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Is that too little? come, then, I'll comply Spirit of Arnall, aid me while I lie! Cobham's a coward! Polworth is a slave! And Lyttelton a dark designing knave! St. John has ever been a wealthy fool! But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull, Has never made a friend in private life, And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife!

But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?

Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name? Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine, O all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy

shrine?

What! shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, When Paxton gives him double pots and

pay,

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Or each new-pension'd Sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend; Then, wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt,

But 't was my guest at whom they threw the dirt?

Sure if I spare the Minister, no rules
Of honour bind me not to maul his Tools;
Sure if they cannot cut, it may be said
His saws are toothless, and his hatchet's
lead.

It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, 150 To see a footman kick'd that took his pay;

But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave,

Knew one a Man of Honour, one a Knave, The prudent Gen'ral turn'd it to a jest, And begg'd he 'd take the pains to kick the

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Must never Patriot then declaim at Gin Unless, good man! he has been fairly in? No zealous Pastor blame a failing spouse Without a staring reason on his brows? And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,

Because the insult's not on man but God?

Ask you what provocation I have had ? The strong antipathy of good to bad. When Truth or Virtue an affront endures, Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours.

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Mine, as a foe profess'd to false pretence, Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense;

Mine, as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind; And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.

F. You're strangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no slave; So impudent, I own myself no knave; So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me; Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne,

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Yet touch'd and shamed by Ridicule alone. O sacred weapon! left for Truth's defence,

Sole dread of Folly, Vice, and Insolence, To all but Heav'n-directed hands denied, The Muse may give thee, but the Gods must guide!

Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal,

To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,

To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, And goad the Prelate, slumb'ring in his stall.

Ye tinsel insects! whom a Court maintains, That counts your beauties only by your stains,

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THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE

THE FIRST PART IMITATED IN THE YEAR 1714 BY DR. SWIFT; THE LATTER PART ADDED AFTERWARDS

Of the following Imitations of Horace the first two are rather imitations of Swift, Horace merely supplying the text for the travesty. For (as previous editors have not failed to point out) no styles could be found less like one another than the bland and polite style of Horace and the downright, and often cynically plain, manner of Swift. With Pope the attempt to write in Swift's style was a mere tour de force, which he could indeed carry out with success through a few lines, but not further, without relapsing into his own more elaborate manner. Swift's marvellous precision and netteté of expression are something very different from Pope's pointed and rhetorical elegance. The Ode to Venus, which was first published in 1737, more nearly approaches the character of a translation. (Ward.)

I'VE often wish'd that I had clear
For life six hundred pounds a year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land set out to plant a wood.

Well, now I have all this, and more,
I ask not to increase my store;
But here a grievance seems to lie,
All this is mine but till I die;

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I can't but think 't would sound more

clever,

To me and to my heirs for ever.

If I ne'er got or lost a groat

By any trick or any fault;
And if I pray by Reason's rules,
And not like forty other fools,

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As thus: Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!
To grant me this and t' other acre;
Or, if it be thy wiil and pleasure,
Direct my plough to find a treasure;
But only what my station fits,
And to be kept in my right wits,
Preserve, almighty Providence!
Just what you gave me, Competence;
And let me in these shades compose
Something in verse as true as prose,
Remov'd from all th' ambitious scene,
Nor puff'd by Pride, nor sunk by Spleen.'
In short, I'm perfectly content,
Let me but live on this side Trent,

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Nor cross the channel twice a year, To spend six months with statesmen here.

I must by all means come to town,
'Tis for the service of the Crown;
Lewis, the Dean will be of use;
Send for him up; take no excuse.'

The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne'er think of these;
Or, let it cost five hundred pound,
No matter where the money 's found;
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne'er consider'd yet.

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'Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, Let my Lord know you 're come to town.' I hurry me in haste away,

Not thinking it is Levee day,
And find His Honour in a pound,
Hemm'd by a triple circle round,
Chequer'd with ribbous blue and green:
How should I thrust myself between ?
Some wag observes me thus perplex'd,
And smiling, whispers to the next,
'I thought the Dean had been too proud
To jostle here among a crowd.'
Another, in a surly fit,

Tells me I have more zeal than wit;
'So eager to express your love,
You ne'er consider whom you shove,
But rudely press before a Duke.'
I own I'm pleas'd with this rebuke,
And take it kindly meant, to show
What I desire the world should know.
I get a whisper, and withdraw;
When twenty fools I never saw
Come with petitions fairly penn'd,
Desiring I would stand their friend.
This humbly offers me his Case
That begs my int'rest for a Place
A hundred other men's affairs,
Like bees, are humming in my ears;
To-morrow my appeal comes on,
Without your help the cause is gone.'
The Duke expects my Lord and you
About some great affair at two.'
Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind
To get my warrant quickly sign'd:
Consider, 't is my first request.'
'Be satisfied, I'll do my best:'
Then presently he falls to tease,
You may be certain, if you please;
I doubt not, if his Lordship knew
And, Mr. Dean, one word from you.'-
"T is (let me see) three years and more
(October next it will be four)

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Or, Have you nothing new to-day

From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?'
Such tattle often entertains

My Lord and me as far as Staines,
As once a week we travel down
To Windsor, and again to town,
Where all that passes inter nos

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Might be proclaim'd at Charing-cross. 100
Yet some I know with envy swell
Because they see me used so well.
'How think you of our friend the Dean?
I wonder what some people mean;
My lord and he are grown so great,
Always together tête-à-tête.

What! they admire him for his jokes
See but the fortune of some folks!'
There flies about a strange report
Of some express arrived at Court;
I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechised in every street.
'You, Mr. Dean, frequent the Great:
Inform us, will the Emp'ror treat?
Or do the prints and papers lie?'
'Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.'

Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!
'Tis now no secret.'- 'I protest
'Tis one to me.' Then tell us, pray,
When are the troops to have their pay
And tho' I solemnly declare

?'

I know no more than my Lord Mayor, They stand amazed, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known.

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Thus in a sea of folly tost, My choicest hours of life are lost; Yet always wishing to retreat: O, could I see my country-seat! There leaning near a gentle brook, Sleep, or peruse some ancient book, And there, in sweet oblivion drown Those cares that haunt the Court and town. O charming Noons! and Nights divine! Or when I sup, or when I dine, My friends above, my folks below, Chatting and laughing all-a-row, The beans and bacon set before 'em, The grace-cup served with all decorum;

Each willing to be pleas'd, and please,
And ev❜n the very dogs at ease!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian sings,

A Neighbour's madness, or his Spouse's,
Or what's in either of the Houses;
But something much more our concern,
And quite a scandal not to learn;
Which is the happier or the wiser,
A man of merit, or a miser ?

Whether we ought to choose our friends
For their own worth or our own ends?
What good, or better, we may call,
And what the very best of all?

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Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)
A tale extremely à-propos :
Name a town life, and in a trice
He had a story of two mice.
Once on a time (so runs the Fable)
A Country Mouse right hospitable,
Received a Town Mouse at his board,
Just as a farmer might a Lord.
A frugal mouse, upon the whole,
Yet lov'd his friend, and had a soul;
Knew what was handsome, and would do 't,
On just occasion, coûte qui coûte.

He brought him bacon (nothing lean),
Pudding that might have pleas'd a Dean;
Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,
But wish'd it Stilton for his sake;
Yet, to his guest tho' no way sparing,
He ate himself the rind and paring.
Our Courtier scarce could touch a bit,
But show'd his breeding and his wit;
He did his best to seem to eat,

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But let it (in a word) be said,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkins white, the carpet red:
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the Mice sat tête-à-tête.

Our Courtier walks from dish to dish, Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law, 200 "Que ça est bon! Ah, goutez ça ! That Jelly 's rich, this Malmsey healing, Pray, dip your whiskers and your tail in.' Was ever such a happy swain! He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. 'I'm quite ashamed - 't is mighty rude To eat so much - but all 's so goodI have a thousand thanks to give My Lord alone knows how to live.' No sooner said, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all: 'A rat, a rat! clap to the door' The cat comes bouncing on the floor. O for the art of Homer's mice, Or gods to save them in a trice! (It was by Providence, they think, For your damn'd stucco has no chink!) 'An't please Your Honour,' quoth the

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THE SEVENTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE

IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT

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'Tis true, my Lord, I gave my word
I would be with you June the third;
Changed it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it
as you do at Court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic ?
In Town what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every street,
And funerals black'ning all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:
And what a dust in every place!
And a thin Court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,

And W[ard] and H[enley] both in town!

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The dogdays are no more the case.'

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'Tis true, but winter comes apace: Then southward let your bard retire, Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire,

And you shall see the first warm weather Me and the butterflies together.

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My Lord, your favours well I know;
"T is with distinction you bestow,
And not to every one that comes,
Just as a Scotchman does his plums.
'Pray take them, Sir-enough's a feast:
Eat some, and pocket up the rest:'
What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues!
'No, Sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.'
Thus fools with compliments besiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a Fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;
And 't is but just, I'll tell ye wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.
A wise man always is, or should,
Be mighty ready to be good,
But makes a diff'rence in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll say, you'll find in me
A safe companion, and a free;
But if you'd have me always near,
A word, pray, in Your Honour's ear:
I hope it is your resolution

To give me back my constitution,
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' engaging smile, the gayety
That laugh'd down many a summer sun,
And kept you up so oft till one;
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my strain.

A Weasel once made shift to slink
In at a corn-loft thro' a chink,
But having amply stuff'd his skin,
Could not get out as he got in;
Which one belonging to the house
('T was not a man, it was a mouse)
Observing, cried, 'You 'scape not so;
Lean as you came, Sir, you must go.'
Sir, you may spare your application;
I'm no such beast, nor his relation,
Nor one that Temperance advance,
Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans;
Extremely ready to resign

All that may make me none of mine.
South-Sea subscriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease:

'T was what I said to Craggs and Child, Who praised my modesty, and smil❜d. 'Give me,' I cried (enough for me) 'My bread and independency!' So bought an annual rent or two, And lived just as you see I do;

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