'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring (Midas, a sacred person and a king), 70 His very minister who spied them first, (Some say his queen) was forced to speak, or burst.

And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face?

_A_. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things.

I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, 'Tis nothing----

_P_. Nothing? if they bite and kick?

Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, That secret to each fool, that he's an ass: 80 The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) The queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

You think this cruel? Take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions hurl'd, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.

Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 90 Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again, Throned in the centre of his thin designs, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!

Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer?

And has not Colly still his lord, and whore?

His butchers, Henley,[97] his freemasons, Moore?[98]

Does not one table Bavius still admit?

Still to one bishop,[99] Philips seem a wit 100 Still Sappho----

_A_. Hold! for God-sake--you'll offend, No names--be calm--learn prudence of a friend: I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these----

_P_. One flatterer's worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

A fool quite angry is quite innocent: Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.

One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: 110 One from all Grub-street will my fame defend, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.

This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, 'Subscribe, subscribe!'

There are, who to my person pay their court: I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short, Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, Such Ovid's nose, and, 'Sir! you have an eye'-- Go on, obliging creatures! make me see All that disgraced my betters, met in me. 120 Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, 'Just so immortal Maro held his head:'

And, when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago.

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.

I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd. 130 The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, And teach the being you preserved to bear.

But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise, And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, 140 And St John's self (great Dryden's friends before) With open arms received one poet more.

Happy my studies, when by these approved!

Happier their author, when by these beloved!

From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets,[100] Oldmixons, and Cookes.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence While pure description held the place of sense?

Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, 'A painted mistress, or a purling stream.' 150 Yet then did Gildon[101] draw his venal quill; I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still.

Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answer'd--I was not in debt.

If want provoked, or madness made them print, I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

Did some more sober critic come abroad-- If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kiss'd the rod.

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. 160 Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.

Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds: Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Even such small critics some regard may claim, Preserved in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name.

Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 170 The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.

Were others angry--I excused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.

A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, This, who can gratify for who can guess?

The bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale[102] for half-a-crown, 180 Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year; He who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And he who, now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest satire bade translate, And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. 190 How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!

And swear, not Addison himself was safe.

Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; 200 Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; 210 While wits and Templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise-- Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?

Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?

What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals?

Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad?

I sought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: 220 Poems I heeded (now be-rhymed so long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday song.

I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor like a puppy, daggled through the town, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cried, With handkerchief and orange at my side; But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. 230

Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo,[103] puff'd by every quill; Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song.

His library (where busts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head) Received of wits an undistinguish'd race, Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place: Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, And flatter'd every day, and some days eat: 240 Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise, To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd, And others (harder still) he paid in kind.

Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, Dryden alone escaped this judging eye: But still the great have kindness in reserve, He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May some choice patron bless each gray-goose quill!

May every Bavius have his Bufo still! 250 So when a statesman wants a day's defence, Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense, Or simple pride for flattery makes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!

Bless'd be the great! for those they take away, And those they left me; for they left me Gay; Left me to see neglected genius bloom, Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Of all thy blameless life, the sole return My verse, and Queensberry weeping o'er thy urn! 260

Oh let me live my own, and die so too!

(To live and die is all I have to do:) Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please: Above a patron, though I condescend Sometimes to call a minister my friend.

I was not born for courts or great affairs; I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; Can sleep without a poem in my head, Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead. 270

Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?

Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write?

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[104] or Bubo[105] makes. 280 Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile, When every coxcomb knows me by my style?

Cursed 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-eyed virgin steal a tear!

But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress, Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about, Who writes a libel, or who copies out: 290 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, injured, 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[106] can swear, And sees at Canons what was never there; 300 Who reads, but--with a lust to misapply, Make 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[107] tremble--

_A_. What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's 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; 310 Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys; So well-bred spaniels civilly delight In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.

Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.

Whether in florid impotence he speaks, And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad!

Half-froth, half-venom, spits himself abroad, 320 In puns or politics, or tales, or lies, Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies.

His wit all see-saw, between that and this, Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, And he himself one vile antithesis.

Amphibious thing! that, acting either part, The trifling head, or the corrupted heart, Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord.

Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have express'd, 330 A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest, Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.

Not Fortune's worshipper, nor Fashion's fool, Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool, Not proud, nor servile; be one poet's praise, That, if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways: That flattery, even to kings, he held a shame, And thought a lie in verse or prose the same.

That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long, 340 But stoop'd to Truth, and moralised his song: That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end, He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, The damning critic, half-approving wit, The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had, The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad; The distant threats of vengeance on his head, The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed; The tale revived, the lie so oft o'erthrown,[108] 350 Th' imputed trash,[109] and dulness not his own; The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape, The libell'd person, and the pictured shape; Abuse,[110] on all he loved, or loved him, spread, A friend in exile, or a father dead; The whisper that, to greatness still too near, Perhaps yet vibrates on his sovereign's ear-- Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the past: For thee, fair Virtue! welcome even the last!