in this, their own reward ? A knotty point! to which we now proceed. But you are tir'd-I'll tell a tale.-B. Agreed. TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF BURLINGTON.

P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;

There dwelt a citizen of sober same,

A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;

His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One solid dish his week-day meal affords,

The vanity of expense in people of wealth and qual. And added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's:

ity. The abuse of the word taste. That the first Constant at church, and 'Change; his gains were principle and foundation in this, as in every thing sure,

else, is good sense. The chief proof of it is to His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. follow Nature, even in works of niere luxury and

The devil was piqu'd such saintship to behold, elegance. Instanced in architecture and garden. And long'd to tempt him, like good job of old; ing, where all must be adapted to the genius and But Satan now is wiser than of yore,

use of the place, and the beauties not forced into And tempts by making rich, not making poor. it, but resulting from it. How men are disap

Rous'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep pointed in their most expensive undertakings, for The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; want of this true foundation, without which no. Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, thing can please long, if at all; and the best exAnd two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. amples and rules will be but perverted into someSir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,

thing burthensome and ridiculous. A description He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes : of the false taste of magnificence; the first grand “Live like yourself,” was soon my lady's word ; error of which is, to imagine that greatness conAnd lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board. sists in the size and dimension, instead of the proAsleep and naked as an Indian lay,

portion and harmony of the whole; and the second, An honest factor stole a gem away :

either in joining together parts incoherent, or too He pledgid it to the knight, the knight had wit, minutely resembling, or in the repetition of the So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. same too frequently. A word or two of false taste Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, in books, in music, in painting, even in preaching "I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; and prayer, and lastly in entertainments. Yet Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice Providence is justified in giving wealth to be And am so clear too of all other vice.”

squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed The tempter saw his time: the work he plied ; to the poor and laborious part of mankind. What Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side,

are the proper objects of magnificence, and a Till all the demon makes his full descent

proper field for the expense of great men; and In one abundant shower of cent. per cent.,

finally the great and public works which become Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, a prince. Then dubs director, and secures his soul. Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,

"Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy ;

Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste

Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls; His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste ? And Nero's terraces desert their walls : Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats ; The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats : ; Lo! Cobham comes, and Noats them with a lake: He buys for Topham drawings and designs; Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins ; You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone, Ev'n in an ornament its place remark, And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane. Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke. Think we all these are for himself? no more Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete ; Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.

His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet; For what has Virro painted, built, and planted? The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, Only to show how many tastes he wanted. And strength of shade contends with strength of What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste ?

light; Some demon whisper'd, “Visio! have a taste." A waving glow the bloomy beds display, Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool, Blushing in bright diversities of day, And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule. With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'erSee! sportive Fate, to punish awkward pride, Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more ; Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide : Tird of the scene parterres and fountains yield, A standing sermon, at each year's expense, He finds at last he better likes a field. That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse,

stray'd, And pompous buildings once were things of use. Or sate delighted in the thickening shade, Yet shall, my lord, your just, your noble rules With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Fill half the land with imitating fools;

Or see the stretching branches long to meet ! Who randon drawings from your sheets shall His son's fine taste an opener Vista loves, take,

Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves ; And of one beauty many blunders make; One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, Load some vain church with old theatric state, With all the mournful family of yeus: Turn arts of triumph to a garden-gate ;

The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade. On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall; At Timon's villa let us pass a day, Then clap four slices of pilaster on 't,

Where all cry out, “What sums are thrown away! That, lac'd with bits of rustic, makes a front. So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, Soft and agreeable come never there. Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;

Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught Conscious they act a true Palladian part,

As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. And if they starve, they starve by rules of art. To compass this, his building is a town,

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down:
A certain truth, which many buy too dear: Who but must laugh, the master when he sees,
Something there is more needsul than expense, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze!
And something previous ev’n to taste—'tis sense: Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, The whole a labor'd quarry above ground.
And, though no science, fairly worth the seven : Two Cupids squirt before : a lake behind
A light which in yourself you must perceive; Improves the keenness of the northern wind
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

His gardens next your admiration call,
To build, 10 plant, whatever you intend, On every side you look, behold the wall!
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,

No pleasing intricacies intervene,
To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot;

No artful wildness to perplex the scene; In all, let Nature never be forgot.

Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, But treat the goddess like a modest fair,

And half the platform just reflects the other.
Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare; The suffering eye inverted Nature sees,
Let not each beauty everywhere be spied, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
Where half the skill is decently to hide.

With here a fountain, never to be play'd ;
He gains all points, who pleasingly consounds, And there a summer-house that knows no shade;
Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers;
Consult the genius of the place in all;

There gladiators fight, or die in flowers ;
That tells the waters or to rise, or fall;

Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
Or helps th'ambitious hill the heavens to scale, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.
Or scoops in circling theatres the vale ;

My lord advances with majestic mien,
Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen:
Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; But soft-by regular approach-not yet
Now breaks, or now directs th’intending lines ; First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your
Still follows sense, of every art the soul,

thighs, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. Spontaneous beauties all around advance,

His study! with what authors is it stor'd ? Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance; In books, not authors, curious is my lord ; Nature shall join you; Time shall make it grow To all their dated backs he turns you round; A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.

These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound.

Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good
For all his lordship knows, but they are wood.

For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,

OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS. That summons you to all the pride of prayer: Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, This was originally written in the year 1715, when Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven.

Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,

medals: it was some time before he was secreWhere sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, tary of state ; but not published till Mr. Tickell's Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,

edition of his works ; at which time bis verses on And bring all Paradise before your eye.

Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,

added, viz. in 1720. Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

As the third Epistle treated of the extremes of But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;

avarice and profusion; and the fourth took up A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall :

one particular branch of the latter, namely, the The rich buffet well-color'd serpents grace,

vanity of expense in people of wealth and qualiAnd gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. ty, and was, therefore, a corollary to the third ; Is this a dinner? this a genial room?

so this treats of one circumstance of that vanity, No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb.

as it appears in the common collectors of old A solemn sacrifice perform'd in state,

coins; and is, therefore, a corollary to the You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.

fourth. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. SEE the wild waste of all-devouring years ; Between each act the trembling salvers ring, How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the With nodding arches, broken temples spread! King.

The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead! In plenty starving, tantaliz’d in state,

Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, (toil'd : And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,

Where, mix'd with slaves, the groaning martyr Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave, Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; Now drain'd a distant country of her floods : I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,

Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey ; Apd swear no day was ever pass’d so ill. Statues of men, scarce less alive than they!

Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed ; Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Health to himself, and to his infants bread, Some hostile fury, some religious rage. The laborer bears : What his hard heart denies, Barbarian blindness, christian zeal conspire, His charitable vanity supplies.

And papal piety, and gothic fire. Another age shall see the golden ear

Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame, Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Some buried marble half preserves a name; Deep harvest bury all his pride has plannid, That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue, And laughing Ceres reassume the land.

And give to Titus old Vespasian's due. Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil ? Ambition sigh'd : she found it vain to trust Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like The faithless column and the crumbling bust: Boyle?

Iluge moles, whose shadows stretch'd from shore to 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense,

shore, And splendor borrows all her rays from sense. Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!

His father's acres who enjoys in peace, Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, Or makes his neighbors glad, if he increase : And all her iriumphs shrink into a coin. Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil, A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil ; Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps ; Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, The milky heifer and deserving steed;

And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; Whose rising forests, not for pride or show, A small Euphrates through the piece is rollid, But future buildings, future navies, grow : And little eagles wave their wings in gold. Let his plantations stretch from down to down, The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, First shade a country, and then raise a town. Through climes and ages bears each form and name

You too proceed! make falling arts your care, In one short view subjected to our eye Erect new wonders, and the old repair;

Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before :

Th'inscription value, but the rust adore. Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind, This the blue varnish, that the green endears, (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd,) The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years ! Bid harbors open, public ways extend,

To gain Pescenius one employs his schemes, Bid temples worthier of the God ascend; One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain, Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, The mole projected break the roaring main; Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd. Back to his bounds their subject sea command, And Curio, restless by the fair-one's side, And roll obedient rivers through the land ; Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride. These honors, Peace to happy Britain brings; Theirs is the vanity, the learning thino These are imperial works, and worthy kings. Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine :

Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view,

I sit with sad civility ; I read And all her faded garlands bloom anew.

With honest anguish, and an aching head; Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage : And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage :

This saving counsel,“ Keep your piece nine years." The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, “Nine years !" cries he, who high in Drury-lane, And art reflected images to art.

Lulld by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Oh! when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends : In living medals see her wars enroll'd,

“The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; And vanquish'd realis supply recording gold ? I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it." Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;

Three things another's modest wishes bound, There, warriors frowning in historic brass ? My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Then future ages with delight shall see

Pitholeon sends to me: “You know his grace : How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; I want a patron; ask him for a place.” Or in fair series laureld bards be shown,

Pitholeon libell'd me" but here's a letter A Virgil there, and here an Addison :

Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine, On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine:

He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine."
With aspect open shall erect his head,

Bless me! a packet.—“'Tis a stranger sues,
And round the orb in lasting notes be read, A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse."
“Statesman, best friend to truth! of soul sincere, if I dislike it, “ Furies, death, and rage !"
In action faithful, and in honor clear;

If I approve, “ Commend it to the stage."
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend ; The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Ennubled by himself, by all approv'd,

Fir'd that the house reject him,“ 'Sdeath! I'll print it, And prais'd, unenvied, by the Muse he lov'd." And shame the fools—your interest, sir, with

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." BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES. Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,

Sir, let me see your works and you no more." P. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatiguid, I said, 'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. (Midas, a sacred person and a king,) The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, His very minister, who spied them first, All Bedlain, or Parnassus, is let out:

(Some say his queen,) was forc'd to speak, or burst. Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

When every coxcomb perks them in my face? What walls can guard me, or what shades can A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous hide ?

things, They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings ; By land, by water, they renew the charge ; Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. "Tis nothing--P. Noibing? if they bite and kick? No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, Ev'n Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me; That secret to each fool, that he's an ass : Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie ?) Happy to catch me, just at dinner-lime.

The queen of Midas slept, and so may I. Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,

You think this cruel ? Take it for a rule, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

No creature smarts so little as a fool. A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? Thou unconcernd canst hear the mighty crack: Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurld, With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls ? Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. All fly to Twit'nam, and, in humble strain, Who shames a scribbler ? Break one cobweb Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

through, Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: Imputes to me and my damnd works the cause : Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,

The creature's at his dirty work again, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Thron’d on the centre of his thin designs,
Friend to my life! (which did you not prolong, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines !
The world had wanted many an idle song.) Whom have I hurt ? has poet yet, or peer,
What drop of nostrum can this plague remove? Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? And has not Colly still his lord, and whore ?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped ;

His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moor?
If fues, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Does not one table Bavius still admit?
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Still 10 one bishop Philip seems a wit?
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:

Still Sappho—A. Hold! for God's sake--you 'll To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace ;

offend ; And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend :

I 100 could write, and I am twice as tall;

Were others angry: I excus'd them too; But foes like these—P. One fatterer's worse than all. Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. Of all mad creatures, if the learn’d are right, A man's true merit 'ris not hard to find ; It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

But each man's secret standard in his mind, A fool quite angry is quite innocent:

That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. This, who can gratisy? for who can guess ? One dedicates in high heroic prose,

The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes ;

Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, One from all Grub-street will my fame defend, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, He, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe !" Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: There are,

who to my person pay their court: And he, who, now to sense, now nonsense leaning I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short. Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, And he, whose sustian's so sublimely bad, Such Ovid's nose, and, “Sir! you have an eye!" It is not poetry, but prose run mad : Go on, obliging creature, make me see

All these, my modest satire bad translate, All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me.

And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,

How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! " Just so immortal Maro held his head;"

And swear, not Addison himself was safe. And when I die, be sure you let me know

Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires Great Homer died three thousand years ago. True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ;

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Blest with each talent and each art w please, Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own? And born to write, converse, and live with ease : As yet a child, nor yet a fool to Fame,

Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, I left no calling for this idle trade,

View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, No duty broke, no father disobey'd ;

And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise ; The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, To help me through this long disease, my life ; And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, And teach, the being you preserv'd, to bear. Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike ;

But why then publish ? Granville the polite, Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write ; A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise, Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieg'd, And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged ; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Like Cato, give his little senate laws, Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head, And sit attentive to his own applause ; And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend before) While wits and templars every sentence raise, With open arms receiv'd one poet more.

And wonder with a foolish face of praiseHappy my studies, when by these approv'd! Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ! Happier their author, when by these belov'd ! Who would not weep, is Atticus were he! From these the world will judge of men and books, What, though my name stood rubric on the walls Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ?

Soft were my numbers: who could take offence Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, While pure description held the place of sense ? On wings of winds came flying all abroad? Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, I sought no homage from the race that write; A painted mistress, or a purling stream.

I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long) I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate still.

No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret: I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, I never answer'd, I was not in debt.

To spread about the itch of verse and praise ; If want provok’d, or madness made them print, Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the town, I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint. To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;

Did some more sober critic come abroad ; Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cried, If wrong, I smil'd ; if right, I kiss'd the rod. With handkerchief and orange at my side!. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,

But, sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. Commas and points they set exactly right, Proud as Apollo on his sorked hill, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Sate full-blown Bufo, pufr’d by every quill ; Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, Fed with soft dedication all day long, From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibalds: Horace and he went hand in hand in song. Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, His library (where busts of poets dead Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, And a true Pindar stood without a head) Ev'n such small critics some regard may claim, Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place ; Preity! in amber to observe the forms

Much they extoll’d his pictures, much his seat, of hairs, of straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! And flatter'd every day, and some days eat; The things we know are neither rich nor rare, Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, But wonder how the devil they got there. He paid some bards with port, and some with praise

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