you deal in
dangerous
things.
Pope - Essay on Man
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,
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),
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:
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 unconcerned canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions hurled,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
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 arched eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer?
And has not Colley still his lord, and w***e?
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,
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),
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:
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 unconcerned canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions hurled,
Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
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 arched eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer?
And has not Colley still his lord, and w***e?
