To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all Power of face.
I fit with fad civility, I read

35

With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." 40
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by foft Zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Terın ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:

"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, 45
" I'm all fubmiffion, what you'd have it, make it."
Three things another's modest wishes bound,
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."
Pitholeon libel'd me-" but here's a letter

"Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better.
"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 sues,
"A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse."
If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!"
If I approve, " Commend it to the Stage."

50

55

There

Ver. 53. in the MS.

VARIATION.

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

'There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it, "And shame the fools-Your interest, Sir, with Lintot." Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch."

60

65

All my demurs but double his attacks:
At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, strait I clap the door,

" Sir, let me fee your works and you no more."
'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring,

(Midas, a facred person and a King)
His very Minifter, who spy'd them first,
(Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burft.

79

And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,

When every coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things,

I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;

Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick,
'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick ?

Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass,

That secret to each fool, that he's an Afs:

80

The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)
The Queen of Midas slept, and so 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, 85

Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:

Pít,

VARIATION.

Ver. 60. in the former Ed.

Cibber and I are luckily no friends.

Pit, box, and gallery, in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a Scribler? Break one cobweb through,
He spins the flight, felf-pleasing thread anew :

90

Destroy his fib or fophistry, in vain,

'The creature's at his dirty work again,

Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,

Proud of a vast extent of flimzy lines !

Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer?
And has not Colly still his lord, and whore ?
His butchers Henley, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius still admit ?

95

Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit ?
Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God's fake-you'll offend,
No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:

100

I too could write, and I am twice as tall;

But foes like these-P. One Flatterer's worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

105

It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.

A fool quite angry is quite innocent:

Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.

One dedicates in high heroic profe,

And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:

110

One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,

And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.

Ver. 111. in the MS.

VARIATION.

For fong, for filence some expect a bribe:
And others roar aloud, " Subscribe, subscribe!"

This

1

This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe!"

115

120

There are, who to my perfon pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short.
Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nose, and, "Sir! you have an Eye!"-
Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee
All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal Maro held his head;"
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what fin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd:

VARIATIONS.

Time, praise, or money, is the least they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.

After ver. 124. in the MS.

125

130 The

But, friend, this shape, which You and Curll a admire,
Came not from Ammon's fon, but from my Sire b:
And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse,
I had it from my Mother, not the Muse.
Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

a Curll fet up his head for a sign.
b His Father was crooked.

< His Mother was much afficted with headachs.

The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife,
To help me through this long disease, my Life,
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care,
And teach, the Being you preferv'd to bear.

But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise, And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,

135

Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head,
And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before).

140

With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.

Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their Author, when by these belov'd!

From these the world will judge of men and books, 145
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

Soft were my numbers: who could take offence
While pure Description held the place of Sense ?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fate still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd, I was not in debt.
If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

150

155

Did fome more fober Critic come abroad; If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their juft pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.

160

Comnas