This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some Persons of Rank and Fortune (the authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace,' and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court') to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my Writings (of which, being public, the Public is judge), but my Person, Morals, and Family; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the

and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.

Destroy his fib, or sophistry—in vain!
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Throned in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines.
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet or Peer
Lost the arch'd eyebrow or Parnassian
sneer?

And has not Colley still his lord and whore?
His butchers Henley? his freemasons
Moore?

Does not one table Bavius still admit ?
Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?
Still Sappho A. Hold! for God's sake
you'll offend.

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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,

It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 't is ten times worse when they re-
pent.

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One dedicates in high heroic prose, 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 disgraced my betters met in me.
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, 121
Just so immortal Maro held his head:'
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer died three thousand years
ago.

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown

Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came:
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobey'd:

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The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife,

To help me thro' this long disease my life, To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy art and care, And teach the being you preserv'd, to bear. A. But why then publish? P. Granville the polite,

And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;

Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise,

And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endured my lays;

The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head,

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And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend

before)

With open arms receiv'd one poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! Happier their author, when by these belov'd!

From these the world will judge of men and books,

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes.

Soft were my numbers; who could take

offence

While pure description held the place of sense?

Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.'
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; 151
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still:
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd; I was not in debt.
If want provoked, or madness made them
print,

I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did some more sober critic come abroad;
If wrong, I smiled, if right, I kiss'd the
rod.

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,

And all they want is spirit, taste, and

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 tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading ev'n fools; by flatterers besieged,
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged;
Like Cato, give his little Senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause: 219
While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence
raise,

And wonder with a foolish face of praise -
Who but must laugh if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
What tho' 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:

220

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
cried,

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
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill:
Fed with soft dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand in hand in song,
His library (where busts of poets dead,
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of Wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a
place:

Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat

And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days

Poor guiltless I and can I choose but smile,

When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my style?

Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,

That tends to make one worthy man my foe,

Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear,
Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's
peace,

Insults fall'n Worth, or Beauty in distress,
Who loves a lie, lame Slander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;
That fop whose pride affects a patron's

name, •

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