One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams.

Poor Vadius,1 long with learned spleen devoured,
Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scoured;
And Curio, restless by the fair one's side,

Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.2

Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine:

Touched by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine;
Her gods, and god-like heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage;
These pleased the fathers of poetic rage;
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.

Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals see her wars enrolled,
And vanquished realms supply recording gold?
Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;
There warriors frowning in historic brass?
Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
Or in fair series laurelled bards be shown,

A Virgil there, and here an Addison.

Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine;

With aspect open, shall erect his head,

And round the orb in lasting notes be read,
"Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,

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1 See his history, and that of his shield, in the Memoirs of Scriblerus.- Warburton. Aimed at Dr. Woodward, the eminent physician and naturalist, who wrote a dissertation on an ancient shield which he possessed.—Carruthers.

2 Charles Patin was banished from the court because he sold Louis XIV. an Otho that was not genuine.-Warton.

In action faithful, and in honour clear;

Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gained no title, and who lost no friend,
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,

And praised, unenvied. by the muse he loved."

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ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST PUBLICATION OF THIS EPISTLE.

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 picture 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 proceedings, 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.

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.

BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

P. SHUT, shut the door, good John! 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.
No place is sacred, not the church is free;
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me;

Then from the Mint1 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, foredoomed his father's soul to cross,

Who pens a stanza, when he should engross?

ΙΟ

Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? 201
All fly to Twitenham, and in humble strain

Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Arthur,2 whose giddy son neglects the laws,

Imputes to me and my damned works the cause:

1 A place to which insolvent debtors retired, to enjoy an illegal protection, which they were there suffered to afford one another, from the persecution of their creditors.-Warburton.

2 Arthur Moore, a leading politician of Queen Anne's time. His son, James Moore (afterwards James Moore-Smythe), a small placeman and poetaster.

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?
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,

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This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." 40
"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: "You know his grace,

I want a patron; ask him for a place."
Pitholeon libelled 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,1 or he'll turn divine."

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1 Meaning the London Journal; a paper in favour of Sir R. Walpole's ministry.- Warton.