21

By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.

Is there a parfon, much be-mus'd in beer, 15
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza, when he should ingross?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp’rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to TWIT'NAM, and, in humble strain,
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whofe giddy son neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope, 25
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song), What drop or noftrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?

Notes. Ver. 1 3. Mint.] A place to which infolvent debtors retired, to enjoy an illegal protection, which they were there suffered to aford one another, from the perfecution of their creditors. Ver. 23: Arthur.) Arthur Moore, Esq.

VARIATIONS.
After yer. 20: in the MS

Is there a bard in durance? turn them free,
With all their brandin's reams they run to me:
Is there a 'prentice, having seen two plays,

Who would do something in his femptress' praise *** Ver. 29. in the first edition,

Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse?
Say, is their anger or their friend thip worse?

А

a

E 3

.

36

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped.

31 If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how. wretched I! Who can't be filent, and who will not lie : To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace; And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face. I fit with fad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years."

Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lulld by loft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends : “The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; “ I'm all submillion, what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound, 47 My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: " You know his Grace, "I want a patron; ask him for a place." 50 Pitholeon libell'd me---

e----" But here's a letter “ Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better, 56

Dare you

refuse him? Curll invites to dine,
“ He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn divine.”

Bless me! a packet.----“ 'Tis a stranger fues,
“ 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,
The play’rs and I are, luckily, no friends. 60
Fir'd 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 muchi
Not, Sir, if

you

revise it, and retouch."
All my demurs but double his attacks; 65
At lait he whispers, " Do; and we go

snacks.”
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),

70 His very minister who spy'd them firit, (Some say his queen), was forc'd to speak, or burst.

Notes. Ver. 69. 'Tis fung, when Midas', &c.] He means sung by Persius; and the words alluded to are,

Vidi, vidi ipse, libelle !
" Auriculas afini wida Rex habet."
Vera 72. Queen] The story is told, by fome, of his barber;
but by Chaucer, of his Queen. See Wife of Bath's tale in
Dryden's fables.

VARIATIONS.
Ver. 53. in the MS.

If you refute, he goes, as fates incline,

To plague Sir Robert, or to turn divine.
Ver. 60. In the former edition,
Cibber and I are luckily no friends.

And

84

And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,
When ev'ry coscomb perks them in my face? 74
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous

things,
I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings;
Keep close to ears, and those let affes prick,
'Tis nothing.--P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret páss,
That secret to cach fool, that he's an Ass : 80
The truth once told, (and wherefore should we lie?)
The Queen of Midas slept, and fo 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, Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gall’ry in convulfions hurld, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a scribbler ? break one cobweb thro'; He spins the flight, self-pleafing thread anew: 90

୨ Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again, Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines ! Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peet,

9 $ Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnaffian sneer? And has not Colley fill his lord, and whore? His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore?

Notes. Ver. 80. That secret to each fool, that he's an ass:] i. e. that his ears (his marks of folly) are visible. Ver. 88. Alluding to Horace, “ Si fractus illabatur orbis,

Impavidum ferient ruinæ." · Ver. 98. Free-masons Moore.?] He was of this fociety, and froquently headed their proceflions.

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Does,