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FHayman inv. et del.

C.Grignion Sculp

Shut, shut the Door, good John fatigud I said Tye up the Knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.

Ep: to Arbuthnot.

And now the Poem, which holds fo much of the DRAMA, and opens with all the diforder and vexation that every kind of impertinence and flander could occafion, concludes with the utmost calmness and ferenity, in the retired enjoyment of all the tender offices of FRIENDSHIP and PIETY [388, to the end.]






HUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd

P. SHUI faid,

Tye up the knocker, fay I'm fick, I'm dead,
The Dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaffus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.



VER. 1. Shut, fhut the door, good John!] John Searl, his old and faithful fervant: whom he has remembered, under that character, in his Will,

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.10
No place is facred, 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 Poetefs, a rhyming Peer,

A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to TwIT'NAM, and in humble strain 21
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

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Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free,
With all their brandish'd reams they run to me:

Is there a Prentice, having feen two plays,

Who would do something in his Semptrefs' praise


VER. 12. Ev'n Sunday fhines no Sabbath-day to me.] The beauty of this line arifes from the figurative terms of the predicate alluding to the fubject. A fecret, in elegant expreffion, which our Author often practifed.

VER. 13. Mint.] A place to which infolvent debtors retired, to enjoy an illegal protection, which they were there fuffered to afford one another, from the perfecution of their creditors.

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Arthur, whose giddy fon neglects the Laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the caufe: Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,

And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.


Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle fong) What Drop or Noftrum can this plague remove?.. Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love? 30. A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped. 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 lye: To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,3·5 And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face. I fit with fad civility, I read

With honest anguish, and an aching head;


VER. 29. in the 1ft Ed.

Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curfe?
Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse?


VER. 23. Arthur,] Arthur Moore, Efq.
VER. 33. Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge,]

Alluding to the

fcene in the Plain-Dealer, where Oldfox gags, and ties down

the Widow, to hear his well-pen'd flanzas.

VER. 38. honeft anguish,] i. e. undiffembled.

Ibid. an aching head; Alluding to the disorder he was then fo conftantly afflicted with.

And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,


This faving counfel, "Keep your piece nine years.”
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by foft Zephyrs thro' 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,4 5
"I'm all fubmiffion, what you'd have it, make it."
Three things another's modeft wishes bound,
My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon fends to me: "You know his Grace,

"I want a Patron; afk him for a Place."
Pitholeon libell'd me---" but here's a letter


Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine.”


VER. 53. in the MS.

If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline,
To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine.


VER. 43. Rhymes ere he wakes,] A pleasant allufion to thofe words of Milton,

Dictates to me flumb'ring, or inspires

Eafy my unpremeditated Verse.

VER. 49. Pitholeon] The name taken from a foolish Poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek. Schol in Horat. 1. i. Dr. Bentley pretends, that this Pitholeon libelled Cæfar also. See notes on Hor. Sat. 10, I, i,


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