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Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? 'I found him close with Swift'— Indeed ? no doubt (Cries prating Balbus) something will come out.' 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will; No, such a genius never can lie still:' And then for mine obligingly mistakes The first lampoon Sir Will, or Bubo makes. Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, When every coxcomb knows me by my style ?
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe, Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear, Or from the soft-ey'd virgin steal a tear! But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, Insults fall'n worth, or beauty in distress, Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about, Who writes a libel, or who copies out; That fop whose pride affects a patron's name, Yet absent wounds an author's honest fame; Who can your merit selfishly approve, And show the sense of it without the love ; Who has the vanity to call you friend, Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend ; Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, And, if he lie not, must at least betray; Who to the dean and silver bell can swear, And sees at Canons what was ever there; Who reads but with a lust to misapply, Makes satire a lampoon, and fiction lie: A lash like mine no honest man shall dread, But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.
Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of asses' milk? Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel ? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool,
The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape,
A. But why insult the poor, affront the great ?
Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, Sappho can tell you how this man was bit : This dreaded satirist Dennis will confess Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress : So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhym'd for Moore. Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's lie. To please a mistress, one aspers'd his life; He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife : Let Budgell charge low Grub-street on his quill, And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his will; Let the two Curlls of town and court abuse His father, mother, body, soul, and muse : Yet why? that father held it for a rule, It was a sin to call our neighbour fool; That harmless mother thought no wife a whore: Hear this, and spare his family, James Moore ! Unspotted names, and memorable long ! If there be force in virtue, or in song.
Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause,
P. Their own ;
Born to no pride, inheriting no-strife,
A. Whether that blessing be denied or giv'n, Thus far was right ;-the rest belongs to Heav'n.
From Mr. Phillips to the Earl of Dorset.
Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. FROM frozen climes and endless tracks of snow,
From streams that northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects that to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flow'ry plains, and silver 'streaming floods, By snow disguis’d, in bright confusion lie, And, with one dazzling waste, fatigue the eye.
No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmov'd, the boist'rous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast Leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day. The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. For many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain : There solid billows, of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. And yet but lately have I seen, e'en here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, Or winds begun thro' hazy skies to blow, At ev'ning a keen eastern breeze arose ; And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy mors disclos'd at once to view