O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death; A. Whether that blessing be denied or given, SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE, IMITATED. ADVERTISEMENT. The occasion of publishing these Imitations was the clamour raised on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full, and of more dignity, than any I could have made in my own person: and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat vice or folly, in ever so low or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the princes and ministers under whom they lived. The satires of Dr. Donne I versified at the desire of the earl of Oxford, while he was lord treasurer, and of the duke of Shrewsbury, who had been secretary of state; neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as ary reflection on those they served in. And, indeed there is not in the world a greater error, than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a satirist for a libeller; whereas to a true satirist nothing is so odious as a libeller, for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite. Uni æquus virtuti atque ejus amicis. Whoever expects a paraphrase of Horace, or a faithful copy of his genius, or manner of writing, in these imitations, will be much disappointed. Our author uses the Roman poet for little more than his canvass; and if the old design or colouring chance to suit his purpose, it is well; if not, he employs his own, without scruple.or ceremony. Hence it is, he is so frequently serious where Horace in jest, and at ease where Horace is disturbed. In a word, he regulates his movements no further on his original, than was necessary for his concurrence in promoting their common plan of reformation of manners. Had it been his purpose merely to paraphrase an ancient satirist, he had hardly made choice of Horace : with whom, as a poet, he held little in common, besides a comprehensive knowledge of life and manners, and a certain curious felicity of expression, which consists in using the simplest language with dignity and the most ornamented with ease. For the rest, his harmony and strength of numbers, his force and splendour of colouring, his gravity and sublimity of sentiment, would have rather led him to another mo del. Nor was his temper less unlike that of Horace than his talents. What Horace would only smile at, Mr. Pope would treat with the grave severity of Persius; and what Mr. Pope would strike with the caustic lightning of Juvenal, Horace would content himself in turning into ridicule. If it be asked, then, why he took any body at all to imitate, he has informed us in his advertisement. To which we may add, that this scrt of imitations, which are of the nature of parodies, adds reflected grace and splendour on original wit. Besides, he deemed it more modest to give the name of imitations to his satire, than, like Despreaux, to give the name of satires to imitations. BOOK II.-SATIRE I. TO MR FORTESCUE. P THERE are (I scarce can think it, but am told) You'll give me, like a friend, both sage and free, F. I'd write no more. P. Not write? but then I think, And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink. F. You could not do a worse thing for your life. Lettuce and cowslip wine; probatum est. Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes. P. What, like sir Richard! rumbling, rough, and fierce With arms,and George and Brunswick crowd the verse Rend with tremendous sound your ears asunder, F. Then all your muse's softer art display; P. Alas! few verses touch their nicer ear; F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still, P. What should ail 'em? F. A hundred smart in Timon and in Balaam : The fewer still you name, you wound the more; Bond is but one, but Harpax is a score. P. Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny The doubling lustres dance as fast as she: I love to pour out all myself, as plain My head and heart thus flowing through my quill, While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory. Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage; Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page: From furious Sappho scarce a milder fate, P-x'd by her love, or libell'd by her hate. Its proper power to hurt, each creature feels; Bulls aim their horns, and asses lift their heels; Tis a bear's talent not to kick, but hug; And no man wonders he's not stung by pug. So drink with Walters, or with Chartres eat, They 'll never poison you, they'll only cheat Then, learned sir! (to cut the matter short) Whate'er my fate, or well or ill at court; Whether old age, with faint but cheerful ray, Attends to gild the evening of my day, Or Death's black wing already be display'd, To wrap me in the universal shade; Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the skewer to write; In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee or Budgell, I will rhyme and print. |