30 If I am right, thy grace impart Save me alike from foolish pride, 35 At aught thy wisdom has denied, 40 Teach me to feel another's woe, Mean though I am, not wholly so, Through this day's life or death. 45 This day be bread and peace my lot: All else beneath the sun, 50 Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, To Thee, whose temple is all space, One chorus let all being raise; All nature's incense rise! EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES (Published 1735) P. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued I said: Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. 5 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, 10 They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, 15 Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time. Is there a parson, much be-mus'd in beer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls 20 With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? 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 damned works the cause: 25 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? 30 Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? 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: 35 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; 40 This saving counsel-" Keep your piece nine years." 45 "Nine years!" cries he, who, high in Drury Lane, Lulled 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 sends to me: 66 You know his grace, 50 I want a patron; ask him for a place." 55 Pitholeon libelled me-" but here's a letter Bless me! a packet. ""Tis a stranger sues, If I approve, 66 Commend it to the stage." There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, 60 The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fired that the house reject him, "Sdeath I'll print it, And shame the fools-Your interest, sir, with Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too much: "Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." 65 All my demurs but double his attacks: At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." "Sir, let me see your works and you no more." One dedicates in high heroic prose, 110 And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: One from all Grubstreet 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 120 All that disgraced my betters met in me. 115 125 Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, Why did I write? what sin to me unknown I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. 130 No duty broke, no father disobeyed: The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, Soft were my numbers; who could take offence While pure description held the place of sense? Did some more sober critic come abroad If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, 160 And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, And 't were a sin to rob them of their mite. Were others angry-I excused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. 175 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 pilfered Pastorals renown, 180 Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown, 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: 185 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, 190 And owned that nine such poets made a Tate. 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; 195 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, 200 And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, |