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that the first part did some harm that way. Our love again and again to the dear Dean; fuimus Tories; I can say no more.

ARBUTHNOT.

WHEN a man is conscious that he does no good himself, the next thing is to cause others to do some. I may claim some merit this way, in hastening this testimonial from your friends above-writing: their love to you indeed wants no spur, their ink wants no pen, their pen wants no hand, their hand wants no heart, and so forth (after the manner of Rabelais, which is betwixt some meaning and no meaning); and yet it may be said, when present thought and opportunity is wanting, their pens want ink, their hands. want pens, their hearts want hands, etc. till time, place, and conveniency, concur to set them a-writing, as at present, a sociable meeting, a good dinner, warm fire, and an easy situation do, to the joint labour and pleasure of this epistle.

Wherein if I should say nothing I should say much (much being included in my love), though my love be such, that if I should say much, I should yet say nothing, it being (as Cowley says) equally impossible either to conceal or to express it.

If I were to tell you the thing I wish above all things, it is to see you again; the next is to see here your treatise of Zoilus with the Batrachomuomachia, and the Pervigilium Veneris, both which poems are master-pieces in several kinds; and I question not the prose is as excellent in its sort, as the Essay on Homer. Nothing can be more glorious to that great

author, than that the same hand which raised his best statue, and decked it with its old laurels, should also hang up the scare-crow of his miserable critic, and gibbet up the carcase of Zoilus, to the terror of the writings of posterity. More, and much more, upon this and a thousand other subjects will be the matter of my next letter, wherein I must open all the friend to you. At this time I must be content with telling you, I am faithfully, your most affectionate and humble servant,

A. POPE.

DEAR SIR,

LETTER CX.

TO THE SAME.

I MUST Own I have long owed you a letter, but you must own you have owed me one a good deal longer. Besides I have but two people in the whole kingdom of Ireland to take care of; the Dean and you but you have several who complain of your neglect in England. Mr. Gay complains, Mr. Harcourt complains, Mr. Jervas complains, Mr. Arbuthnot complains, my Lord complains; I complain. (Take notice of this figure of iteration, when you make your next sermon). Some say, you are in deep discontent at the new turn of affairs; others, that you are so much in the Archbishop's good graces, that you will not correspond with any that have seen the last ministry. Some affirm, you have quarrelled with

Pope (whose friends they observe daily fall from him, on account of his satirical and comical disposition); others, that you are insinuating yourself into the opinion of the ingenious Mr. What-do-ye-call-him. Some think you are preparing your Sermons for the press, and others that you will transform them into essays, and moral discourses. But the only excuse that I will allow you is, your attention to the life of Zoilus. The frogs already seem to croak for their transportation to England, and are sensible how much that Doctor is cursed and hated, who introduced their species into your nation; therefore, as you dread the wrath of St. Patrick, send them hither, and rid your kingdom of those pernicious and loquacious animals.

I have at length received your poem out of Mr. Addison's hands, which shall be sent as soon as you order it, and in what manner you shall appoint. I shall, in the mean time, give Mr. Tooke a packet for you, consisting of divers merry pieces; Mr. Gay's new farce; Mr. Burnet's Letter to Mr. Pope; Mr. Pope's Temple of Fame; Mr. Thomas Burnet's Grumbler on Mr. Gay; and the Bishop of Ailsbury's Elegy, written either by Mr. Cary or some other hand. Mr. Pope is reading a letter, and in the mean time I make use of the pen, to testify my uneasiness in not hearing from you. I find success, even in the most trivial things, raises the indignation of scribblers for I, for my What-d'-ye-call-it, could neither escape the fury of Mr. Burnet, or the German Doctor; then where will rage end, when Homer is to be translated? Let Zoilus hasten to your

friend's assistance, and envious criticism shall be no more. I am in hopes that we order our affairs so, as to meet this summer at the Bath; for Mr. Pope and myself have thoughts of taking a trip thither. You shall preach, and we will write lampoons, for it is esteemed as great an honour to leave the Bath for fear of a broken head, as for a Terræ Filius of Oxford to be expelled. I have no place at court, therefore, that I may not entirely be without one every where, shew that I have a place in your remembrance.

Your most affectionate faithful servants,

A. POPE and J. GAY.

Homer will be published in three weeks.

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THE little thing which you take so kindly, is but a very small part of what I owe you; and whatever my studies, or (to use a proper word) idleness, are capable of producing, ought to be returned you in mere gratitude for the pleasure I have received from your own writings: in which give me leave to say, your good-will to me in particular is as distinguishable, as the obligation you lay on the public in general. I am very happy in the envy and silly attacks of such people as have awakened the generosity of so powerful a defender. Nor am I ashamed of those weaknesses of mine, which they have exposed in print (the greatest of which was my thinking too candidly of them, to whom I wrote my Letters with so much unguarded friendliness, and freedom), since you have found a way to turn those weaknesses into virtue, by your partial regard of them. The eye of candour, like the Sun, makes all the beauties which

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