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THE FIRST SATIRE

OF THE

SECOND BOOK OF HORACE

IMITATED.

TO MR. FORTESCUE.

P. THERE are, (I scarce can think it, but am told,) There are, to whom

my satire seems too bold ; Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough, And something said of Chartres much too rough. The lines are weak, another's pleas’d to say, 5 Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day. Tim'rous by nature, of the rich in awe, I come to council learned in the law : You'll give me, like a friend both sage and free, Advice; and (as you use without a fee. F. I'd write no more.

P. Not write? but then I think, And for

my soul I cannot sleep a wink. I nod in company, I wake at night, Fools rush into my head, and so I write.

14 VOL. III.

F. You

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F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. Why, if the nights seem tedious— take a wife: Or rather truly, if your point be rest, Lettuce and cowslip-wine ; Probatum est. But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise

19 Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes. Or, if you needs must write, write CÆSAR's praise, You'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays. P. What? like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and

fierce, With Arms, and GEORGE, and BRUNSWICK crowd

the verse, Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder, 25 With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder? Or nobly wild, with Budgel's fire and force, Paint angels trembling round his falling horse?

F. Then all your muse's softer art display, Let CAROLINA smooth the tuneful lay,

30 Lull with AMELIA's liquid name the Nine, And sweetly flow through all the royal line.

P, Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear ; They scarce can bear their Laureat twice a year ; And justly CÆSAR scorns the poet's lays, 35 It is to history he trusts for praise.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still, Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille,

Abuse

VER. 28. falling borse?] The horse on which His Majesty charged at the battle of Oudenard; when the Pretender, and the Princes of she blood of France, fled before him..

Abuse the city's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter. 40
Ev'n those

you

touch not hate you.

P. What should ail 'em ?
F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam ;
The fewer still you name, you wound the more ;
Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.

P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny 45
Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pye;
Ridotta sips and dances, till she see
The doubling lustres dance as fast as she ;
F--- lov's the senate, Hockley-hole his brother,
Like in all else, as one egg to another.

50 I love to pour out all myself, as plain As downright SHIPPEN, or as old Montagne : In them, as certain to be lov'd as seen, The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within ; In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, 55 Will prove at least the medium must be clear. In this impartial glass, my muse intends Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends ; Publish the present age ;

but where Is vice too high, reserve it for the next :

бо

My VER.46. Darty) Lyttelton, in his Dialogues of the Dead, has introduced Darteneuf, in a pleasant discourse betwixt him and Apicius, hitterly lamenting his ill-fortune in having lived before turtlefeasts were known in England. The story of the ham-pye was confirmed by Mr. Dodsley, who knew Darteneuf, and, as he can. didly owned, had waited on him at dinner.

VER. 52. Downright Shippen,] M. P. for Newton, Lancashire, a Jacobite.

my text

My foes shall wish my life a longer date,
And ev'ry friend the less lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing through my quill,
Verse-man or prose-man, term me which

you will, Papist or Protestant, or both between,

65 Like good Erasmus in an honest mean, In moderation placing all my glory, While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.

Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run a muck, and tilt at all I meet;

70 I only wear it in a land of Hectors, Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors. Save but our army! and let Jove incrust Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust ! Peace is

my dear delight--not FLEURY's more : 75 But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhime, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song.

80 Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage, Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page.

From

Ver. 70. To run a muck,] Alludes to a practice among the Malayans, who are great gamesters; which is, that when a man has lost all his property, he intoxicates himself with opium, works himself up to a fit of phrenzy, rushes into the streets, and attacks and murders all he meets.

Ver. 81. Delia's rage.] A Miss Mackenzie died about this time, and was supposed to have been poisoned from jealousy. A hint of this kind was sufficient for Pope.' The person alluded to was Lady D

-ne.

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