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CRAGGS.-Alas! if I am such a creature

To grow the worse for growing greater;
Why, faith, in spite of all my brags,
'Tis Pope must be ashamed of Craggs.



HAT god, what genius, did the pencil move,


When Kneller painted these?

'Twas friendship warm as Phoebus, kind as love,
And strong as Hercules.


[From the Miscellanies of Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and Gay.]

[THOUGH I am not aware on what evidence Roscoe and Carruthers agree in ascribing the Prologue of this farce to Pope, instead of leaving its joint honours like those of the farce itself to Gay and Arbuthnot (for both contributed to the volume of Miscellanies in which it was published) as well as him; yet the following has been inserted on account of the interest attaching to the piece, as the origin of Pope's quarrel with Cibber. A brief notice of the play, which was produced at Drury-Lane on Jan. 16th, 1717, will be found in the Introductory Memoir: and the play itself in most editions of Gay, and in Bowles' edition of Pope, vol. x.]

UTHORS are judg'd by strange capricious Rules;

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The great ones are thought mad, the small ones Fools:

[See p. 442.]

Yet sure the best are most severely fated,
For Fools are only laugh'd at, Wits are hated.
Blockheads with Reason Men of Sense abhor;
But Fool 'gainst Fool is barb'rous Civil War.
Why on all Authors then should Critics fall,
Since some have writ, and shown no Wit at all?
Condemn a Play of theirs, and they evade it,

Cry, "Damn not us, but damn the French who made it." 10
By running Goods, these graceless Owlers1 gain;

These are the Rules of France, the Plots of Spain:

But Wit, like Wine, from happier climates brought,

Dash'd by these Rogues, turns English common Draught.
They pall Molière's and Lopez' sprightly strain,

And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain.
How shall our Author hope a gentler Fate,
Who dares most impudently not translate?
It had been civil in these ticklish times,

To fetch his Fools and Knaves from foreign_Climes,
Spaniards and French abuse to the World's End,
But spare old England, lest you hurt a Friend.
If any Fool is by our Satire bit,

Let him hiss loud, to show you all, he's hit.
Poets make Characters, as Salesmen Clothes,
We take no Measure of your Fops and Beaus,
But here all Sizes and all Shapes you meet,
And fit yourselves, like Chaps in Monmouth-street.
Gallants! look here, this Fools-cap has an Air,
Goodly and smart, with Ears of Issachar.
Let no one Fool engross it, or confine,

A common Blessing! now 'tis yours, now mine.
But Poets in all Ages had the Care
To keep this Cap, for such as will, to wear,
Our Author has it now, (for every Wit
Of Course resign'd it to the next that writ :)
And thus upon the Stage 'tis fairly thrown;
Let him that takes it, wear it as his own.




Shows a cap with ears.


[Flings down the


[First published in Pope and Swift's Miscellanies.]


cap, and exit.

ROWN old in Rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
Your persevering, unexhausted Bard:

[i.e. smugglers: prop. woollers.]

2 [Lopez de Vega, the most prolific of Spanish dramatists.]

3 [Cheap salesmen.]

4 [C. Johnson, in the Prologue to his Sultaness, thus referred to this exit and the farce: 'Some wags have been, who boldly durst adven


To club a Farce by Tripartite-Indenture: But let them share their dividend of praise And their own Fools-cap wear, instead of Bays.' Which attack procured him a place in the Dunciad. Geneste's Account of the Stage, &c. 11. p. 598.]

[As to D'Urfey or Durfey, see p. 65.]

Damnation follows Death in other men;

But your damn'd Poet lives, and writes again.
Th' adventurous Lover is successful still,

Who strives to please the Fair against her Will:
Be kind, and make him in his Wishes easy,

Who in your own Despite has strove to please ye.
He scorn'd to borrow from the Wits of yore;
But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.



You Modern Wits, should each man bring his Claim,
Have desperate Debentures on your Fame;
And little would be left you, I'm afraid,

If all your Debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From his deep Fund our Author largely draws;
Nor sinks his Credit lower than it was.
Though Plays for Honour in old time he made,
'Tis now for better Reasons-to be paid.
Believe him, he has known the World too long,
And seen the Death of much immortal Song.
He says, poor Poets lost, while Players won,
As Pimps grow rich, while Gallants are undone.
Though Tom the Poet writ with ease and pleasure,
The Comic Tom abounds in other treasure.
Fame is at best an unperforming Cheat;

But 'tis substantial Happiness, to eat.

Let Ease, his last Request, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be damn'd to get his Living.


To a Play for Mr DENNIS'S Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Distress, a little before his Death1.

S when that Hero, who in each Campaign,


Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,

Lay Fortune-struck, a spectacle of Woe!

Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry Foe:
Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind,

But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind?
Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight??
A common Soldier, but who clubb'd his Mite?

1 Dennis being much distressed very near the close of his life, it was proposed to act a play for his benefit; and Thomson, Mallet, Benjamin Martin and Pope took the lead upon the occasion. The play, which was the Provoked Husband (by Vanbrugh and Cibber), was represented at the Haymarket, Dec. 18th, 1733; and Pope condescended so far as to lay aside his resentment against his former antagonist as to write a Prologue, which was spoken by Theophilus Cibber (the Laureate's son). Geneste, English Stage, Vol. III. p. 318. [The annalist adds, with much truth, that Pope's benevolence was not so pure as could be wished; for his Pro





logue was throughout a sneer at the poor old critic, who happily, either from vanity or the decay of his intellects, failed to perceive its tendency. He died twenty days afterwards. As to the general character of the relations between Pope and Dennis, see Introductory Memoir, p. xxiv.] The furious patriotism of Dennis is of course alluded to in the appeal for 'British' sympathy.]

2 Was there a Chief, etc.] The fine figure of the Commander in that capital Picture of Belisarius at Chiswick, supplied the Poet with this beautiful idea. Warburton.

Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
When press'd by want and weakness DENNIS lies;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
A desp'rate Bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verse:

How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the Stage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain PRETENDER'S hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the POPE!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn:
If there's a Critic of distinguished rage;

If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;

Let him to night his just assistance lend,

And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.





[First printed in the Miscellanies of Swift and Pope (1727), and interpreted by Warton to mean James Moore-Smythe (see Dunciad, Bk. II. v. 50). But Bowles thinks it more likely that the character was intended for Ambrose Philips, called 'lean Philips' by Pope (see Farewell to London, p. 472); who borrowed' a play from the French, and translated' the Persian tales. Mr Carruthers completes the identification by showing a note prefixed to this character on its first publication and speaking of Macer's advertisements for a Miscellany in 1713, to refer to such an advertisement actually issued by Philips in the London Gazette in 1715. As to Philips, see Dunciad, Bk. III. v. 326, et al.]


HEN simple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,
'Twas all th' Ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.
Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with these he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play, out-did poor Crown2.
There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little;
Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs Verse, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.

[The borrowed play, The Distrest Mother, was, as Carruthers says, from Racine, not, as Bowles says, from Voltaire. It is the Andromaque, and the epilogue was ascribed to Addison.]

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2 [John Crown, who wrote 12 tragedies, 6 comedies, and a masque, in little more than a quarter of a century, died about 1698. As a sample of a borrow'd play, see Geneste's account of Crown's version of Part I. of Henry VI.]

So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd,
Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid;
Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honest, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity:
In a translated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk.





[From the Miscellanies. The original of the character has been variously sought in Walter Carey (a F. R. S. and Whig official), Charles Johnson and Ambrose Philips. Umbra' must in no case be confounded with the 'Lord Umbra' of the Satires.]

LOSE to the best known Author Umbra sits,
The constant Index to all Button's Wits1.
"Who's here?" cries Umbra: "only Johnson","-"Oh!
Your Slave," and exit; but returns with Rowe:
"Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies:"
Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his Heel,
And in a Moment fastens upon Steele;


But cries as soon, "Dear Dick, I must be gone,
For, if I know his Tread, here's Addison.'
Says Addison to Steele, "'Tis Time to go;"
Pope to the Closet steps aside with Rowe.
Poor Umbra left in this abandoned Pickle,
E'en sets him down and writes to honest T-3
Fool! 'tis in vain from Wit to Wit to roam;
Know, Sense, like Charity, begins at Home.




TO MR JOHN MOORE, Author of the celebrated Worm-Powder.

[From the Miscellanies.]

WOW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by Shows and Forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All Humankind are Worms.

[Button's coffee-house in Covent Garden

was the resort of Addison's circle.]

2 [Charles Johnson, a second-rate dramatist.

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