THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE. EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES. ADVERTISEMENT To the first Publication of this Epistle. 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 my person, morals, and family; whereof, to those who know me not, a truer informa tion may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous. Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names; and they may escape being laughed at, if they please. I would have some of them to know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine; since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness. P. 'SHUT, shut the door, good John,' fatigued, I said, Tie 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 each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. E'en Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me!--just at dinner time. Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, A clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? With honest anguish, and an aching head; The piece, you think, is incorrect: why take it; Bless me! a packet.-""Tis a stranger sues: A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.' If I dislike it, 'Funes, death, and rage!' There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, All my demurs but double his attacks: Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, His very minister, who spied them first, (Some say his queen,) was forced to speak, of burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face? A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things, I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; "Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick? That secret to each fool, that he's an ass: The truth once told (and wherefore should 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. Still to one bishop Phillips seem a wit? Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God's sake-you'll offend No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend: I too could write, and I am twice as tall; It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent: There are, who to my person pay their court. I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came; I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd: The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, And teach the being you preserved to bear. But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, And Congreve loved, and Swift endured, my lays, The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head, VOL. II. 2 |