TO THE GRUB-STREET VERSE-WRITERS, 1726.
E poets ragged and forlorn,
Down from your garrets hafte ;
Ye rhymers dead as soon as born,
Not yet confign❜d to paste;
I know a trick to make you thrive;
Q, 'tis a quaint device :
Your ftill-born poems fhall revive,
And fcorn to wrap up fpice.
Get all your verfes printed fair,
Then let them well be dried;
And Curll muft have a special care
To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-fparing* Pope;
And when he fits to write,
No letter with an envelope
Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill'd the margins round,
Why then recall your loan;
Sell them to Curll for fifty pound,
And fwear they are your own.
*The original copy of Mr. Pope's celebrated tranflation of Homer (preferved in the British Museum) is almost entirely written on the covers of letters, and fometimes between the lines of the letters themselves. N.
Who defired the AUTHOR to write fome Verses
upon her in the Heroic Style.
Written at LONDON in 1726.
AFTER venting all my fpite,
Tell me, what have I to write?
Every error. I could find
Through the mazes of your mind,
Have my bufy Mufe employ'd
Till the company was cloy'd.
Are you positive and fretful,
Heedlefs, ignorant, forgetful?
Those, and twenty follies more,
I have often told before.
Hearken what my lady fays:
Have I nothing then to praise ?
Ill it fits you to be witty,
Where a fault fhould move your pity.
If you think me too conceited,
Or to paffion quickly heated;
If my wandering head be lefs
Set on reading than on dress;
If I always feem too dull t'ye ;
I can folve the difficulty.
You would teach me to be wife;
Truth and honour how to prize;
How to fhine in conversation,
And with credit fill my station;
YOL. II.
How to relish notions high;
How to live, and how to die.
But t was decreed by Fate-
Mr. Dean, you come too late.
Well I know, you can difcern,
I am now too old to learn:
Follies, from my youth inftill'd,
Have my foul entirely fill'd;
In my head and heart they center,
Nor will let your leffons enter.
Bred a fondling and an heiress;
Dreft like any Lady Mayoress;
Cocker'd by the fervants round,
Was too good to touch the ground;
Thought the life of every lady
Should be one continual play-day-
Balls, and mafquerades, and shows,
Vifits, plays, and powder'd beaux.
Thus you have my cafe at large,
And may now perform your charge.
Those materials I have furnish'd,
When by you refin'd and burnish'd,
Muft, that all the world may know 'em,
Be reduc'd into a Poem.
But, I beg, fufpend a while
That fame paultry, burlefque ftyle;
Drop for once your conftant rule,
Turning all to ridicule;
Teaching others how to ape you ;
Court nor Parliament can 'scape you;
Treat the publick and your friends
Both alike, while neither mends.
Sing my praife in ftrain fublime
Treat me not with doggrel rhyme.
'Tis but juft, you should produce,
With each fault, each fault's excufe;
Not to publish every trifle,
And my few perfections ftifle.
With fome gifts at leaft endow me,
Which my very foes allow me.
Am I fpightful, proud, unjust?
Did I ever break my truft?
Which of all our modern dames
Cenfures lefs, or lefs defames?
In good-manners am I faulty?
Can you call me rude or haughty?
Did I e'er my mite withhold
From the impotent and old?
When did ever I omit
Due regard for men of wit?
When have I efteem exprefs'd
For a coxcomb gaily drefs'd?
Do I, like the female tribe,
Think it wit to fleer and gibe?
Who with lefs defigning ends
Kindlier entertains her friends;
With good words and countenance fprightly,
Strives to treat them more politely?
Think not cards my chief diverfion :
"Tis a wrong, unjust afperfion :
Never knew I any good in 'em,
But to dofe my head like laudanum.
We by play, as men by drinking,
Pass our nights, to drive out thinking.
From my ailments give me leifure,
"I fhall read and think with pleasure.;
Converfation learn to relish,
And with books my mind embellish.
Now, methinks, I hear you cry,
Mr. Dean, you must reply.
Madam, I allow 'tis true:
All these praises are your due.
You, like fome acute philofopher,
Every fault have drawn a glofs over;;
Placing in the strongest light
All your virtues to my fight.
Though you lead a blameless life,
Are an humble prudent wife,
Anfwer all domeftic, ends :
What is this to us your friends?
Though your children by a nod
Stand in awe without a rod;
Though, by your obliging fway,
Servants love you, and obey;
Though you treat us with a smile;
Clear your looks, and smooth your style;
Load our plates from every dish;
This is not the thing we wish.
We expect employment better.
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