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.
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
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;
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 disgrac'd my betters met in me.
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
* Bisnop Boulter, the friend and patron of Amorose Philips.
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:
The Muse but serv'd 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 preserv'd to bear.
A. But why then publish? P.Granville the polite,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
Well natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd, my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read,
E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head,
And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends 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 Cooks.
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 9 draw his venal quill;
• Gildon, who acquired considerable notoriety as a critic, dramatist, &c., grossly abused Pope in some of his writings: see Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. lvi., and note on Dunciad, b. i., v. 296.
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 provok'd, or madness made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did some more sober critic come abroad; 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.
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurél grac'd 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,
E'en such small critics some regard may claim, 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.
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, Wno turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown,1
1 Ambrose Philips translated the Persian Tales from the French.
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains from hard bound brains eight lines a
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 e'en 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 praise-
Who but must laugh if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus2 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 berhym'd 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.
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill
Sat full blown Bufo,3 puff'd by every quill:
2 Addison: see Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. lvi. 3 It seems absurd to suppose, as most of Pope's commentators have done, that Bufo was intended for Lord Halifax. That nobleman died in 1715; the present poem was not printed till 1734; and in the Epilogue to the Satires, Dialogue Second, which appeared in 1738, Pope enumerates him among his most valued friends,
"Thus Somers once, and Halifax were mine." See too Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. xlvii.
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