EPISTLE to Dr. ARBUTHNOT, BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES. P. I faid, SH Tye up the knocker, say I'm fick, I'm dead, The Dog-ftar rages! nay 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 They rave, recite, and madden round the land... 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. to No place is sacred, not the Church is free, Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: VER. 1. Shut, shut the door, good John!] John Searl, his old and faithful servant: whom he has remembered, under that character, in his Will. Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy! to catch me, just at Dinner-time. 15 Is there a Parson, much be-mus'd in beer, A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer, A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross? Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20 All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope, And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope. Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) 25 VARIATIONS, After ver. 20. in the MS. Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free, With all their brandish'd reams they run to me: Who would do something in his Semptress' praife_ VER. 29. in the 1st Ed. Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse? Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse? VER. 13. Mint.] A place to which insolvent debtors retired, to enjoy an illegal protection, which they were there suffered to afford, one another, from the perfecution of their creditors. 1 What Drop or Noftrum can this plague remove? : If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. ১৯ I fit with sad civility, I read And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face. 39 With honest anguish, and an aching head; Lull'd by foft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane, "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 libell'd me" but here's a letter 50 " Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. VER. 49. Pitholeon] The name taken from a foolish Poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek. Schol. in Horat. 1. r. Dr. Bentley pretends, that this Pitholeon libelled Cæfar also, See notes on Hor. Sat. 1o. 1. i, " Dare you refufe him? Curl invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine." Bless me! a packet. -" "Tis a stranger sues, 55 "A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe." If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage." There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the house reject him, " 'Sdeath I'll print it, " And shame the fools-Your int'rest, Sir, with Lintot." 60 Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks; Sir, let me see your works and you no more. (Midas, a facred person and a King) سال 65 70 (Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burft. VARIATIONS. VER. 53. in the MS. If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline, To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine. VER. 60. in the former Ed. Cibber and I are luckily no friends. VER. 72. Queen] The story is told, by some, of his Barber, but by Chaucer of his Queen. See Wife of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Fables, And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe, A. Good friend forbear! you deal in dang'rous things, I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings; 76 Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick, 'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick ? 80 Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass, You think this cruel? take it for a rule, Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85 'Thou stand'st unshook amidst a burfting world. Who shames a Scribler? break one cobweb thro', He spins the flight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90 Destroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again, VER. 80. That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:] i. e. that his ears (his marks of folly) are visiblę. VER. 88. Alluding to Horace, Si fractus illabatur orbis, Impavidum ferient ruinæ. P. VER. 92. The creature's at his dirty work again,] This metamorphofing, as it were, the Scribler into a Spider is much more poetical than a comparison would have been. But Poets should be cautious how they employ this figure; for where the likeness is not very striking, instead of giving force, they become obfcure. Here, every thing concurs to make them run into one another, |