Chapter XV: Prologue: To Mr Addison's Tragedy of Cato (4)

Come then, my friend, my genius! come along; O master of the poet, and the song! And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, To Man's low passions, or their glorious ends, Teach me, like thee, in various Nature wise, To fall with dignity, with temper rise; Form'd by thy converse, happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe; 380 Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, Intent to reason, or polite to please. Oh! while along the stream of Time thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, Shall then this verse to future age pretend Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? 390 That, urged by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art. From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; For Wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; Show'd erring pride, Whatever is, is right; That Reason, Passion, answer one great aim; That true Self-love and Social are the same; That Virtue only makes our bliss below; And all our knowledge is, Ourselves to know.

* * * * *

VARIATIONS.

VER. 1, in the MS. thus--

O Happiness! to which we all aspire, Wing'd with strong hope, and borne by full desire; That ease, for which in want, in wealth we sigh; That ease, for which we labour and we die

After VER. 52, in the MS.--

Say not, 'Heaven's here profuse, there poorly saves, And for one monarch makes a thousand slaves,' You'll find, when causes and their ends are known, 'Twas for the thousand Heaven has made that one.

After VER. 66. in the MS.--

'Tis peace of mind alone is at a stay; The rest mad Fortune gives or takes away. All other bliss by accident's debarr'd; But virtue's in the instant a reward: In hardest trials operates the best, And more is relish'd as the more distress'd.

After VER. 92, in the MS.--

Let sober moralists correct their speech, No bad man's happy: he is great or rich.

After VER. 116, in the MS.--

Of every evil, since the world began, The real source is not in God, but man.

After VER. 142, in some editions--

Give each a system, all must be at strife; What different systems for a man and wife?

After VER. 172, in the MS.--

Say, what rewards this idle world imparts, Or fit for searching heads or honest hearts.

VER. 207, in the MS. thus--

The richest blood, right-honourably old, Down from Lucretia to Lucretia roll'd, May swell thy heart, and gallop in thy breast, Without one dash of usher or of priest: Thy pride as much despise all other pride As Christ-church once all colleges beside.

After VER. 316, in the MS.--

Even while it seems unequal to dispose, And chequers all the good man's joys with woes, 'Tis but to teach him to support each state, With patience this, with moderation that; And raise his base on that one solid joy, Which conscience gives, and nothing can destroy.

VER. 373, in the MS. thus--

And now transported o'er so vast a plain, While the wing'd courser flies with all her rein, While heavenward now her mounting wing she feels, Now scatter'd fools fly trembling from her heels, Wilt thou, my St John! keep her course in sight, Confine her fury, and assist her flight?

VER. 397, in the MS. thus--

That just to find a God is all we can, And all the study of mankind is Man.

EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT;

OR, PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

ADVERTISEMENT.

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 anything pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if anything offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at, if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage 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.

_P_. Shut, shut the door, good John![94] fatigued, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide, By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10 No place is sacred, not the church is free, Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: Then from the Mint[95] walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson, much bemused 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 desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20 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.

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? 30 A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' 40

'Nine years!' cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Obliged by hunger, and request of friends: '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[96] sends to me: 'You know his Grace, I want a patron; ask him for a place.' 50 Pitholeon libell'd me--'But here's a letter Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.'

Bless me! a packet.--''Tis a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse.' 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. 60 Fired that the house reject 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), 70 His very minister who spied them first, (Some say his queen) was forced 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: 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 gallery in convulsions hurl'd, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90 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 Colly still his lord, and whore? His butchers, Henley,[97] his freemasons, Moore?[98] Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one bishop,[99] Philips seem a wit 100 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 flatterer'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! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.

One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: 110 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, though 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. 120 Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, '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. 130 The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, And teach the being you preserved to bear.

But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, 140 And St John's self (great Dryden's friends before) With open arms received one poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approved! Happier their author, when by these beloved! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets,[100] 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.' 150 Yet then did Gildon[101] draw his venal quill; 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 sense. 160 Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds: Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Even such small critics some regard may claim, Preserved in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 170 The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.

Were others angry--I excused 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[102] for half-a-crown, 180 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. 190 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; Blest 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 caused himself to rise; 200 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 reserved to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading e'en 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; 210 While wits and Templars every 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 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: 220 Poems I heeded (now be-rhymed so long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday 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. 230

Proud as Apollo on his forkèd hill, Sat full-blown Bufo,[103] puff'd by every 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) Received 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 every day, and some days eat: 240 Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise, To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd, And others (harder still) he paid in kind. Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, Dryden alone escaped this judging eye: But still the great have kindness in reserve, He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May some choice patron bless each gray-goose quill! May every Bavius have his Bufo still! 250 So when a statesman wants a day's defence, Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense, Or simple pride for flattery makes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands! Bless'd be the great! for those they take away, And those they left me; for they left me Gay; Left me to see neglected genius bloom, Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Of all thy blameless life, the sole return My verse, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! 260

Oh let me live my own, and die so too! (To live and die is all I have to do:) Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please: Above a patron, though I condescend Sometimes to call a minister my friend. I was not born for courts or great affairs; I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; Can sleep without a poem in my head, Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead. 270

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light? Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? 'I found him close with Swift--Indeed? no doubt (Cries prating Balbus) something will come out.' 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. 'No, such a genius never can lie still;' And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first lampoon Sir Will[104] or Bubo[105] makes. 280 Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, When every coxcomb knows me by my style?

Cursed 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 fallen worth, or beauty in distress, Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about, Who writes a libel, or who copies out: 290 That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name, Yet, absent, wounds an author's honest fame: Who can your merit selfishly approve, And show the sense of it without the love; Who has the vanity to call you friend, Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend; Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, And, if he lie not, must at least betray: Who to the dean, and silver bell[106] can swear, And sees at Canons what was never there; 300 Who reads, but--with a lust to misapply, Make satire a lampoon, and fiction, lie; A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, But all such babbling blockheads in his stead. Let Sporus[107] tremble--

_A_. What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

_P_. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; 310 Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys; So well-bred spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. Whether in florid impotence he speaks, And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad! Half-froth, half-venom, spits himself abroad, 320 In puns or politics, or tales, or lies, Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies. His wit all see-saw, between that and this, Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, And he himself one vile antithesis. Amphibious thing! that, acting either part, The trifling head, or the corrupted heart, Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have express'd, 330 A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest, Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.

Not Fortune's worshipper, nor Fashion's fool, Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool, Not proud, nor servile; be one poet's praise, That, if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways: That flattery, even to kings, he held a shame, And thought a lie in verse or prose the same. That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long, 340 But stoop'd to Truth, and moralised his song: That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, The damning critic, half-approving wit, The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had, The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; The distant threats of vengeance on his head, The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed; The tale revived, the lie so oft o'erthrown,[108] 350 Th' imputed trash,[109] and dulness not his own; The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape, The libell'd person, and the pictured shape; Abuse,[110] on all he loved, or loved him, spread, A friend in exile, or a father dead; The whisper that, to greatness still too near, Perhaps yet vibrates on his sovereign's ear-- Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past: For thee, fair Virtue! welcome even the last!

_A_. But why insult the poor, affront the great? 360

_P_. A knave's a knave, to me, in every state: Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail, Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail, A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer, Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire; If on a pillory, or near a throne, He gain his prince's ear, or lose his own.

Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, Sappho[111] can tell you how this man was bit: This dreaded satirist Dennis will confess 370 Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress: So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhymed for Moore. Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply? Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's[112] lie. To please a mistress one aspersed his life; He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife: Let Budgell[113] charge low Grub-street on his quill, And write whate'er he pleased, except his will;[114] Let the two Curlls of town and court[115] abuse 380 His father, mother, body, soul, and Muse. Yet why that father held it for a rule, It was a sin to call our neighbour fool: That harmless mother thought no wife a whore: Hear this, and spare his family, James Moore! Unspotted names, and memorable long! If there be force in virtue, or in song.

Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause, While yet in Britain honour had applause) Each parent sprung----

_A._ What fortune, pray?----

_P._ Their own, 390 And better got, than Bestia's from the throne. Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,[116] Stranger to civil and religious rage, The good man walk'd innoxious through his age. No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dared an oath,[117] nor hazarded a lie. Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, No language but the language of the heart. By nature honest, by experience wise, 400 Healthy by temperance, and by exercise; His life, though long, to sickness pass'd unknown, His death was instant, and without a groan. O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I.

O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! Be no unpleasing melancholy mine: Me, let the tender office long engage, To rock the cradle of reposing age, With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, 410 Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, And keep a while one parent from the sky! On cares like these if length of days attend, May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend, Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, And just as rich as when he served a Queen.

_A_. Whether that blessing be denied or given, Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven.

* * * * *

VARIATIONS.

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 semptress' praise?

VER. 29 in the first edition--

Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse? Say, is their anger or their friendship worse?

VER. 53 in the MS.--

If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline, To plague Sir Robert, or to turn divine.

VER. 60 in the former edition--

Cibber and I are luckily no friends.

VER. 111 in the MS.--

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

After VER. 124 in the MS.--

But, friend, this shape, which you and Curll[118] admire Came not from Ammon's son, but from my sire:[119] And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse, I had it from my mother,[120] not the Muse. Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd, Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

After VER. 208 in the MS.--

Who, if two wits on rival themes contest, Approves of each, but likes the worst the best.

After VER. 234 in the MS.--

To bards reciting he vouchsafed a nod, And snuff'd their incense like a gracious god. Our ministers like gladiators live, 'Tis half their bus'ness blows to ward, or give; The good their virtue would effect, or sense, Dies between exigents and self-defence.

After VER. 270 in the MS.--

Friendships from youth I sought, and seek them still; Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it will. The world I knew, but made it not my school, And in a course of flattery lived no fool.

After VER. 282 in the MS.--

_P_. What if I sing Augustus, great and good?
_A_. You did so lately, was it understood?
_P_. Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound,
As rumbling D----s or a Norfolk hound;
With George and Fred'ric roughen every verse,
Then smooth up all and Caroline rehearse.
_A_. No--the high task to lift up kings to god
Leave to court-sermons, and to birthday odes.
On themes like these, superior far to thine,
Let laurell'd Cibber and great Arnal shine.
_P_. Why write at all?
_A_. Yes, silence if you keep,
The town, the court, the wits, the dunces weep.

VER. 368 in the MS.--

Once, and but once, his heedless youth was bit, And liked that dangerous thing, a female wit: Safe as he thought, though all the prudent chid. He writ no libels, but my lady did: Great odds in amorous or poetic game, Where woman's is the sin, and man's the shame.

After VER. 405 in the MS.--

And of myself, too, something must I say? Take then this verse, the trifle of a day. And if it live, it lives but to commend The man whose heart has ne'er forgot a friend, Or head, an author: critic, yet polite, And friend to learning, yet too wise to write.

* * * * *

SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE IMITATED.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The occasion of publishing these 'Imitations' was the clamour raised on some of my 'Epistles.' An answer from Horace was both more full, and of more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person; and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in ever so low or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and ministers under whom they lived. The satires of Dr Donne I versified, at the desire of the Earl of Oxford while he was Lord Treasurer, and of the Duke of Shrewsbury who had been Secretary of State; neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as any reflection on those they served in. And, indeed, there is not in the world a greater error than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for a libeller; whereas to a true satirist nothing 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 virtati atque ejus amicis.'

SATIRE I. TO MR FORTESCUE.[121]

_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 pleased to say, Lord Fanny[122] spins a thousand such a day. Timorous by nature, of the rich in awe, I come to counsel learnèd in the law: 'You'll give me, like a friend both sage and free, Advice; and (as you use) without a fee.' 10

_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 that shall close your eyes. 20 Or, if you needs must write, write Caesar'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 thunder? Or, nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force, Paint angels trembling round his falling horse?[123]

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

_F_. Better be Cibber, I'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. 40 Even those you touch not, hate you.

_P_. What should ail them?

_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 his 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. 50 I love to pour out all myself, as plain As downright Shippen,[124] or as old Montaigne: In them, as certain to be loved 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: 60 My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And every 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, 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: But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, 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 furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, Pox'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate. Its proper power to hurt, each creature feels; Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels; 'Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug; And no man wonders he's not stung by pug. So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat, They'll never poison you, they'll only cheat. 90

Then, learnèd sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at court, Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, Attends to gild the evening of my day, Or death's black wing already be display'd, To wrap me in the universal shade; Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the skewer to write: In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee[125] or Budgell,[126] I will rhyme and print. 100

_F_. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be long, In flower of age you perish for a song! Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife, Will club their testers, now, to take your life!

_P_. What? arm'd for Virtue, when I point the pen, Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men; Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car; Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star; Can there be wanting to defend her cause, Lights of the Church, or guardians of the laws? 110 Could pension'd Boileau lash, in honest strain, Flatterers and bigots even in Louis' reign? Could Laureate Dryden pimp and friar engage, Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage? And I not strip the gilding off a knave, Unplaced, unpension'd, no man's heir, or slave? I will, or perish in the generous cause: Hear this, and tremble! you who 'scape the laws. Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave Shall walk the world, in credit, to his grave. 120 TO VIRTUE ONLY, AND HER FRIENDS, A FRIEND, The world beside may murmur, or commend. Know, all the distant din that world can keep, Rolls o'er my grotto, and but soothes my sleep. There, my retreat the best companions grace, Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place. There St John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul: And he, whose lightning[127] pierced th' Iberian lines, Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines, 130 Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.

Envy must own, I live among the great, No pimp of pleasure, and no spy of state, With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne'er repeats, Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats; To help who want, to forward who excel;-- This, all who know me, know; who love me, tell; And who unknown defame me, let them be Scribblers or peers, alike are mob to me. 140 This is my plea, on this I rest my cause-- What saith my counsel, learnèd in the laws?

_F_. Your plea is good; but still, I say, beware! Laws are explain'd by men--so have a care! It stands on record, that in Richard's times A man was hang'd for very honest rhymes. Consult the statute: _quart_. I think, it is, _Edwardi Sext_. or _prim, et quint. Eliz_. See 'Libels, Satires'--here you have it--read.

_P_. Libels and satires! lawless things indeed! 150 But grave epistles, bringing vice to light, Such as a king might read, a bishop write, Such as Sir Robert would approve--

_F_. Indeed? The case is alter'd--you may then proceed; In such a cause the plaintiff will be hiss'd, My lords the judges laugh, and you're dismiss'd.

* * * * *

SATIRE II. TO MR BETHEL.

What, and how great, the virtue and the art To live on little with a cheerful heart; (A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine) Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine; Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride Turns you from sound philosophy aside; Not when from plate to plate your eyeballs roll, And the brain dances to the mantling bowl.

Hear Bethel's sermon, one not versed in schools, But strong in sense, and wise without the rules. 10

Go, work, hunt, exercise! (he thus began) Then scorn a homely dinner, if you can. Your wine lock'd up, your butler stroll'd abroad, Or fish denied (the river yet unthaw'd), If then plain bread and milk will do the feat, The pleasure lies in you, and not the meat.

Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men Will choose a pheasant still before a hen; Yet hens of Guinea full as good I hold, Except you eat the feathers green and gold. 20 Of carps and mullets why prefer the great, (Though cut in pieces ere my lord can eat) Yet for small turbots such esteem profess? Because God made these large, the other less.

Oldfield,[128] with more than harpy throat endued, Cries, 'Send me, gods! a whole hog barbecued!' Oh, blast it, south-winds! till a stench exhale Rank as the ripeness of a rabbit's tail. By what criterion do ye eat, d' ye think, If this is prized for sweetness, that for stink? 30 When the tired glutton labours through a treat, He finds no relish in the sweetest meat, He calls for something bitter, something sour, And the rich feast concludes extremely poor: Cheap eggs, and herbs, and olives still we see; Thus much is left of old simplicity!

The robin redbreast till of late had rest, And children sacred held a martin's nest, Till beccaficos sold so devilish dear To one that was, or would have been, a peer. 40 Let me extol a cat, on oysters fed, I'll have a party at the Bedford-head;[129] Or even to crack live crawfish recommend; I'd never doubt at court to make a friend.

'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother About one vice, and fall into the other: Between excess and famine lies a mean; Plain, but not sordid; though not splendid, clean.

Avidien, or his wife (no matter which, For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch) 50 Sell their presented partridges, and fruits, And humbly live on rabbits and on roots: One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine, And is at once their vinegar and wine. But on some lucky day (as when they found A lost bank-bill, or heard their son was drown'd) At such a feast, old vinegar to spare, Is what two souls so generous cannot bear: Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart, 60 But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live, who keeps the middle state, And neither leans on this side, nor on that; Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay; Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away; Nor lets, like Naevius, every error pass, The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass. Now hear what blessings temperance can bring: (Thus said our friend, and what he said I sing) First health: the stomach (cramm'd from every dish, 70 A tomb of boil'd and roast, and flesh and fish, Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar, And all the man is one intestine war) Remembers oft the school-boy's simple fare, The temperate sleeps, and spirits light as air.

How pale each worshipful and reverend guest Rise from a clergy or a city feast! What life in all that ample body, say? What heavenly particle inspires the clay? The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines 80 To seem but mortal, even in sound divines.

On morning wings how active springs the mind That leaves the load of yesterday behind! How easy every labour it pursues! How coming to the poet every Muse! Not but we may exceed some holy time, Or tired in search of truth, or search of rhyme; Ill health some just indulgence may engage, And more the sickness of long life, old age; For fainting age what cordial drop remains, 90 If our intemperate youth the vessel drains?

Our fathers praised rank ven'son. You suppose, Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose. Not so: a buck was then a week's repast, And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last; More pleased to keep it till their friends could come, Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home. Why had not I in those good times my birth, Ere coxcomb-pies or coxcombs were on earth?

Unworthy he, the voice of fame to hear-- 100 That sweetest music to an honest ear-- (For, faith! Lord Fanny, you are in the wrong, The world's good word is better than a song,) Who has not learn'd, fresh sturgeon and ham-pie Are no rewards for want, and infamy! When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf, Cursed by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself, To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame, Think how posterity will treat thy name; And buy a rope, that future times may tell 110 Thou hast at least bestow'd one penny well.

'Right,' cries his lordship, 'for a rogue in need To have a taste is insolence indeed: In me 'tis noble, suits my birth and state, My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great.' Then, like the sun, let bounty spread her ray, And shine that superfluity away. Oh, impudence of wealth! with all thy store, How dar'st thou let one worthy man be poor? Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall? 120 Make quays, build bridges, or repair Whitehall: Or to thy country let that heap be lent, As Marlbro's was, but not at five per cent.

Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind, Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind. And who stands safest? tell me, is it he That spreads and swells in puff'd prosperity, Or, blest with little, whose preventing care In peace provides fit arms against a war?

Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought, 130 And always thinks the very thing he ought: His equal mind I copy what I can, And as I love, would imitate the man. In South-sea days not happier, when surmised The lord of thousands, than if now excised; In forest planted by a father's hand, Than in five acres now of rented land. Content with little, I can piddle here On broccoli and mutton, round the year; But ancient friends (though poor, or out of play) 140 That touch my bell, I cannot turn away. 'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards, But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords: To Hounslow Heath I point, and Bansted Down, Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own: From yon old walnut-tree a shower shall fall; And grapes, long lingering on my only wall, And figs from standard and espalier join; The devil is in you if you cannot dine: Then cheerful healths (your mistress shall have place) 150 And, what's more rare, a poet shall say grace.

Fortune not much of humbling me can boast; Though double tax'd, how little have I lost? My life's amusements have been just the same, Before and after standing armies came. My lands are sold, my father's house is gone; I'll hire another's; is not that my own, And yours, my friends? through whose free-opening gate None comes too early, none departs too late; (For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best, 160 Welcome the coming, speed the going guest). 'Pray Heaven it last!' (cries Swift) 'as you go on; I wish to God this house had been your own: Pity to build, without a son or wife: Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life.' Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one, Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon? What's property, dear Swift? You see it alter From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's share; 170 Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir; Or in pure equity (the case not clear) The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year: At best, it falls to some ungracious son, Who cries, 'My father's damn'd, and all's my own.' Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, Become the portion of a booby lord; And Helmsley, once proud Buckingham's[130] delight, Slides to a scrivener or a city knight. Let lands and houses have what lords they will, 180 Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still.

* * * * *

THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

TO LORD BOLINGBROKE.

St John, whose love indulged my labours past, Matures my present, and shall bound my last! Why will you break the Sabbath of my days? Now sick alike of envy and of praise. Public too long, ah, let me hide my age! See, modest Cibber now has left the stage: Our generals now, retired to their estates, Hang their old trophies o'er the garden gates, In life's cool evening satiate of applause, Nor fond of bleeding, even in Brunswick's cause. 10

A voice there is, that whispers in my ear, ('Tis reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear) 'Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Muse take breath, And never gallop Pegasus to death; Lest, still and stately, void of fire or force, You limp, like Blackmore on a Lord Mayor's horse.'

Farewell, then, verse, and love, and every toy, The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy; What right, what true, what fit we justly call, Let this be all my care--for this is all: 20 To lay this harvest up, and hoard with haste What every day will want, and most, the last.

But ask not, to what doctors I apply; Sworn to no master, of no sect am I: As drives the storm, at any door I knock: And house with Montaigne now, or now with Locke. Sometimes a patriot, active in debate, Mix with the world, and battle for the state, Free as young Lyttelton, her cause pursue, Still true to virtue, and as warm as true: 30 Sometimes with Aristippus,[131] or St Paul, Indulge my candour, and grow all to all; Back to my native moderation slide, And win my way by yielding to the tide.

Long, as to him who works for debt, the day, Long as the night to her whose love's away, Long as the year's dull circle seems to run, When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one: So slow the unprofitable moments roll, That lock up all the functions of my soul; 40 That keep me from myself; and still delay Life's instant business to a future day: That task, which, as we follow, or despise, The eldest is a fool, the youngest wise. Which done, the poorest can no wants endure; And which, not done, the richest must be poor.

Late as it is, I put myself to school, And feel some comfort not to be a fool. Weak though I am of limb, and short of sight, Far from a lynx, and not a giant quite; 50 I'll do what Mead and Cheselden advise, To keep these limbs, and to preserve these eyes. Not to go back, is somewhat to advance, And men must walk at least before they dance.

Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move With wretched avarice, or as wretched love? Know, there are words and spells which can control Between the fits this fever of the soul: Know, there are rhymes, which, fresh and fresh applied, Will cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride. 60 Be furious, envious, slothful, mad, or drunk, Slave to a wife, or vassal to a punk, A Switz, a High-Dutch, or a Low-Dutch bear; All that we ask is but a patient ear.

'Tis the first virtue, vices to abhor: And the first wisdom, to be fool no more. But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure, and a small estate. To either India see the merchant fly, Scared at the spectre of pale poverty! 70 See him, with pains of body, pangs of soul, Burn through the tropic, freeze beneath the pole! Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end, Nothing, to make philosophy thy friend? To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires, And ease thy heart of all that it admires?

Here, Wisdom calls: 'Seek Virtue first, be bold! As gold to silver, Virtue is to gold.' There, London's voice: 'Get money, money still! And then let virtue follow, if she will.' 80 This, this the saving doctrine, preach'd to all, From low St James's up to high St Paul; From him whose quill stands quiver'd at his ear, To him who notches sticks[132] at Westminster.

Barnard[133] in spirit, sense, and truth abounds; 'Pray then, what wants he?' Fourscore thousand pounds; A pension, or such harness for a slave As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have. Barnard, thou art a cit, with all thy worth; But Bug and D----l, their Honours, and so forth. 90

Yet every child another song will sing, 'Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king.' True, conscious honour is to feel no sin, He's arm'd without that's innocent within; Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass; Compared to this, a minister's an ass.

And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new court-jargon, or the good old song? The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poictiers? 100 Who counsels best? who whispers, 'Be but great, With praise or infamy leave that to fate; Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace; If not, by any means get wealth and place.' For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing, And foremost in the circle eye a king. Or he, who bids thee face with steady view Proud fortune, and look shallow greatness through: And, while he bids thee, sets th' example too? If such a doctrine, in St James's air, 110 Should chance to make the well-dress'd rabble stare; If honest S----z take scandal at a spark, That less admires the palace than the park: Faith, I shall give the answer Reynard gave: 'I cannot like, dread sir, your royal cave: Because I see, by all the tracks about, Full many a beast goes in, but none comes out.' Adieu to virtue, if you're once a slave: Send her to court, you send her to her grave.

Well, if a king's a lion, at the least 120 The people are a many-headed beast: Can they direct what measures to pursue, Who know themselves so little what to do? Alike in nothing but one lust of gold, Just half the land would buy, and half be sold: Their country's wealth our mightier misers drain, Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main; The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the pews; Some keep assemblies, and would keep the stews; Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn; 130 Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn; While with the silent growth of ten per cent, In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content.