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 desp❜rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
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 sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

15

Friend to my life! (which, did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,

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 silent, and who will not lie :

21

25

30

Το

VER. 13. Mint] A place in Southwark to which insolvent debtors retired, to enjoy an illegal protection, which they were there suffered to afford to one another from their creditors.

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:
Is there a 'prentice, having seen two plays,
Who would do something in his sempstress' praise
VER. 23. Arthur,] Arthur Moore, Esq.
VER. 29. in the first edit.

Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse?

Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse;

To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read,

35

With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel," Keep your piece nine years.'
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane, 41
Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends: 44
"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it,
"I'm all submission, 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

"Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better.

50

"Dare you refuse 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 muse."

If

VER. 49. Pitholeon] The name taken from a foolish poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek.

VER. 53 in the MS.

If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline,

To plague Sir Robert, or to turn divine.

VER. 54. He'll write a Journal,] Meaning the London Journal; a paper in favour of Sir R. Walpole's ministry. Bishop Hoadley wrote in it, as did Dr. Bland.

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.

60

Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath, I'll print it, "And shame the fools-Your int'rest, Sir, with "Lintot."

Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much : "Not, Sir, if you revise it and retouch."

snacks."

All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers, "Do; and we go
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.

'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king,)

His very minister who spy'd them first,

65

70

(Some say his queen,) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,

When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangʼrous

things.

I'd never name queens, ministers, and kings;

Keep

VER. 55. A packet.] Alludes to a tragedy called the Virgin Queen, by Mr. R. Barford, published 1729, who displeased Pope by daring to adopt the fine machinery of his fylphs in an heroicomical poem called the Assembly. 1,26.

VER. 60 in the former edit.

Cibber and I are, luckily, no friends.

Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, 'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick ? Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass,

That secret to each fool, that he's an ass:

80

The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule,

No creature smarts so little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a scribler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimzy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer,
Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer?
And has not Colley still his lord, and whore ?
His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore ?
Does not one table Bavius still admit ?

Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?

84

90

95

ICO

Still

VER. 98. His butchers Henley,] Orator Henley, who declaimed on Sundays on religious subjects, and on Wednesdays on the sciences;-one shilling was the price of admittance. His oratory was among the butchers of Newport Market and Butcher Row.

Still Sappho-A. Hold! for God-sake—you'll offend.
No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:
I too could write, and I am twice as tall;

But foes like these-P. One flatt'rer's worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

105

It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

prose,

A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe."
There are, who to my person pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am short;

Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nose, and "Sir! you have an eye.”-
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see,
All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal Maro held his head :"

116

120

And

VER. 100. Still to one Bishop] This is Bishop Boulter, who was Ambrose Philips' great friend and patron. Boulter wrote, in conjunction with Philips, a paper called the Freethinker.

VER. III. in the MS.

For song, for silence some expect a bribe;
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe."
Time, praife, or money, is the least they crave;
Yet each declares the other, fool or knave.