AN EPISTLE TO Dr. ARBUTHNOT.

AN EPISTLE TO Dr. ARBUTHNOT . 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 their eye , and Papers in their 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 Ryme , Happy ! to catch me , just at Dinner-time . Is there a Parson , much be-mus'd in Beer , A maudlin Poetess , a ryming Peer , 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 ? 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 lye ; 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 aking head ; And drop at last , but in unwilling ears , This saving counsel , " Keep your Piece nine years . " Nine years ! cries he , who high in Drury-lane Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken Pane , Rymes e're he wakes , and prints before Term ends , Oblig'd by hunger and Request of friends : " The Piece you think is incorrect ? why take it , " 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 , " 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 demurrs but double his attacks , At last he whispers " Do , and we go snacks . " Glad of a quarrel , strait 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 spy'd them first , ( Some say his 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 . 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 ? " 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 " — 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 shou'd 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 . Here, "to smart," to feel pain, is also a pun on the stupidity of fools. 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 , The Creature's at his dirty work again ; 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 eye-brow , or Parnassian sneer ? And has not C—lly still his Lord , and Whore ? His Butchers H—ley , his Free-masons M—r ? Does not one Table Bavius still admit ? Still to one Bishop Ph—ps seem a Wit ? Still Sapho — " Hold ! nay see you , 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 ! — 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 ; Trust me , '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 . 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 — 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 dy'd three thousand years ago . Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown Dipt me in Ink , my Parent's , 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 dis-obey'd . The Muse but serv'd to ease some Friend , not Wife , To help me thro' this long Disease , my Life , To second , ARBURTHNOT ! 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 , 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 All these were Patrons or Admirers of Mr. Dryden , tho' a scandalous Libel against him , entituled , Dryden's Satyr to his Muse , has been printed in the Name of the Lord Somers , of which he was wholly ignorant . ) 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 Authors of secret and scandalous History . Burnets , Oldmixons , and Cooks . Soft were my Numbers , who could take offence While pure Description held the place of Sense ? Like gentle Damon'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 sate 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 Critics 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 . Comma's and points they set exactly right , And 'twere a sin to rob them of their Mite . Yet ne'r one sprig of Laurel grac'd these ribalds , From slashing B—ley down to pidling T—ds . The Wight who reads not , and but scans and spells , The Word-catcher that lives on syllables , Such piece-meal Critics some regard may claim , Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespear'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 pilf'red Pastorals renown , Who turns a Persian Tale for half a crown , 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 : 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 bid translate , And own'd , that nine such Poets made a Tate . How did they fume , and stamp , and roar , and chafe ? How did they swear , not Addison was safe . Peace to all such ! but were there One whose fires True Genius kindles , and fair Fame inspires , Blest with each Talent and each Art to please , And born to write , converse , and live with ease : Shou'd 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 tim'rous foe , and a suspicious friend , Dreading ev'n 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 Templers 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 ? Or smoaking 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 be-rym'd so long ) No more than Thou , great GEORGE ! a Birth-day Song . I ne'r with Wits and Witlings past my days , To spread about the Itch of Verse and Praise ; Nor like a Puppy daggled thro' the Town , To fetch and carry Sing-song up and down ; Nor at Rehearsals sweat , and mouth'd , and cry'd , 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 , 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 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 the Pictures , much the Seat , And flatter'd ev'ry day , and some days eat : Till grown more frugal in his riper days , He pay'd some Bards with Port , and some with Praise , To some a dry Rehearsal was assign'd , And others ( harder still ) he pay'd in kind . May some choice Patron bless each gray goose quill ! May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still ! So , when a Statesman wants a Day's defence , Or Envy holds a whole Week's war with Sense , Or simple Pride for Flatt'ry makes demands ; May Dunce by Dunce be whistled off my hands ! Blest be the Great ! for those they take away , And those they leave 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 My Verse , and QUEENSB'RY weeping o'er thy Urn ! Give me on Thames's Banks , in honest Ease , To see what Friends , or read what Books I please ; There let me live my own , and die so too , " To live and die is all I have to do ! " Above a Patron , tho' I condescend Sometimes to call a Minister my Friend : I was not born for Courts or great Affairs , I pay my Debts , believe , and go to Pray'rs , Can sleep without a Poem in my head , Nor know , if Dennis be alive or dead . Why am I ask'd , what next shall see the light ? Heav'ns ! was I born for nothing but to write ? Has Life no Joys for me ? or ( to be grave ) Have I no Friend to serve , no Soul to save ? " I found him close with Swift — Indeed ? no doubt ( Cries prating Balbus ) " something will come out . " 'Tis all in vain , deny it as I will . " No , such a Genius never can lye still , " And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first Lampoon Sir Will. or Bubo makes . Poor guiltless I ! and can I chuse but smile , When ev'ry Coxcomb knows me by my Style ? Curst be the Verse , how well soe'er it flow , That tends to make one worthy Man my foe , Give Virtue scandal , Innocence a fear , Or from the soft-ey'd Virgin steal a tear ! But he , who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace , Insults fal'n Worth , or Beauty in distress , Who loves a Lye , lame slander helps about , Who writes a Libel , or who copies out : The Fop whose pride affects a Patron's name , Yet absent , wounds an Author's honest fame ; Who can your Merit selfishly approve , And show the Sense of it , without the Love ; Who has the Vanity to call you Friend , Yet wants the Honour injur'd to defend ; Who tells whate'er you think , whate'er you say , And , if he lyes not , must at least betray : Who to the See the Epistle to the Earl of Burlington . Dean and silver Bell can swear , And sees at Cannons what was never there : Who reads but with a Lust to mis-apply , Make Satire a Lampoon , and Fiction , Lye . A Lash like mine no honest man shall dread , But all such babling blockheads in his stead . Let Paris tremble — " What ? that Thing of silk , " Paris , that mere white Curd of Ass's milk ? " Satire or Shame alas ! can Paris feel ? " Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel ? " Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings , This painted Child of Dirt that stinks and stings ; Whose Buzz the Witty and the Fair annoys , Yet Wit ne'er tastes , and Beauty ne'er enjoys , So well-bred Spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the Game they dare not bite . Eternal Smiles his Emptiness betray , As shallow streams run dimpling all the way . Whether in florid Impotence he speaks , And , as the Prompter breathes , the Puppet squeaks ; Or at the Ear of In the fourth Book of Milton , the Devil is represented in this Posture . It is but justice to own , that the Hint of Eve and the Serpent was taken from the Verses on the Imitator of Horace . Eve , familiar Toad , Half Froth , half Venom , spits himself abroad , In Puns , or Politicks , or Tales , or Lyes , Or Spite , or Smut , or Rymes , or Blasphemies . Did ever Smock-face act so vile a Part ? A trifling Head , and a corrupted Heart ! Eve's Tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest , A Cherub's face , a Reptile all the rest ; Beauty that shocks you , Parts that none will trust , Wit that can creep , and Pride that licks the dust . Not Fortune's Worshipper , nor Fashion's Fool , Nor Lucre's Madman , nor Ambition's Tool , Nor proud , nor servile , be one Poet's praise That , if he pleas'd , he pleas'd by manly ways ; That Flatt'ry , ev'n to Kings , he held a shame , And thought a Lye in Verse or Prose the same : In Fancy's Maze that wand'ring not too long , He stoop'd to Truth , and moraliz'd his song : That not for Fame , but Virtue's better end , He stood the furious Foe , the timid Friend , The damning Critic , half-approving Wit , The Coxcomb hit , or fearing to be hit ; Laugh'd at the loss of Friends he never had , The dull , the proud , the wicked , and the mad ; The Tales of Vengeance ; Lyes so oft o'erthrown ; Lies so oft o'erthrown . ] Such as those in relation to Mr. A — , that Mr. P. writ his Character after his death , &c. that he set his Name to Mr. Broom's Verses , that he receiv'd Subscriptions for Shakespear , &c. which tho' publickly disprov'd by the Testimonies prefix'd to the Dunciad , were nevertheless shamelesly repeated in the Libels , and even in the Paper call'd , The Nobleman's Epistle . The imputed Trash , Th' imputed Trash . ] Profane Psalms , Court Poems , and many Libellous Things in his Name , printed by Curl , &c. the Dulness not his own ; The Morals blacken'd when the Writings scape ; The libel'd Person , and the pictur'd Shape ; Th' Abuse on all he lov'd , or lov'd him , spread , Abuse on all he lov'd , or lov'd him spread . ] Namely on the Duke of Buckingham , Earl of Burlington , Bishop Atterbury , Dr. Swift , Mr. Gay , Dr. Arbuthnot , his Friends , his Parents , and his very Nurse , aspers'd in printed Papers . A Friend in Exile , or a Father , dead ; The Whisper that to Greatness still too near , Perhaps , yet vibrates on his SOVEREIGN'S Ear — Welcome for thee , fair Virtue ! all the past : For thee , fair Virtue ! welcome ev'n the last ! " But why insult the Poor , affront the Great ? " A Knave's a Knave , to me , in ev'ry State , Alike my scorn , if he succeed or fail , Glencus at Court , or Japhet in a Jayl , A hireling Scribler , or a hireling Peer , Knight of the Post corrupt , or of the Shire , If on a Pillory , or near a Throne , He gain his Prince's Ear , or lose his own . Yet soft by Nature , more a Dupe than Wit , Sapho can tell you how this Man was bit : This dreaded Sat'rist Dennis will confess Foe to his Pride , but Friend to his Distress : So humble , he has knock'd at T—b—ld's door , Has drank with C—r , nay has rym'd for M—r. Full ten years slander'd , Ten Years . ] It was so long , before the Author of the Dunciad published that Poem , till when , he never writ a word of the many Scurrilities and False hoods concerning him . did he once reply ? Three thousand Suns went down on Welsted's Lye :

Welsted 's Lye . ] This Man had the Impudence to tell in print , that Mr. P. had occasion'd a Lady's death , and to name a person he never heard of . He also publish'd that he had libell'd the Duke of Chandos ; with whom ( it was added ) that he had liv'd in familiarity , and receiv'd from him a Present of five hundred pounds : The Falsehood of which is known to his Grace , whom Mr. P. never had the honour to see but twice , and never receiv'd any Present farther than the Subscription for Homer , from him , or from Any Great Man whatsoever .

Budgel in a Weekly Pamphlet call'd the Bee , bestow'd much abuse on him , in the imagination that he writ some things about the Last Will of Dr. Tindal , in the Grubstreet Journal ; a Paper wherein he never had the least Hand , Direction , or Supervisal , nor the least knowledge of its Authors . He took no notice of so frantick an Abuse ; and expected that any man who knew himself Author of what he was slander'd for , would have justify'd him on that Article .

To please a Mistress , One aspers'd his life ; He lash'd him not , but let her be his Wife : Let Budgel charge low Grubstreet on his quill , And write whate'er he pleas'd , except his Will ; Let the Two Curls of Town and Court , abuse His Father , Mother , Body , Soul , and Muse . His Father , Mother , &c. ] In some of Curl 's and other Pamphlets , Mr. Pope 's Father was said to be a Mechanic , a Hatter , a Farmer , nay a Bankrupt . But , what is stranger , a Nobleman ( if such a Reflection can be thought to come from a Nobleman ) has dropt an Allusion to this pitiful Untruth , in his Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity : And the following Line , Hard as thy Heart , and as thy Birth Obscure , had fallen from a like Courtly pen , in the Verses to the Imitator of Horace . Mr. Pope 's Father was of a Gentleman's Family in Oxfordshire , the Head of which was the Earl of Downe , whose sole Heiress married the Earl of Lind sey . — His Mother was the Daughter of William Turnor , Esq ; of York : She had three Brothers , one of whom was kill'd , another died in the Service of King Charles , the eldest following his Fortunes , and becoming a General Of ficer in Spain , left her what Estate remain'd after the Sequestrations and For feitures of her Family — Mr. Pope died in 1717 , aged 75 ; She in 1733 , aged 93 , a very few Weeks after this Poem was finished . Yet why ? that Father held it for a rule It was a Sin to call our Neighbour Fool , That harmless Mother thought no Wife a Whore , — Hear this ! and spare his Family , James M* Unspotted Names ! and memorable long , If there be Force in Virtue , or in Song . Of gentle Blood ( part shed in Honour's Cause , While yet in Britain Honour had Applause ) Each Parent sprung — " What Fortune , pray ? — Their own , And better got than Bestia's from a Throne . Born to no Pride , inheriting no Strife , Nor marrying Discord in a Noble Wife , Stranger to Civil and Religious Rage , The good Man walk'd innoxious thro' his Age . No Courts he saw , no Suits would ever try , Nor dar'd an Oath , nor hazarded a Lye : Un-learn'd , he knew no Schoolman's subtle Art , No Language , but the Language of the Heart . By Nature honest , by Experience wise , Healthy by Temp'rance and by Exercise : His Life , tho' long , to sickness past unknown , His Death was instant , and without a groan . Oh grant me thus to live , and thus to die ! Who sprung from Kings shall know less joy than I . O Friend ! may each Domestick Bliss be thine ! Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine : Me , let the tender Office long engage To rock the Cradle of reposing Age , With lenient Arts extend a Mother's breath , Make Languor smile , and smooth the Bed of Death , Explore the Thought , explain the asking Eye , And keep a while one Parent from the Sky ! On Cares like these if Length of days attend , May Heav'n , to bless those days , preserve my Friend , Preserve him social , chearful , and serene , And just as rich as when he serv'd a QUEEN ! Whether that Blessing be deny'd , or giv'n , Thus far was right , the rest belongs to Heav'n .