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THE
POETICAL WORKS

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witH THE LIFE of THE AUTHoR. . . . .

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PRINTED For BENJAMIN JoHNson, No. 31, &
J. Joh NSON, No. 147, MARKET-STREET, &
R. Johnson, No. 2, Nor TH THIRD-STREET.

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THE NEW YORK PUBLIC Ho! 4435:

as To R, LE Nox AND Tilde N FOU to DAl QNS R 1916 |

EPISTLE

TO DR. ARBUTHNOT:
BEING THE

PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES,

- -
ADVERTISEMENT

To the First Publication of this Ehistle.

S.
R THIS paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun
In

any years since, and drawn up by snatches as the to several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of pu: blishing 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 o, extraordinary manner, not only my writings, (of ‘’’ which being public, the public is judge,) but my per3 son, morals and family, whereof, of those who know 3 me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward

s

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 the 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 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.

EPISTLE TO

DR. ARBUTHWOT.

P. SHUT, shut the door, good John fatigu'd, 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, 5
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce mythickets, thro' my grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 10

| No place is sacred, not the church is free ;

Ev’n 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 bemus’d in beer, 15
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross 2
Is there who lock’d from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls :

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