EPISTLE

ΤΟ

DR. ARBUTHNOT,

BEING THE

PROLOGUE

TO THE

SATIRES.

P.SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd I said,
Tye up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the Church is free,
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.

Is there a Parson much be-mus'd in beer,

A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,

5.

10

15

Ver. 1. Skut, shut the door, good John!] John Searl, his old and faithful servant; whom he has remembered, under that character, in his Will.

Ver. 13. Mint] A place to which insolvent debtors retired, to enjoy an illegal protection, which they were there suffered to afford one another, from the persecution of their creditors,

A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza, when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp❜rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20
All fly to TwIT'NAM, and in humble strain

Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What Drop or Nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz❜d and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave exceeds all pow'r of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read

With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

25

30

35

This saving counsel," Keep your piece nine years." 40
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:

After ver, 20, in the MS.

VARIATIONS.

Is there a Bard in durance? turn them free,
With all their brandish'd reams they run to me:
Is there a 'Prentice, having seen two plays,
Who would do something in his Sempstress' praise-

Ver. 29, in the 1st Ed.

Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse?
Say, is their anger, or their friendship worse?

"The piece, you think, is incorrect ? why take it, 45 "I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound, My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace, “I want a Patron; ask him for a Place.” Pitholeon libell'd me-" but here's a letter "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine." Bless me! a packet." "Tis a stranger sues,

50

55

60

"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 play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the house reject him, " "Sdeath I'll print it, "And shame the fools-Your int'rest, 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,)

65

70

Ver. 49. Pitholeon] The name taken from a foolish Poet of Rhodes, who pretended much to Greek. Schol. in Horat. l. 1. Dr. Bentley pretends, that this Pitholeon libelled Cæsar also. See notes on Hor. Sat, 10. 1. 1.

Ver. 53, in the MS.

VARIATIONS.

If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline,
To plague Sir Robert, or to turn Divine.

Ver. 60. in the former Ed.

Cibber and I are luckily no friends!

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 coxcomb perks them in my face?

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous 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 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 Scribler? break one cobweb thro',
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,

76

80

85

90

The creature's at his dirty work again,

Ver. 72. Queen] The story is told, by some, of his Barber, but by Chaucer of his Queen. See Wife of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Fables.

Ver. 80. That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass:] i. e. that his ears (his marks of folly) are visible.

Ver. 88. Alluding to Horace:

Si fractus illabatur orbis,
Impavidum ferient ruinæ.

Ver. 92. The creature's at his dirty work again.] This metamorphosing, as it were, the Scribler into a Spider, is much more poetical than a comparison would have been. But Poets should be cautious how they employ this figure; for where the likeness is not very striking, instead of giving force, they become obscure. Here every thing concurs to make them run into one another. They both spin; not from the head [reason] but from the guts [passions and prejudices], and such a thread that can entangle none but creatures weaker than themselves.

Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimzy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer?
And has not Colly still his lord, and whore?
His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius still admit!
Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?

95

100

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 Flatt'rer's worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

105

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,

110

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, tho' lean, am short.
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nose, and, "Sir! you have an Eye”—

115

Ver. 98. Free masons Moor?] He was of this society, and frequently headed their processions.

Ver. 111. In the MS.

VARIATIONS.

For song, for silence some expect a bribe:
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe!"
Time, praise, or money, is the least they crave:
Yet each declares the other fool or knave.