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That Cafting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
The Bard whom pilfer'd Paftorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale 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, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: 184
And He, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And He, whose fustian's fo sublimely bad,
It is not Poetry, but profe run mad:
All these, my modeft Satire bad translate,
And own'd that nine fuch Poets made a Tate.

190 How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! And swear, not Addison himself was fafe.

Notes,

mean

VER. 180.ma Perfiar tale.) Amb. Philips translated a Book called the Perfian tales.

P. Ver. 184. Steals much, spends little, and bas nothing left:] A fine improvement of this line of Boileau,

Qui toujours emprunt, et jamais ne gagne rien.

Ver. 186. Means not, but blunders round about a ing:] A case common both to Poets and Critics of a cer. tain order ; only with this difference, that the Poet writes himself out of his own meaning ; and the Critic never gets into another man's. Yet both keep going on, and blundering round about their subject, as benighted people are wont to do, who seek for an entrance which they cannot find.

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Peace to all such! but were there One whose fires True Genius kindles, and fair Faine inspires ; Bleft with each talent and each art to please, 195 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; 200 Damn with faint praise, afsent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to fneer ; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, 205 A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd, And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;

Nores. VER.193. But were there one whole fires, &c ] The strokes in this Character are highly finished. Atterbury so weli understood the force of them, that in one of his letters to Mr. Pope he says, “ Since you now know where your strength lies, I hope you will not suffer that talent to

“ lie unemployed.” He did not; and, by that means, I brought satiric Poetry to its perfection.

VARIATIONS.
After x 208. in the MS.

Who, if two Wits on rival themes contest,

Approves of each, but likes the worst the best. Alluding to Mr. P.'s and Tickell's Translation of the furft Book of the Iliad.

* C

Like Cato, give his little Senatè laws,
And fit attentive to his own applause ;

210
While Wits and Templars ev'ry 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 tho'my Name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? 216 Or smoaking forth, a hundred hawkers load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I fought no homage from the Race that writes I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their fight: 220 Poems I heeded (now be-rym’d so long) No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song, I ne'er with wits or witlings pass’d my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise ;

Notes. Ver.214. Atticus] It was a great falfhood, which some of the Libels reported, that this Character was written after the Gentleman's death ; which fee refuted in the Testimonies prefixed to the Dunciad. But the occasion of writing it was such as he would not make public out of regard to his memory : and all that could further be done was to omit the name, in the Edition of his Works.

P. VER. 216. claps, in capitals ?] The bills of QuackDoctors and Quack Booksellers being usually parted together on the same posts.

VER. 218. On wings of winds came flying all abroad?] Hopkins, in the ciyth Pralm.

P.

;

Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town,
To fetch and carry sing-long up and down ; 225
Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry’d,
With handkerchief and orange at my side
But fick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Caftalian state,

230
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown Bufo, puff’d by ev'ry quill
Fed with soft Dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
His Library (where busts of Poets dead

235 And a true Pindar stood without a head) Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place : Much they extoll’d his pictures, much his feat, And flatter'd ev'ry 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.

VARIATIONS.
After x 234. in the MS.

To Bards reciting he vouchsaf'd a nod,
And snuff'd their incenfe like a gracious god.

Notes. Ver. 236.--a true Pindar food without a head] Ridicules the affectation of Antiquaries, who frequently exhibit the headless Trunks and Terms of Statues, for Plato, Homer, Pindar, &c. Vide Fulv. Urfin. &c.

P.

Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, 245
Dryden alone escap'd 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 goofe quill! May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo ftill !

250 So when a Statesman wants a day's defence, Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense, Or fimple pride for fatt'ry inakes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands ! Bleft be the Great! for those they take away, 255 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

259 My Verfe, and Queense’RY Weeping o'er thy urn! Oh let me

live

my own, and die fo 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, tho' I condescend

265 Sometimes to call a Minister

my

friend.

Notes. Ver. 248.-help'd to bury] Mr. Dryden, after having liv'd in exigencies, had a magnificent Funeral bestow'd up. on him by the contribution of several persons of Quality. P.

Ver. 265.-tho' I condescend &c.] He thought it, and he juftly thought it, a condescension in an bonefi Man to accept the friendship of any one, how high foever, whose

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