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tirist for a libeller; whereas, to a true satirist, notbing is so odious as a libeller; for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite:

Uni aequus virtuti atque ejus amicis.


WHOEVER expects a paraphrase of Horace, or

a faithful copy of his genius, or manner of writing, in these Imitations, will be much disappointed. Our Author uses the Roman poet for little more than his canvas; and if the old design or coloring chance to suit his purpose, it is well; if not, he employs his own, without scruple or ceremony. Hence it is he is so frequently serious, where Horace is in jest, and at ease, where Horace is disturbed. In a word, he regulates his movements no farther on his original, than was necessary for his concurrence in promoting their common plan of reformation

of manners. Had it been his purpose merely to paraphrase an

ancient satirist, he had hardly made choice of Horace: with whom, as a poet, he held little in common, besides a comprehensive knowledge of life and manners, and a certain curious feli. city of expression, which consists in using the simplest language with dignity, and the most ornamented with ease. For the rest, his has

mony and strength of numbers, bis force and splendor of coloring, his gravity and sublimity of sentiment, would have rather led him to another model. Nor was his temper less unlike that of Horace, than his talents. What Horace would only smile at, Mr. Pope would treat with grave severity of Persius : and what Mr. Pope would strike with the caustic lightning of Juvenal, Horace would content himself by turning

into ridicule. If it be asked, then, why he took any body at all

to imitate, he has informed us in his Advertisement; to which we may add, that this sort of Imitations, which are of the nature of Parody, throws reflected grace and splendor on original wit. Besides, he deemed it more modest to give the name of Imitations to his Satires, than, like Despreaux, to give the name of Satires to Imitations.




P. There are, (I scarce can think it, but ar

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 ; Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a-day. Tim'rous by nature, of the rich in awe, I come to counsel 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.

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 Hartshorn, or something shat 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, With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thun

der ?

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;
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 the Laureate twice a-year;
And justly Cæsar scorns the poet's lays :
It is to history he trusts for praise.

F. Better be Cibber, l'll maintain it still,
Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme Quadrille,
Abuse the City's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter.
Evin 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 Scarsdale his bottle, Darty bis ham-pie; Ridotta sips and dances, till she see The doubling lustres dance as fast as she ;

F— loves the senate, Hockley-hole his brother,
Like in all else, as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myself as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne :
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,
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 my text
Is vice too high, reserve it for the next :
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,
Verseman or Proseman, term me which you will,
Papist or Protestant, or both between,
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 ;
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 ;
But touch me, and no minister so sore.
Whoe'er offends, at soine unlucky time
Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,

POPE. VOL. 111. N

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