EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT 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 any thing pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the Truth and the Sentiment; and if any thing offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous. Many will know their own pictures 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 proceeding, 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. P. P. SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I 'm sick, I 'm dead. 5 They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shade can hide? They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme, Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer, A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong, With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, "I want a Patron; ask him for a Place." If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!" If I approve," Commend it to the Stage." There (thank my stars) my whole Commission ends, 40 45 50 55 60 Fir'd that the house reject him, ""Sdeath I 'll print it, "And shame the fools- Your Int'rest, Sir, with Lintot!" 'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:' 65 "Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch." 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. 'T is sung, when Midas' Ears began to spring, 70 (Midas, a sacred person and a king) His very Minister who spy'd them first, (Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face? A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things. 75 I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings; 'T is nothing- P. Nothing? if they bite and kick? The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) 80 Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, 85 90 The creature 's at his dirty work again, Does not one table Bavius still admit? Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit? No Names! you'll offend, be calm! learn prudence of a friend! I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these - P. One Flatt'rer 's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. 95 100 A fool quite angry is quite innocent: One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, There are, who to my person pay their court: 105 ΙΙΟ 115 120 125 I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobey'd. The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife, To help me thro' this long disease, my Life, 130 To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care, And teach the Being you preserv'd, to bear. But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise; And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; 135 |