Soft were my numbers; who could take offence Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. 150 If want provok'd, or madness made them print, 155 160 Did some more sober critic come abroad, If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From slashing Bentley, down to piddling Tibalas: Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Ev'n such small critics some regard may claim, Preserv'd in Milton's, or in Shakespeare's name. Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor iare, 166 170 175 180 [a-year; That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, It is not poetry, but prose run mad: All these my modest Satire bade translate, And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. 190 How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! And swear, not Addison himself was safe. Peace to all such! But were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires, Bless'd with each talent and each art to please, 195 And born to write, converse, and live with ease; 200 205 A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieg'd, While wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise, 210 220 What tho' my name stood rubric on the walls, 215 Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I sought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight; Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday song. I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor, like a puppy, daggled thro' the Town, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, 225 With handkerchief and orange at my side; But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. 230 Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Horace and he went hand in hand in song. 235 Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, 240 He paid some bards with port, and some with praise; Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, 245 But still the great have kindness in reserve: He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve. May some choice patron bless each gray-goose quill ! May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still! 250 So when a statesman wants a day's defence, Or Envy holds a whole weeks war with Sense, 255 My verse, and Queesnb'ry weeping o'er thy urn! 260 Oh! let me live my own, and die so too! (To live and die is all I have to do ;) Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, And see what friends, and read what books, I please; Above a patron, tho' I condescend 265 Sometimes to call a minister my friend. I was not born for courts or great affairs; I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray❜rs; Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) 270 Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? 274 "I found him close with Swift---Indeed? no doubt "(Cries prating Balbus) something will come out." 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will; "No, such a genius never can lie still;" And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first lampoon Sir Will. or Bubo makes. 280 285 Or from the soft-ey'd virgin steal a tear! Who writes a libel, or who copies out; And show the sense of it, without the love; 290 295 |