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 is 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 Ho. race; with whom, as a poet, he held little in com. mou, besides a comprehensive knowledge of life and manvers, 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 model. 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 coutent 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 sort 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 imita. tions to his satire, than, like Despreaux, to give the name of satires to imitations.

P. THERE

are (I scarce can think it, but am told) There are, to whom my satire seems too bold; Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough, And something said of Chartres much too rough. The lines are weak, another's pleas'd to say; Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day. Timorous by nature, of the rich in awe, I come to counsel learned in the law: You'll give me, like a friend, both sage and free, Advice;

and (as you use) without a fee. F. I'd write no more.

P. Not write? but then I think,
And for my soul I cannot sleep a wink.
I nod in company, I wake at night,
Fools rush into my head, and so I write.

F. You could not do a worse thing for your life.
Why, if the night seems tedious.--take a wife;
Or rather truly, if your point be rest,
Lettuce and cowslip wine; probutum est.
But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise
Hartshorn, or something that shall close your eyes.
Or, if you ueeds must write, write Cæsar's praise,
You'll gain at least a knighthood, or the bays,
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, With gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder?

Or nobly wild, with Budgell's fire and force,
Paint angels trembling round his falling horse ?

F. Then all your muse's softer art display,
Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay,
Lull with Amelia's liquid name the nine,
And sweetly flow through all the royal line.

P. Alas"! few verses touch their nicer ear;
They scarce can bear their laureat twice a year:
And justly Cæsar scorns the poet's lays;
It is to history he trusts for praise.

F. Better be Cibber, I'll maintain it still,
Than ridicule all taste, blaspheme quadrille,
Abuse the city's best good men in metre,
And laugh at peers that put their trust in Peter.
Ev'n those you touch not, hate you.

P. What should ail'em?
F. A hundred smart in Tinion 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
Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie;
Ridotta sips and dances, till she see
The doubling lustres dance as fast as she :
F- loves the senate, Hockleyhole his brother,
Like in all else, as one egg to another.
I love to pour out all myself, as plain
As downright Shippen, or as old Montagne:
In them, as certain to be lov'd as seen,
The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within;
In me what spots (for spots I have) appear,
Will prove at least the medium must be clear.
In this impartial glass, my muse intends
Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends;
Publish the present age; but where my text
Is vice too high, reserve it for the next :
My foes shall wish my life a longer date,
And

every friend the less lament my fate.
My head and heart thus flowing through my quill,
Verseman or proseman, term me what you will,

Papist or Protestant, or both between,
Like good Erasmus in an honest mean,
In moderation placing all my glory,
While Tories call me Whig, and Whigs a Tory.

Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet
To run a-muck, and tilt at all 1 meet;
I only wear it in a land of Hectors,
Thieves, supercargoes, sharpers, and directors.
Save but our army! and let Jove incrust
Swords, pikes, and guns, with everlasting rust!
Peace is my dear delight--not Fleury's more:
But touch me, and no minister só sore.
Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time
Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,
Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,
And the sad burthen of some merry song.

Slander or poison dread from Delia's rage;
Hard words or hanging, if your judge be Page.
From furious Sappho scarcé a milder fate,
P-x'd by her love, or libellid 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 blaek wing already be display'd,
To wsap me in the universal shade;
Whether the darkev'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.

F. Alas, young man! your days can ne'er be long,
In flower of age you perish for a song !
Plums and directors, Shylock and his wife,
Will club their testers, now, to take your life!

P. What ? arm'd for virtue when I point the pen," Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men; Dash the proud gamester in his gilded car; Bare the mean heart that lurks beneath a star; Can there be wanting, to defevd her cause, Lights of the church, or guardians of the laws ? Could pension'd Boileau lash in honest strain Flatterers and bigots ev'n iu Louis' reign? Could laureat Dryden pimp and friar engage, Yet neither Charles nor James be in a rage ? And I not strip the gilding off a knave, Uoplác’d, unpension'd, no man's heir or slave? I will, or perish in the generous cause: Hear this and tremble! you who 'scape the laws. Yes, while I live, no rich or noble knave Shall walk the world iu credit to his grave: To virtue only and her friends a friend, The world beside may murmur or commend. Know, all the distant din that world can keep, Rolls o'er my grotto, and but sooths my sleep. There, my retreat the best companions grace, Chiefs out of war, and statesmen out of place. There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul : And he, whose lightning pierc'd th' Iberian lines, Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines; Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain, Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.

Envy must own I live among the great, No pimp of pleasure, and no spy of state; With eyes that pry not, tongue that ne'er repeats; Fond to spread friendships, but to cover heats ;* To help who want, to forward who excel ; This, all who know me, know; who love me, tell; And who unknown defame me, let them be Scribblers or peers, alike are mob to me. This is my plea, on this I rest my cause. What saith my counsel, learned in the laws ?

F. Your plea is good; but still I say, beware! Laws are explain'd by men--so have a care.