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Shut,shut the Door good John: fatigud I said.

Ep. to Arbuthnot.

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P. SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd I faid, Tye up the knocker, fay I'm fick, I'm dead.

The dog-ftar 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.

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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 ftop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is facred, not the church is free, Ev'n Sunday fhines 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 bemus'd in beer,
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?

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All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curfes wit, and poetry, and Pope.

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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 muft end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped.

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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,
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face.
I fit with fad civility, I read

With honeft anguish, and an aching head;

And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,

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This faving counfel, "Keep your piece nine years." 40 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, 45 "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; ask 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."
Blefs me! a packet.-" "Tis a ftranger fues,

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"A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe." If I diflike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve," Commend it to the ftage."

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There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion ends,
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the houfe reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it,

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And shame the fools-Your int'reft, Sir, with Lintot." Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much : "Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks; At laft he whispers, "Do; and we go fnacks." Glad of a quarrel, ftrait I clap the door, Sir, let me fee your works and you no more. 'Tis fung, when Midas' ears began to fpring, (Midas, a facred person and a king)

His very minifter who spy'd 'em first,

(Some fay his queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,

When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?

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A. Good friend forbear! you deal in dang❜rous things,

I'd never name queens, minifters, or kings;
Keep close to ears, and those let affes prick,

'Tis nothing-P. Nothing if they bite and kick ?
Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the fecret pass,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an ass :

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The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie ?)
The queen of Midas flept, and fo may I.
You think this cruel? take it for a rule,

No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a fcribler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew:
Deftroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin defigns,
Proud of a vaft extent of flimzy lines!

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Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer,
Loft the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnaffian sneer ?

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And

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