I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish and an aching head, This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' 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 players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the house rejects him, "'Sdeath, I'll print it, And shame the fools-your interest, 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; At last he whispers, ' Do, and we go snacks.' 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 spied them first (Some say his queen) was forc'd to speak or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face? A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things; I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; 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: The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break, The creature's at his dirty work again, Still Sappho.-A. Hold! for God's sake-you'll offend. A fool quite angry is quite innocent: This prints my letters, that expects, a bribe, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came: No duty broke, no father disobey'd: The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife, But why then publish? Granville the polite, Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; If want provok'd, or madness made them print, Did some more sober critic come abroad; Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there. Were others angry: I excus'd them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, This who can gratify? for who can guess? The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year; He who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left; And he who now to sense, now nonsense, leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad, 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. 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, And born to write, converse, and live with ease; Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne; View him with scornful yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame or to commend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools; by flatterers besieg'd, And so obliging that he ne'er oblig'd; Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; While wits and templars every sentence raise, And, wonder with a foolish face of praiseWho but must laugh if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaster'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 be-rhym'd so long) No more than thou, great George! a birth-day 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 through the town To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cried, With handkerchief and orange at my side; But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. Proud as Apollo on his forked hill Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill; |