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, This saving counsel: "Keep your piece nine years." "Nine years!" cries he, who, high in Drury Lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Obliged by hunger and request of friends: "The piece you think is incorrect? why, take it: 4C 45 I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it." Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace: I want a patron; ask him for a place." 50 Pitholeon libelled me-"But here's a letter Informs you, sir, 't was when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine; Bless me! a packet: "T is a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse." 55 If I dislike it, "Furies, death, and rage!" If I approve, “Commend it to the stage.” There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends; 60 Fired that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it, And shame the fools-your int'rest, sir, with Lintot." "Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too much." "Not, sir, if you revise it and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks: 65 At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." "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? 70 A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things; 75 I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings. Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick; 'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick? Out with it, "Dunciad!" let the secret pass, That secret to each fool, that he's an ass. 80 The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?), The queen of Midas slept; and so may I. You think this cruel? Take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break, 85 Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90 The creature's at his dirty work again, Lost the arched eyebrow or Parnassian sneer?... Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit? 100 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 flatt'rer's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, 105 It is the slaver kills and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent: Alas! 't is ten times worse when they repent. And ridicules beyond a hundred foes. One from all Grub Street will my fame defend, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobeyed; The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot, thy art and care, 115 120 125 130 And teach the being you preserved to bear. A. But why, then, publish? P. Granville the polite, 135 And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise; And Congreve loved and Swift endured my lays; 140 From these the world will judge of men and books, 145 Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, A painted mistress or a purling stream. 150 I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate still. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; If want provoked, or madness made them print, 155 Did some more sober critic come abroad, 160 165 Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 170 Were others angry, I excused them too: 175 The bard whom pilfered pastorals renown, 180 Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year; It is not poetry, but prose run mad; 185 All these my modest satire bade translate, And owned that nine such poets made a Tate.. 190 How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe, Peace to all such! But were there one whose fires 195 200 205 210 What though my name stood rubric on the walls, 215 Or plastered posts, . . . . in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I sought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight. 220 No more than thou, great George, a birthday song. 225 But, sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. 230 Proud as Apollo on his forkèd hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puffed by every quill; |