The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife,
To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, 130
To second, ARBUTHNOT!
To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, 130
To second, ARBUTHNOT!
Alexander Pope
--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, languishing 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 _Fanny'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.
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, languishing 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 _Fanny'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.
