From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; For Wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; Show'd erring pride, Whatever is, is right; That Reason, Passion, answer one great aim; That true Self-love and Social are the same; That Virtue only makes our bliss below; And all our knowledge is, Ourselves to know.

VARIATIONS.

VER. 1, in the MS. thus--

O Happiness! to which we all aspire, Wing'd with strong hope, and borne by full desire; That ease, for which in want, in wealth we sigh; That ease, for which we labour and we die

After VER. 52, in the MS.--

Say not, 'Heaven's here profuse, there poorly saves, And for one monarch makes a thousand slaves,'

You'll find, when causes and their ends are known, 'Twas for the thousand Heaven has made that one.

After VER. 66. in the MS.--

'Tis peace of mind alone is at a stay; The rest mad Fortune gives or takes away.

All other bliss by accident's debarr'd; But virtue's in the instant a reward: In hardest trials operates the best, And more is relish'd as the more distress'd.

After VER. 92, in the MS.--

Let sober moralists correct their speech, No bad man's happy: he is great or rich.

After VER. 116, in the MS.--

Of every evil, since the world began, The real source is not in God, but man.

After VER. 142, in some editions--

Give each a system, all must be at strife; What different systems for a man and wife?

After VER. 172, in the MS.--

Say, what rewards this idle world imparts, Or fit for searching heads or honest hearts.

VER. 207, in the MS. thus--

The richest blood, right-honourably old, Down from Lucretia to Lucretia roll'd, May swell thy heart, and gallop in thy breast, Without one dash of usher or of priest: Thy pride as much despise all other pride As Christ-church once all colleges beside.

After VER. 316, in the MS.--

Even while it seems unequal to dispose, And chequers all the good man's joys with woes, 'Tis but to teach him to support each state, With patience this, with moderation that; And raise his base on that one solid joy, Which conscience gives, and nothing can destroy.

VER. 373, in the MS. thus--

And now transported o'er so vast a plain, While the wing'd courser flies with all her rein, While heavenward now her mounting wing she feels, Now scatter'd fools fly trembling from her heels, Wilt thou, my St John! keep her course in sight, Confine her fury, and assist her flight?

VER. 397, in the MS. thus--

That just to find a God is all we can, And all the study of mankind is Man.

EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT;

OR, PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

ADVERTISEMENT.

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 information 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 anything pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if anything 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_. Shut, shut the door, good John![94] 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. 10 No place is sacred, not the church is free, Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: Then from the Mint[95] walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross?

Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 20 All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?

Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? 30 A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.

Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!

Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.

I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' 40

'Nine years!' cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Obliged by hunger, and request of friends: 'The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it, 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[96] sends to me: 'You know his Grace, I want a patron; ask him for a place.' 50 Pitholeon libell'd me--'But here's a letter Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better.

Dare you refuse him? Curll 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.'

If I dislike it, 'Furies, death, and rage!'

If I approve, 'Commend it to the stage.'

There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 60 Fired that the house reject him, ''Sdeath! I'll print it, And shame the fools--Your interest, sir, with Lintot.'

Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: 'Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.'

All my demurs but double his attacks; At last he whispers, 'Do; and we go snacks.'

Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door: Sir, let me see your works and you no more.