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Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot,

BEING THE

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ ΤΗΕ

SATIRE S..

SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatige'd I said,
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.
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 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 beṁus'd in beer,. 15 A maudlin Poetefs, a rhyming Peer,

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

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.

A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross?

25

Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
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, whofe 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?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped,
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
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face.
I fit with fad civility, I read

grace,

With honeft anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

30

35

This faving counsel, "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:

VARIATION S.

After ver. 20. in the MS.

Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free,

With all their brandifh'd reams they run to me:

Is there a 'Prentice, having feen two plays,

Who would do fomething in his Sempftrefs' praife

VER. 29. in the 1ft Ed.

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

50

"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 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, t'was when he knew no better. "Dare you refufe him? Curl invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine." Blefs me! a packet." "Tis a ftranger fues, "A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe." If I diflike it, "Furies, death and rage!" "Commend it to the Stage If I approve, There (thank my stars) my whole commiffion ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

Fir'd that the house reject him,

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55

60

"'Sdeath I'll print it,

"And fhame 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;

65

At last 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 perfon and a King,

70

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

VARIATION S.

VER. 53. in the MS.

If you refufe, 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.

His very Minifter who spy'd them first,

(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burft. And is not mine, my friend, a forer case,

When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my

face?

76

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 pafs,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:
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.

80

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack :
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who fhames a Scribler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the flight, self pleafing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,

The creature's at his dirty work again,

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VER. 72. Queen] The ftory is told, by fome, of his Barber, but by Chaucer of his Queen. See Wife of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Fables.

VER. 80. That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:] i. e. that his ears (his marks of folly) are visible.

VER. 88. Alluding to Horace:

Si fractus illabatur orbis,
Impavidum ferient ruinæ.

Spider, is much more poetical

But Poets fhould be cautious

VER. 92. The creature's at his dirty work again,] This metamorphofing, as it were, the Scribler into a than a comparison would have been. how they employ this figure; for where the likeness is not very ftriking, instead of giving force, they become obfcure. thing concurs to make them run into one another. They both fpin; not from the bead [reafon] but from the guts [paffions and prejudices], and fuch a thread than can entangle none but creatures weaker than themselves.

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Here every

Thron'd on the center 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 fneer?
And has not Colly ftill his lord, and whore ?,
His butchers Henly, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?

Still to one Bishop Philips feem a wit?

95

100

Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God fake-you'll offend, No names be calm-learn prudence of a friend :

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

But foes like thefe-P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

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:
One from all Grubftreet will my fame defend,
And more abufive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, 66 Subfcribe, fubscribe!"
There are, who to my perfon pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am short.

105

110

115

VER. 98. free-mafons Moor?] He was of this fociety, and fre quently headed their proceffions.

VARIATION S.

VER. 111. in the MS.

For fong, for filence fome expect a bribe:
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, fubfcribe!""
Time, praise, or money, is the leaft they crave;
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.

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