Page images
PDF
EPUB

SATIRE V.

Foubert has the forming of the fair.] Major Foubert, riding-master.

Sir H-s. Sir Hans Sloans, M. D.

The fair philosopher to Rowley flies.] The late Mr. Rowley, an eminent mathematical instrument maker, under St. Dunstan's church in Fleet-street.

Lady D-- Dashwood or Dysart.

SATIRE VI.

Zinck.] The greatest master in miniature, and enamel painting in Europe.

H---y the first wit.] Lord Harvey.

Cruel Rd.] Duke of Richmond.

G----n] Lady Betty Germain.

H-----, P-----, B----] Hervey, Pearce, Blount, (Ladies)

C-s. Collins (Anthony, Esq.)

T---/---1.] Archbishop Tillotson's and Dr. Burnet's doctrine of the non-eternity of hell torments.

K---

Mrs Kemp, keeper of an assemblee.

Carolina's beart, &c] Acknowledgment of the late Queen's favours to the Author,

EPISTLES.

EPISTLES TO MR. POPE,

CONCERNING THE

AUTHORS OF THE AGE.

M.DCC.XXX.

WHI

EPISTLE I.

HILST you at Twick'nham plan the future wood, Or turn the volumes of the wise and good, Our senate meets; at parties parties bawl, And pamphlets stun the streets and load the stall: So rushing tides bring things obscene to light, Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight; The Civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns, And Codrus' prose works up, and Lico's strains. Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high, Where Speculation roosted near the sky; Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song, And all the garret thunders on the throng! O Pope! I burst; nor can nor will refrain; I'll write, let others in their turn complain. Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear Less dreads a pillory than pamphleteer: P

Volume 111,

[ocr errors]

I've heard myself to death; and, plagu'd each hour,
Sha'n't I return the vengeance in my pow'r?
For who can write the true absurd like me?
Thy pardon, Codrus! who, I mean, but thee?
Pope! if like mine or Codrus' were thy style,
The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy file;
Merit less solid less despite had bred;
They had not bit, and then they had not bled.
Fame is a public mistress none enjoys,
But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys;
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows;
The man that makes a character makes foes:
Slight peevish insects round a genius rise,
As a bright day awakes the world of flies;
With hearty malice, but with feeble wing,
(To shew they live) they flutter, and they sting;
But as by depredations wasps proclaim

The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame.

Shall we not censure all the motely train,
Whether with ale irriguous or champaign?
Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb,
And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme;
The college sloven, or embroider'd spark;
The purple prelate, or the parish-clerk;
The quiet quidnunck, or demanding prig;

The plaintiff Tory, or defendant Whig;
Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay, or sad;
Whether extremely witty, or quite mad:

20

30

40

Profoundly dull, or shallowly polite;

50

Men that read well, or men that only write:
Whether peers, porters, tailors, tune the reeds,
And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds;
For bankrupts write when ruin'd shops are shut,
As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut:
His hammer this, and that his trowel quits,
And, wanting sense for tradesmen, serve for wits.
By thriving men subsists each other trade;
Of ev'ry broken craft a writer's made:
Thus his material, paper, takes its birth
From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on earth.
Hail, fruitful isle! to thee alone belong
Millions of wits, and brokers in old song;
Thee well a Land of liberty we name,
Where all are free to scandal and to shame;

Thy sons, by print, may set their hearts at ease,
And be mankind's contempt whene'er they please;
Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sense
Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence:
Their heavy prose our injur'd reason tires;
Their verse immoral kindles loose desire:
Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime,
Our sport and pity, punishment and crime.
What glorious motives urge our authors on
Thus to undo, and thus to be undone ?
One loses his estate, and down he sits,
To shew (in vain) he still retains his wits:

[ocr errors]

Young.]

Pij

Another marries, and his dear proves keen:
He writes, as an hypnotic for the spleen:
Some write, confin'd by physic; some by debt;
Some for 'tis Sunday; some because 'tis wet:
Thro' private pique some do the public right,
And love their king and country out of spight:
Another writes because his father writ,

And proves himself a bastard by his wit.

Has Lico learning, humour thought profound?
Nether: why write then? he wants twenty pound:
His belly, not his brains, this impulse give;
He'll grow immortal, for he cannot live:
He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream,
With no provision made, but of his theme:
Perhaps a title has his fancy smit,

Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit:
He writes, in inspiration puts his trust,

Tho' wrong his thoughts, the gods will make them just:

Genius directly from the gods descends,

And who by labour would distrust his friends?
Thus having reason'd with consummate skill,
In immortality he dips his quill;

And, since blank paper is deny'd the press,
He mingles the whole alphabet by guess;
In various sets, with various words compose,
Of which he hopes mankind the meaning knows.
So sounds spontaneous from the Sybil broke,
Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke;

91

100

« PreviousContinue »