EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT. P. SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said; 5 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. 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, A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, 10 15 21 Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd Works the cause; 25 And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life! (which, did not you prolong, 30 To laugh were want of goodness and of grace, 35 I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head, 39 This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." Nine years! cries he, who, high in Drury Lane, Lull'd by soft zephyrs thro' the broken pane, Rhimes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends: "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, 45 "I'm all submission; what you'd have it---make it." Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace, "I want a patron; ask him for a place." Pitholeon libell'd me---" But here's a letter "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn divine." Bless me! a packet.---" "Tis a stranger sues, "A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.” 50 55 If I dislike it, "Furies, death, and rage!" If I approve, "Commend it to the stage." 60 Fir'd that the House reject him, "'Sdeath, I'll print it, "And shame the fools---Your int'rest, Sir, with Lintot." Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much : At last he whispers, "Do, and we go snacks.” 65 70 His very minister who spy'd them first (Some say his queen) was forc'd to speak or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face? 74 A., Good friend! forbear; you deal in dang❜rous I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; [things; That secret to each fool, that he's an ass: No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break, 85 Pit, box, and gall'ry, in convulsions hurl'd, 90 The creature's at his dirty work again, 95 His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore? Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit? 100 Still Sappho---A. Hold! for God's sake you'll offend, But foes like these---P. One flatt'rer's worse than all. It is the slaver kills and not the bite. A fool quite angry is quite innocent; 105 110 115 Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me. Why did I write? what sin to me unknown, I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd: The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife, 120 125 130 135 140 But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise, And Congreve loy'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read, Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head, And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) With open arms receiv'd one poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! Happier their Author, when by these belov'd! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. 146 |