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Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, Sappho can tell you how this man was bit ; This dreaded satirist Dennis will confess Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress! So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhymed for

Moore: Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply ? Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's lie To please a mistress one aspersed his lite; He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife : Let Budgell charge low Grub street on his quill, And write whate'er he pleased, except his will; Let the two Curlls of town and court abuse His father, mother, body, soul, and muse Yet why? that father held it for a rule, It was a sin to call our neighbour fool : That harmless mother thought no wise a whore : Hear this and spare his family, James Moore ! 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-A. What fortune, pray ?

P. Their own, And better got than Bestia's from the throne. Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, Nor marrying discord in a noble wite : Stranger to civil and religious rage, The good man walk'd innoxious through his age; No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dared an oath, nor hazarded a lie. Unlearn’d, he knew no schoolman's subtlo art, No language but the language of the heart. By nature honest, by experience wise ; Healthy by-temperance and by exercise ; His life, though long, to sickness pass'd unknown, His death was instant and without a groan.

grant me thurs to live, and thus to die? Vho

sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. O friend ! may each domestic 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 awhile one parent from the sky ! On cares like these if length of days attend, May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend? Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, And just as rich as when he served a queen!

A. Whether that blessing be denied or given, Thus far was right; the rest belongs to Heaven.




ADVERTISEMENT. The occasion of publishing these Imitations was the

elamour raised on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full, and of more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person: and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in ever so low or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and ministers under whom they lived. The satires of Dr. Donne I versified at the desire of the earl of Oxford, while he was lord treasurer, and of the duke of Shrewsbury, who had been secretary of state; neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as

any reflection on those they served in. And, indeed there is not in the world a greater error, than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for a libeller; whereas to a true satirist nothing is so odious as a libeller, for the same reason as to & man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite.

Uni æquus virtuti atque ejus amicis.

Whoever expects a paraphrase of Horace, or & faithful copy of his genius, or manner of writing, in these imitations, will be much disappointed. Our author uses the Roman poet for little more than his canvass: and if the old design or colouring chance to suit his purpose, it is well; if not, he employs his own, without scruple or ceremony. Hence it is, he is so frequently serious where Horace is in jest, and at ease where Horace is disturbed. In a word, he regulates his movements no further on his original, than was necessary for his concurrence in promoting their common plan of reformation of manners.

Had it been his purpose merely to paraphrase an ancient satirist, he had hardly made choice of Horace: with whom, as a poet, he held little in common, besides a comprehensive knowledge of life and manners, and a certain curious felicity of expression, which consists in using the simplest language with dignity, and the most ornamented with ease.

For the rest, his harmony and strength of numbers, his force and splendour of colouring, his gravity and sublimity of sentiment, would have rather led him to another model. Nor was his temper less unlike that of Horace, than his talents. What Horace would only smile at, Mr. Pope would treat with the grave severity of Per

and what Mr. Pope would strike with the caustic lightning of Juvenal, Horace would content bimBeli in curning into ridicule.

if it be asked, then, why he took any cody st all to


imitatc, he has informed us in his advertisement. To which we may add, that this sort of imitations, which are of the nature of parodies, adds reflected grace

and splendour on original wit. Besides, he deemed it more modest to give the name of imitations to his satire, than, like Despreaux, to give the name of satires to imitations.



P. THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told)
There are to whom my satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something said of Chartres much too rough.
The lines are weak, another's pleased to say:
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Timorous by nature, of the rich in awe,
I come to counsel learned in the law :
You 'll give me, like a friend, both sage and free,
Advice: and (as you use) without a fec.
F. I'd write no more.

P. Not write ? but then I think,
And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink.
I nod in company, I wake at night,
Fools rush into my head, and so I write.

F. You could not do a worse thing for your life.
Why, if the night seems tedious--take a wife :
Or rather truly, if your point be rest,
Lettuce and cowslip wine; probatum est.
But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise
Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes.
Or, if you needs must write, write Cæsar's praise,
You 'll gain at le

a knighthood, or the bays. P. What, like sir Richard ! rumbling, rough, and fierce With arms and George and Brunswick crowd the verse;

Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder,
With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder?
Or nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force,
Paint angels trembling round his fallen horse ?

F. Then all your muse's softer art display ;
Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay;
Lull with Amelia's liquid name the Nine,
And sweetly flow through all the royal line.

P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear;
They scarce can bear their laureat twice a year :
And justly Cæsar scorns the poet's lays ;
It is to history he trusts for praise.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still,
Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille,
Abuse the city's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter;
E'en those you touch not, hate you.

P. What should ail 'em ?
F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam :
The fewer still you name, you wound the more;
Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score.

P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny
Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie;
Ridotta sips and dances, till she see
The doubling lustres dance as fast as she :
F- loves the senate, Hockleyhole his brother
Like in all else, as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myself, as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montagne :
In them, as certain to be loved as seen,
The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within ,
In me what spots (for spots I have) appear,
Will prove at least the medium must be clear.
In this impartial glass, my muse intends
Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends ;
Publish the present age; but where my text
Is vice too high, reserve it for the next :
My foes shall wish my life a longer date,
And every friend the less lament my fate.

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