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Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town.
To fetch aud carry fing-fong up and down;
Nor at Rehearsals fweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd,
With handkerchief and orange at my fide;
But fick of fops, and poetry and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Caftalian state.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill;
Fed with foft Dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand and hand in fong.
His Library (where bufts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar ftood without a head).
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment afk'd, and then a place:
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd every day, and fome days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,

He paid fome bards with port, and fome with praife,,
To fome a dry rehearfal' was affign'd,

And others (harder ftill) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh,
Dryden alone efcap'd this judging eye:

But ftill the Great have kindness in referve,
He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May fome choice patron blefs each gray goofe quilt! May every Bavius have his Bufo fill!

So when a Statesmar wants a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense,
Or fimple pride for flattery makes demand,,
May dunce by dunce be whiflled off my hands!

Bleft be the Great! for thofe they take away,
And those they left me: for they left me GAY;
Left me to fee neglected Genius bloom,
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb :

Of all thy blameless life the fole return

My verfe, and QUEENSB'RY Weeping o'er thy urn? Oh let me live my own, and die fo too! (To live and die is all I have to do:)

Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,

And fee what friends, and read what books I please: Above a Patron, tho' I condefcend

Sometimes to call a Minifter my friend.

I was not born for courts or great affairs;
I pay my debts, believe, and fay my prayers;
Can fleep without a Poem in my head,

Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?
Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write?
Has Life no joys for me? or (to be grave)
Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to fave?

"I found him clofe with Swift---Indeed? no doubt
«C (Cries prating Balbus) fomething will come out.
"Tis all in vain, deny it as I will.

"No fuch a genius never can lie ftill;
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first Lampoon Sir Will. or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I! and can I chufe but fmile,
When every Coxcomb knows me by my Style?
Curft be the verfe, how well foe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,

Give Virtue fcandal, Innocence a fear,

Or from the foft-ey'd Virgin fteal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fallen Worth, or Beauty in distress,
Who loves a Lye, lame flander helps about,
Who writes a Libel, or who copies out :
That fop, whofe pride affects a patron's name,
Yet abfent, wounds an author's honest fame:
Who can your merit felfishly approve,

And how the fenfe of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you friend,

Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you fay,
And, if he lye not, muft at leaf betray:
Who to the Dean, and filver bell can fwear,
And fees at Cannons what was never there;
Who reads, but with a luft to misapply,
Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction Lye.
A lash like mine no honest man fhall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble---A. What? that thing of silk,
Sporus, that mere white curd of Afs's milk?
Satire or fenfe, alas! can Sporus feel?

Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,

Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:.
So well-bred fpaniels civilly delight

In mumbling of the game they dare not bite..

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Eternal fmiles his emptinefs betray,

As fhallow ftreams run dimpling all the way,
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,

And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar Toad,

Half froth. half venom, spits himself abroad,
In puns, or politics or tales, or lies,

Or fpite, or smut, or rhymes, or blafphemies.
His wit all fee-faw, between that and this,
Now high, now low, now master up, now mifs,
And he himself one vile Antithefis.
Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head, or the corrupted heart,
Fop at the toilet. Alatt'rer at the board,
Now trips a Lady, and now ftruts a Lord.
Eve's temper thus the Rabbins have expreft,
A Cherub's face, a reptile all the rest.

Beauty that shocks you. parts that none will truft,
Wit that can creep, and Pride that licks the duft.

Not Fortune's worshipper, nor Fashion's fool,

Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
Not proud, nor fervile; be one Poet's praise,
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:
That Flattery, even to Kings, he held a fhame,
And thought a lie in verfe or profe the fame,
That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
But ftoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his fong:
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
The damning critic, half-approving wit,
The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;

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Laugh'd at the lofs of friends he never had,

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The dull,
the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The diftant threats of vengeance on his head,
The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
The tale reviv'd, the lye fo oft o'erthrown,
Th' imputed trafh, and dulnefs not his own;
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'fcape,
The libel'd perfon, and the pictur'd shape;
Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread,
A friend in exile, or a father dead;
The whisper, that to greatnefs still too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his SoV'REIGN's ear-
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the paft:
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome even the last!
A. But why infult tho poor, affront the great?
P. A knave's a knave, to me, in
every ftate:
Alike my fcorn, if he fucceed or fail,
Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail,
A hireling fcribbler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the poft corrupt, or of the fhire;
If on a pillory, or near a Throne,
He gain his Prince's car, or lose his own.

Yet foft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
Sappho can tell you how this man was bit:
This dreaded sat'rift Dennis will confefs
Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress:
So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door,
Has drunk with Cibber, nay has rhym'd for Moor.
Full ten years flander'd, did he once reply?
Three thousand uns went down on Welfted's lye.

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