The occasion of publishing these Imitations was the clamour raised on some of my Epistles. An answer from Horace was both more full and of more dignity than any I could have made in my own person; and the example of much greater freedom in so eminent a divine as Dr. Donne, seemed a proof with what indignation and contempt a Christian may treat Vice or Folly, in ever so low or ever so high a station. Both these authors were acceptable to the Princes and Ministers under whom they lived. The satires of Dr. Donne I versified at the desire of the Earl of Oxford, while he was Lord Treasurer, and of the Duke of Shrewsbury, who had been Secretary of State; neither of whom looked upon a satire on vicious courts as any reflection on those they served in. And indeed there is not in the world a greater error than that which fools are so apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason to encourage, the mistaking a Satirist for a Libeller; whereas to a true Satirist nothing is so odious as a Libeller, for the same reason as to a man truly virtuous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite.

Uni sequus virtuti atque ejus amicis.

THE FIRST SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE

This satire was first published in 1733, under the title A Dialogue between Alexander Pope of

Twickenham, on the one part, and the Learned Counsel on the other.

TO MR. FORTESCUE

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 Fauny spins a thousand such a day.
Tim'rous 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. 10
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 seem tedious — take a

wife:

Or rather, truly, if your point be rest, Lettuce and cowslip wine: probatum est. But talk with Celsus, Celsus will advise Hartshorn, or something that shall close

your eyes.

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Or if you needs 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 thro' all the royal line.

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pear,

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; 60 My foes shall wish my life a longer date, And ev'ry friend the less lament my fate. My head and heart thus flowing thro' my quill,

Verse-man or prose-man, term me which 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 amuck, and tilt at all I meet;

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my vines;

130

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. 140 This is my plea, on this I rest my cause What saith my counsel, learned in the laws?

Thus much is left of old Simplicity!
The robin-red breast till of late had rest,
And children sacred held a martin's nest,
Till becaficos sold so devilish dear

To one that was, or would have been, a
Peer.

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Let me extol a cat on oysters fed;
I'll have a party at the Bedford-head:
Or ev❜n to crack live crawfish recommend;
I'd never doubt at court to make a friend!
'T is yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother
About one vice, and fall into the other:
Between Excess and Famine lies a mean;
Plain, but not sordid; tho' not splendid,
clean.

Avidien or his wife (no matter which, 49 For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch) Sell their presented partridges and fruits, And humbly live on rabbits and on roots: One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine,

And is at once their vinegar and wine: But on some lucky day (as when they found

A lost bank-bill, or heard their son was drown'd)

At such a feast, old vinegar to spare,
Is what two souls so gen'rous cannot bear:

Why had not I in those good times my birth,

Ere coxcomb-pies or coxcombs were on earth?

Unworthy he the voice of Fame to hear, That sweetest music to an honest ear 100 (For 'faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong,

The world's good word is better than a song),

Who has not learn'd fresh sturgeon and ham-pie

Are no rewards for want and infamy! When Luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf, Curs'd by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself;

To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame, Think how posterity will treat thy name; And buy a rope, that future times may tell Thou hast at least bestow'd one penny well. Right,' cries his lordship, 'for a rogue in need

In forest planted by a father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
Content with little, I can piddle here
On brocoli and mutton round the year;
But ancient friends (tho' poor, or out of
play)

That touch my bell, I cannot turn away. 140 'T is true, no turbots dignify my boards, But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords:

To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down,

Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own:

From yon old walnut tree a shower shall fall,

And grapes long ling'ring on my only wall; And figs from standard and espalier join; The devil is in you if you cannot dine: Then cheerful healths (your Mistress shall have place),

And, what's more rare, a Poet shall say grace.

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Fortune not much of humbling me can

boast;