Part 11 (1/2)

All my demurs but double his Attacks; 65 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 spy'd them first, (Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.

And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry c.o.xcomb perks them in my face?

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things. 75 I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings; Keep close to Ears, and those let a.s.ses p.r.i.c.k; 'Tis nothing--P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?

Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pa.s.s, That secret to each fool, that he's an a.s.s: 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, 85 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 Scribbler? break one cobweb thro', He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90 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 flimsy lines!

Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer, 95 Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parna.s.sian sneer?

Does not one table Bavius still admit?

Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?

Still Sappho--A. Hold! for G.o.d's sake--you 'll offend, No Names!--be calm!--learn prudence of a friend! 100 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: 105 Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they _repent_.

One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, And more abusive, calls himself my friend. 110 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, 115 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, languis.h.i.+ng in bed, ”Just so immortal _Maro_ held his head:” 120 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 Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 125 I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.

I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd.

The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife, To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, 130 To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care, And teach the Being you preserv'd, to bear.

But why then publish? _Granville_ the polite, And knowing _Walsh_, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd _Garth_ inflam'd with early praise; 135 And _Congreve_ lov'd, and _Swift_ endur'd my lays; The courtly _Talbot, Somers, Sheffield_, read; Ev'n mitred _Rochester_ would nod the head, And _St. John's_ self (great _Dryden's_ friends before) With open arms receiv'd one Poet more. 140 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, 145 While pure Description held the place of Sense?

Like gentle _f.a.n.n.y's_ was my flow'ry theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream.

Yet then did _Gildon_ draw his venal quill;-- I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still. 150 Yet then did _Dennis_ rave in furious fret; I never answer'd,--I was not in debt.

If want provok'd, or madness made them print, I wag'd no war with _Bedlam_ or the _Mint_.

Did some more sober Critic come abroad; 155 If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.

Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. 160 Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From slas.h.i.+ng _Bentley_ down to pidling _Tibalds_: Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim, 165 Preserv'd in _Milton's_ or in _Shakespeare's_ name.

Pretty! in amber to observe the forms 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. 170

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, 175 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; 180 He, who still wanting, tho' 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, 185 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. 190

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, 195 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; d.a.m.n with faint praise, a.s.sent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 200 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend.