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but resulting from it. How men are disappointed in their Something there is more needful than expense, most expensive undertakings, for want of this true founda And something previous even to taste—'tis sense: tion, without which nothing can please long, if at all ;

Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, and the best examples and rules will be but perverted into

And though no science, fairly worth the seven : something burdensome and ridiculous. A description of

A light, which in yourself you must perceive; the false taste of magnificence; the first grand error of

Jones and Le Notre have it not to give. which is to imagine that greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the proportion and harinony of the

To build, to plant, whatever you intend, whole, and the second, either in joining together parts in To rear the column, or the arch to bend, coherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the repetition To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; of the same too frequently. A word or two of false taste in In all, let nature never be forgot. books, in music, in painting, even in preaching and prayer,

But treat the goddess like a modest fair, and lastly in entertainments. Yet PROVIDENCE is justified

Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare ; in giving wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it

Let not each beauty everywhere be spied, is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind

Where half the skill is decently to hide. (recurring to what is laid down in the first book, Ep. ii and in the epistle preceding this). What are the proper | He gains all points who pleasingly confounds, objects of magnificence, and a proper field for the expense Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. of great men, and finally the great and public works which | Consult the genius of the place in all; become a prince.

That tells the waters or to rise or fall;

Or helps the ambitious hill the heavens to scale, 'Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ

Or scoops in circling theatres the vale : To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy :

Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste

Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste ?

Now breaks, or now directs, the intending lines; Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats ;

Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats : Still follow sense, of every art the soul, He buys for Topham', drawings and designs,

Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, For Pembroke, statues, dirty gods, and coins ;

Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone,

Start even from difficulty, strike from chance ; And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane?

Nature shall join you ; Time shall make it grow Think we all these are for himself? no more

A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow. Than his fine wife, alas ! or finer whore.

Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls; For what has Virro painted, built, and planted ?

And Nero's terraces desert their walls : Only to show how many tastes he wanted.

The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste?

Lo! COBHAM comes, and floats them with a lake : Some demon whisper'd, « Visto! have a taste.”

Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool,

You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. And needs no rod but Ripley: with a rule.'

Even in an ornament its place remark, See ! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride,

Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke. Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide :

Behold Villario's ten-years' toil complete ; A standing sermon, at each year's expense,

His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet; That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence !

The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse',

And strength of shade contends with strength of And pompous buildings once were things of use.

A waving glow the bloomy beds display, [light; Yet shall (my lord) your just, your noble rules,

Blushing in bright diversities of day, Fill half the land with imitating fools ;

With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'er Who random drawings from your sheets shall take,

Enjoy them, you ! Villario can no more ; And of one beauty many blunders make;

Tired of the scene parterres and fountains yield, Load some vain church with old theatric state,

He finds, at last, he better likes a field. Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate;

Through his young woods how pleased Sabinus Reverse your ornaments; and hang them all

Or sat delighted in the thickening shade, (stray'd, On some patch'd dog-hole eked with ends of wall;

With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Then clap four slices of pilaster on't,

Or see the stretching branches long to meet ! That, laced with bits of rustic, makes a front :

His son's fine taste an opening vista loves, Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar,

Foe to the dryads of his father's groves; Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door ;

One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views Conscious they act a true Palladian part,

With all the mournful family of yews;
And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,

5 The seat and gardens of the Lord Viscount Cobham, in A certain truth, which many buy too dear :


6 This was done in Hertfordshire by a wealthy citizen, IA gentleman famous for a judicious collection of at the expense of above five thousand pounds, by which drawings.

means (merely to overlook a dead plain) he let in the north 3 Two eminent physicians: the one had an excellent wind upon his house and parterre, which were before library, the other the finest collection in Europe of natural adorned and defended by beautiful woods. curiosities; both men of great learning and humanity.

7 Dr. S. Clarke's busto, placed by the queen in the her3 This man was a carpenter, employed by a first minister, mitage, while the doctor duly frequented the court. who raised him to an architect, without any genius in the & The two extremes in parterres, which are equally art; and after some wretched proofs of his insufficiency in faulty; a boundless green, large and naked as a field, or a public buildings, made him comptroller of the board of flourished carpet, where the greatness and nobleness of the works.

piece is lessened by being divided into too many parts, with 4 The Earl of Burlington was then publishing the designs scrolled works and beds, of which theexamples are frequent. of Inigo Jones, and the antiquities of Rome by Palladio. 9 Touches upon the ill taste of those who are so fond of

The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,
Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade. Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre?,
At Timon's villa let us pass a day!,

On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
Where all cry out, “What sums are thrown away!” And bring all paradise before your eye.
So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
Soft and agreeable come never there.

Who never mentions hell to ears polite*. Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught But hark ! the chiming clocks to dinner call; As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall : To compass this, his building is a town,

The rich buffet well-coloured serpents grace", His pond an ocean, his parterre a down :

And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, Is this a dinner ? this a genial room1o ; A puny insect, shivering at a breeze !

No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb.
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around !

A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state,
The whole, a labour'd quarry above ground. You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
Two Cupids squirt before : a lake behind

So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Improves the keenness of the northern wind. Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were therell. His gardens next your admiration call,

Between each act the trembling salvers ring, On every side you look, behold the wall !

From soup to sweet wine, and God bless the king. No pleasing intricacies intervene,

In plenty starving, tantalized in state, No artful wildness to perplex the scene;

And complaisantly help'd to all I hate, Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, Treated, caress'd, and tired, I take my leave, And half the platform just reflects the other. Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; The suffering eye inverted nature sees,

I curse such lavish cost, and little skill, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;

And swear no day was ever pass d so ill. With here a fountain, never to be play'd ;

Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed '2; And there a summer-house, that knows no shade; | Health to himself, and to his infants bread Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers; The labourer bears: what his hard heart denies, There gladiators fight, or die in flowers? ;

His charitable vanity supplies. Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, Another age shall see the golden ear And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.

Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, My Lord advances with majestic mien,

Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd, Smit with the mighty pleasure, to be seen : And laughing Ceres re-assume the land. But soft_by regular approach-not yet

Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil ! First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat 3; Who plants like BATHURST, or who builds like And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense, [Boyle. thighs,

And splendour borrows all her rays from sense. Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes.

His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
His study! with what authors is it stored"? Or makes his neighbours glad if he increase :
In books, not authors, curious is my lord ; Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil,
To all their dated backs he turns you round ; Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil ;
These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound ! Whose ample lawns are not ashamed to feed
Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good

The milky heifer, and deserving steed;
For all his lordship knows, but they are wood. Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look,

But future buildings, future navies grow : These shelves admit not any modern book. Let his plantations stretch from down to down,

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, First shade a country, and then raise a town. That summons you to all the pride of pray'r5: You too proceed ! make falling arts your care, Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Erect new wonders, and the old repair; Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven.

6 And in painting (from which even Italy is not free) of evergreens (particularly yews, which are the most tonsile,) naked figures in churches, &c., which has obliged some as to destroy the nobler forest-trees to make way for such popes to put draperies on some of those of the best masters. little ornaments as pyramids of dark green continually 7 Verrio Antonio) painted many ceilings, &c., at Windrepeated, not unlike a funeral procession.

sor, Hampton Court, &c., and Laguerre at Blenheim 1 This description is intended to comprise the principles Castle, and other places. of a false taste of magnificence, and to exemplify what was 8 This is a fact. A reverend dean, preaching at court, said before, that nothing but good sense can attain it. threatened the sinner with punishment in a place which • The two statues of the gladiator pugnans, and gladi

he thought it not decent to name in so polite an assembly." ator moriens.

9 Taxes the incongruity of ornaments (though sometimes 3 The approaches and communication of house with gar practised by the ancients), where an open mouth ejects den, or one part with another, ill-judged, and inconvenient.

the water into a fountain, or where the shocking images of 4 The false taste in books; a satire on the vanity in

serpents, &c., are introduced into grottoes or buffets. collecting them, more frequent in men of fortune, than 10 The proud festivals of some men are here set forth to the study to understand them. Many delight chiefly in ridicule, where pride destroys the ease, and formal regu. the elegance of the print, or of the binding ; some have

larity all the pleasurable enjoyment, of the entertainment. carried it so far, as to cause the upper shelves to be filled 11 See Don Quixote, chap. xlvii. with painted books of wood; others pique themselves so 12 This is the moral of the whole; where Providence is much upon hooks in a language they do not understand, as justified in giving riches to those who squander them in to exclude the most useful in one they do.

this manner. A bad taste employs more hands, and dif5 The false taste in music, improper to the subjects; as fuses wealth more usefully than a good one. This recurs of light airs in churches, often practised by the organist, to what is laid down in Book I. Ep. ii. ver. 230-7. and in

the epistle preceeding this, ver. 161, &o.

Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd)
Bid harbours open, public ways extend',
Bid temples, worthier of the God, ascend;
Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main ;
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient rivers through the land :
These honours, peace to happy Britain brings,
These are imperial works, and worthy kings.



See the wild waste of all-devouring years !
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears !
With nodding arches, broken temples spread !
The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead !
Imperial wonders raised on nations spoil'd,
Where, mix'd with slaves, the groaning martyr
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, (toild:
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods :
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey,
Statues of men, scarce less alive than they !
Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age,
Some hostile fury, some religious rage.
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruins saved from flame,
Some buried marble half preserves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sigh'd : she found it vain to trust
The faithless column, and the crumbling bust :
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore

to shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!

Convinced, she now contracts her vast design,
And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.
A narrow ORB each crowded conquest keeps,
Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps.
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Through climes and ages bears each formand name :
In one short view, subjected to our eye,
Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie.
With sharpen'd sight, pale antiquaries pore,
The inscription value, but the rust adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years !
To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes,
One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd,
Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd:
And Curio, restless by the fair one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine : Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine ; Her gods, and godlike heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew. Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage ; These pleased the fathers of poetic rage ; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art.

Oh when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enrollid, And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold ? Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face ; There warriors frowning in historic brass : Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree ; Or in fair series laurel'd bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine ; With aspect open, shall erect his head, And round the orb in lasting notes be read, “ Statesman, yet friend to truth ! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear ; Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approved, And praised, unenvied, by the muse he loved."



i The Poet, after having touched upon the proper objects of magnificence and expense, in the private works of great men, comes to those great and public works which become a prince. This poem was published in the year 1732, when some of the new-built churches, by the act of Queen Anne. were ready to fall, being founded in boggy land (which is satirically alluded to in our author's imitation of Horace. Lib. ii. sat. ii.

"Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall ?)" others were vilely executed, through fraudulent cabals between undertakers, officers, &c. Dagenham-breach had done very great mischiefs ; many of the highways throughout England were hardly passable; and most of those which were repaired by turnpikes were made jobs for private lucre, and infamously executed, even to the entrance of London itself. The proposal of building a bridge at Westminster had been petitioned against and rejected; but in two years after the publication of this poem, an act for building a bridge passed through both houses. After many debates in the committee, the execution was left to the carpenter above-mentioned, who would have made it & wooden one ; to which our author alludes in these lines : “ Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile?

Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile." 2 This was originally written in the year 1715, when Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of medals; it was sometime before he was Secretary of State ; but not published till Mr. Tickel's edition of his works : at which time the verses on Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poera, were added, viz. in 1720.


Motto to the first edition, published in folio, 1734: « Neque sermonibus vulgi dederis te, nec in praemiis humanis spem posueris rerum tuarum; suis te oportet illecebris ipsa virtus trahat ad verum decus. Quid de te alii loquantur, ipsi videant, sed loquentur tamen." CICERO.

ADVERTISEMENT. This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune (the authors of Verses to the Imitator of Horace, and of an Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton-court) to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my

writings (of which, being public, the public is judge) but Three things another's modest wishes bound, my person, morals, and family, whereof, to those who My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being

Pitholeon' sends to me: “ You know his Grace, divided between the necessity to say something of mysel,

I want a patron ; ask him for a place.” and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I

Pitholeon libel'd me—“ but here's a letter thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by

Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better, which I am most desirous to please, the truth, and the

Dare you refuse him ? Curl invites to dine, sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious, or the un Bless me! a packet.-“ 'Tis a stranger sues, generous.

A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." Many will know their own pictures in it, there being If I dislike it, “ Furies, death, and rage !" not a circumstance but what is true : but I have for the

If I approve, “ Commend it to the stage." Inost part spared their names, and they may escape being

There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, laughed at, if they please. I would have some of them know, it was owing to the

The players and I are, luckily, no friends. request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is in- | Fired that the house reject him, “ 'Sdeath, I'll scribed, that I make not as free use of theirs, as they have print it,

[Lintot." done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage, and And shame the fools-Your interest, sir, with honour, on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any | Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much : abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly “ Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be

All my demurs but double his attacks ; found out, but by its truth and likeness.

At last he whispers, “ Do; and we go snacks."

Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, P. SHut, shut the door, good John! fatigued I Sir, let me see your works and you no more. said,

'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.' (Midas, a sacred person and a king) The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,

His very minister who spied them first, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out :

(Some say his queen) was forced to speak, or Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, [burst. They rave, recite, and madden round the land. When every coxcomb perks them in my face? What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous They pierce my thickets, through my grot they things. glide,

I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; By land, by water, they renew the charge,

Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick! No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass, Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me :

That secret to each fool, that he's an ass: Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie ?) Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.

The queen of Midas slept, and so may I. Is there a parson much be-mused in beer,

You think this cruel ? take it for a rule, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

No creature smarts so little as a fool. A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions hurid, With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls ? Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world". All fly to TWIT’NAM, and in humble strain

Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb thro', Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew : Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause : The creature's at his dirty work again, Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,

Throned in the centre of his thin designs, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines ! Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, The world had wanted many an idle song)

Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer? What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? And has not Colley still his lord, and whore? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? His butchers Henley, his freemasons Moore? A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped,

Does not one table Bavius still admit? If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit? Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I ! Still Sappho—A. Hold! for God's sake-you'll Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:

offend. To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, No names—be calm-learn prudence of a friend : And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.

I too could write, and I am twice as tall; (all. I sit with sad civility, I read

But foes like these-P. One flatterer's worse than With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

I The name taken from a foolish poet of Rhodes, who This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years."

pretended much to Greek. Schol. in Horat. l. 1. Dr.

Bentley pretends, that this Pitholeon libeled Cæsar also. Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane,

See notes on Hor. Sat. 10. 1. i. Lullid by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,

2 The story is told, by some, of his barber, but by Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,

Chaucer, of his queen. See Wife of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Obliged by hunger, and request of friends :

fables. “ The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it,

3 « Si fractus illabatur orbis, I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

Impavidum ferient ruinæ."--HOR.

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Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. A fool quite angry is quite innocent:

Commas and points they set exactly right, Alas ! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. One dedicates in high heroic prose,

Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes :

From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds: One from all Grub-street will my fame defend, Each wight who reads not, and but scans and spells, And, inore abusive, calls himself my friend. Each word-catcher that lives on syllables, This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe, . Even such small critics some regard may claim, And others roar aloud, “Subscribe, subscribe.” Preserved in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name.

There are, who to my person pay their court: Pretty! in amber to observe the forms I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short; Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, Such Ovid's nose, and “ Sir! you have an eye.”— But wonder how the devil they got there. Go on, obliging creatures, make me see,

Were others angry: I excused them too; All that disgraced my betters, met in me.

Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,

A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; “ Just so immortal Maro held his head :"

But each man's secret standard in his mind, And when I die, be sure you let me know

That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, Great Homer died three thousand years ago. This, who can gratify? for who can guess ?

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own? Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown, As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,

Just writes to make his barrenness appear, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd.

He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left : To help me through this long disease, my life, And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy art and care,

Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And teach, the being you preserved, to bear. | And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, A. But why then publish? P. Granville the It is not poetry, but prose run mad : polite,

All these, my modest satire bade translates, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; And own'd that nine such Poets made a Tate. Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; And swear not Addison himself was safe. The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,

Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) Blest with each talent and each art to please, With open arms received one poet more.

And born to write, converse, and live with ease : Happy my studies, when by these approved ! Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Happier their author, when by these beloved ! Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, From these the world will judge of men and books, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, Not from the Burnets, Oldmirons, and Cooks. And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ;

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, While pure description held the place of sense? And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, A painted mistress, or a purling stream 3.

Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;

Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate still.

A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;

Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged,
I never answer'd, I was not in debt.

And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged;
If want provoked, or madness made them print, Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

And sit attentive to his own applause ;
Did some more sober critic come abroad;

While wits and templars every sentence raise, If wrong, I smiled ; if right, I kiss'd the rod.

And wonder with a foolish face of praise

Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ! 1 All these were patrons or admirers of Mr. Dryden ; though a scandalous libel against him, entitled Dryden's

Who would not weep, if ATTICUS were he ? Satire to his Muse, has been printed in the name of the

What tho' my name stood rubric on the walls, Lord Somers, of which he was wholly ignorant.

Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals? These are the persons to whose account the author

4 Amb. Philips translated a book called the Persian charges the publication of his first pieces: persons with whom he was conversant (and he adds beloved) at sixteen

Tales, a book full of fancy and imagination. or seventeen years of age ; an early period for such ac 5 See their works, in the translations of classical books quaintance. The catalogue might be made yet more illus by several hands. trious, had he not confined it to that time when he writ

6 It was a great falsehood, which some of the libels rethe Pastorals and Windsor Forest, on which he passes a ported, that this character was written after the gentlesort of censure in the lines following:

man's death; which see refuted in the testimonies prefixed “While pure description held the place of sense," &c. to the Dunciad. But the occasion of writing it was such 2 Authors of secret and scandalous history.

as he would not make public, out of regard to his memory : 3 « A painted meadow, or a purling stream," is a verse and all that could further be done was to omit the name of Mr. Addison.

I in the edition of his works.

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