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EPISTLE I.

M R.

то

POPE.

W

HILST you at Twick’nham plan the future wood,
Or turn the volumes of the wife and good,

Our senate meets; at parties, parties bawl,
And pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall ;
So rushing tides bring things obscene to light,
Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in fight;
The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns,
And CODRUS' prose works up, and Lico's strains.
Lo! what from cellars rife, what rush from high,
Where fpeculation roofted near the sky;
Letters, Effays, Sock, Bufkin, Satire, Song,
And all the Garret thunders on the throng!
O POPE! I burst; nor can, nor will, refrain ;
I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain:

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Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear
Lefs dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer;

I've heard myself to death; and, plagu'd each hour,
Shan't I return the vengeance in my pow'r ?

For who can write the true abfurd like me?
Thy pardon, CODRUS! who, I mean, but thee?
POPE! if like mine, or COD R Us', were thy ftyle,
The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy file;
Merit less folid, less despite had bred;
They had not bit, and then they had not bled.
Fame is a public mistress, none enjoys,
But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys;
With fame, in juft proportion, envy grows;
The man that makes a character, makes foes:
Slight, peevish infects round a genius rise,
As a bright day awakes the world of flies;
With hearty malice, but with feeble wing,
(To fhew they live) they flutter, and they fting:
But as by depredations wafps proclaim
The fairest fruit, fo these the faireft fame.

Shall we not cenfure all the motley train,
Whether with ale irriguous, or champaign ?
Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb,
And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme;
The college floven, or embroider'd spark;
The purple prelate, or the parish clerk;
The quiet quidnunc, or demanding prig;
The plaintiff tory, or defendant whig;

Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay, or fad;
Whether extremely witty, or quite mad;

Profoundly dull, or fhallowly polite;

Men that read well, or men that only write;
Whether peers, porters, taylors, tune the reeds,
And measuring words to measuring fhapes fucceeds;

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For bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are shut,
As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut.
His hammer this, and that his trowel quits,
And, wanting fenfe for tradefmen, ferve for wits.
By thriving men fubfifts each other trade;
Of every broken craft a Writer's made:
Thus his material, Paper, takes its birth
From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on earth.
Hail, fruitful ifle! to thee alone belong
Millions of wits, and brokers in old fong:
Thee well a land of liberty we name,

Where all are free to scandal and to shame;
Thy fons, by print, may fet their hearts at ease,
And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please;
Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sense
Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence:
This heavy profe our injur'd reason tires;
Their verfe immoral kindles loofe defires :
Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime,
Our sport and pity, punishment and crime.

What glorious motives urge our Authors on,
Thus to undo, and thus to be undone ?
One lofes his estate, and down he fits,
To fhew (in vain !) he still retains his wits:
Another marries, and his dear proves keen;
He writes as an Hypnotic for the spleen :
Some write, confin'd by phyfic; fome, by debt;
Some, for 'tis Sunday; fome, because 'tis wet;
Through private pique fome do the public right,
And love their king and country out of fpite:
Another writes because his father writ,
And proves himself a bastard by his wit.

Has Lico learning, humour, thought profound? Neither: Why write then? He wants twenty pound:

His belly, not his brains, this impulse give;
He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live :
He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream,
With no provifion made, but of his theme;
Perhaps a title has his fancy fmit,

Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit:

He writes, in inspiration puts his trust,

Tho' wrong his thoughts, the gods will make them juft

Genius directly from the gods defcends,

And who by labour would distrust his friends?
Thus having reason'd with confummate skill,
In immortality he dips his quill:

And, fince blank paper is deny'd the press,
He mingles the whole alphabet by guess:
In various fets, which various words compofe,
Of which, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows.
So founds fpontaneous from the Sibyl broke,
Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke;
The priests found out the meaning, if they cou'd;
And nations ftar'd at what none understood.

CLODIO drefs'd, danc'd, drank, vifited, (the whole

And great concern of an immortal foul !)
Oft have I faid, " Awake! exift! and strive

"For birth! nor think to loiter is to live !"
As oft I overheard the dæmon fsay,

Who daily met the loit'rer in his way,

"I'll meet thee, youth, at WHITE'S" The youth replies, « I'll meet thee there," and falls his facrifice;

His fortune fquander'd, leaves his virtue bare
To ev'ry bribe, and blind to ev'ry snare:
CLODIO for bread his indolence must quit,
Or turn a foldier, or commence a wit.
Such heroes have we! all, but life, they stake;
How muft Spain tremble, and the German shake!

Such

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