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Occafioned by fome Verses of his Grace the Duke of BUCK
USE, 'tis enough: at length thy labour
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
By Mr. POPE,
To a Play for Mr. DENNIS's Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Distress, a little before his Death.
S when that Hero, who in each Campaign,
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal
Lay fortune-ftruck, a fpectacle of Woe!
VER. 6. But pitied Belifarius, etc.] Nothing could be more happily imagined than this allufion, nor more finely conductcd. The continued pleafantry is fo delicately touched, that it took nothing from the felf-fatisfaction the Critic, who heard it, had in his own merit, or the Audience in their charity. In a word, is benevolent irony is profecuted with fo mafterly a head, that the Poet fuppofed, had Dennis himself the wit to fee it, he would have had the ingenuity to approve of it.
This dreaded Sat'rift, Dennis will confifs,
Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight?
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, 19 Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in fcorn;
VER. 7. Was there a Chief, etc.] The fine figure of the Commander in that capital Picture of Belifarius at Chiswick, fupplied the Poet with this beautiful idea.
VER. 12. Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns ;] See Dunciad, Note on v. 63. B. I.
VER. 13. A defp'rate Bulwark, etc.] See Dunciad, Note on v. 268. B. II.
VER. 16. And hook the Stage with Thunders all his own!] See Dunciad, Note on v. 226. B. II.
VER. 17. Stood up to dash, etc.] See Dunciad, Note on v. 173. B. III.
VER. 18. Maul the French Tyrant-] See Dunciad, Note on v. 413. B. II.
Ibid. or pull down the POPE!] See Dunciad, Note on v. 63. B. I.
If there's a Critic of diftinguish'd rage;
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend,
VER. 21. If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage.] See Dun. ciad, Notes on v. 106. B. I.
HEN fimple 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 Steel. Some Ends of verfe his betters might afford, 5 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 Crown. There he stop'd short, nor fince has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little: Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have Sufficient Sap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends, Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his
So fome coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid;