And when I die, be sure you let me know,
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
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 through this long disease, my life,
To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy art and care,
And teach, the being you preserv'd, to bear.

125

134

A. But why then publish? P. 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, Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head,

After Ver. 124. in the MS.

But, Friend, this shape, which you and Curl * admire,
Came not from Ammon's son, but from my siret:
And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse,
I had it from my mother t, not the muse.
Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd,
Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind.

* Curl set up his head for a sign.

140

And

+ His father was crooked.

His mother was much afflicted with head-achs.

VER. 139. Talbot, &c.] All these were patrons or admirers of Mr. Dryden; though a scandalous libel against him, entitled Dryden's Satire to his Muse, has been printed in the name of the Lord Somers, of which he was wholly ignorant.

And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.
Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their author, when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books,
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. 146
Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
While pure description held the place of sense?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;

I never answer'd, I was not in debt.

150

If want provok'd, or madness made them print, 155 I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint,

Did some more sober critic come abroad; If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.

160

Commas

VER. 146. Burnets, &c.] Authors who occasionally wrote against Pope.

VER. 151. Yet then did Gildon] Gildon was born at the village of Gillingham, near Shaftesbury, in Dorsetshire. He was sent to Doway, to the English college of Secular Priests there, to be made a priest; but came to London, spent his property, and endeavoured to repair his fortune by writing abusive pamphlets.

VER. 153. Yet then did Dennis] Dennis the critic, and miscel laneous writer.

Commas and points they set exactly right,

And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibalds :
Each wight who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Each word-catcher that lives on syllables,
Ev'n such small critics some regard may claim,
Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakespear's name.
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms

Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.

angry:

166

169

Were others

I excus'd them too;

Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's secret standard in his mind,
That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,

175

180

And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year;
He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: 184
And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:

And

VER. 180. a Persian tale] Amb. Philips translated the Persian Tales.

Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place :
Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat :
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,

240

He paid some bards with port, and some with praise,
To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd,

And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh,
Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye:

245

But still the great have kindness in reserve,

He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

May some choice patron bless each grey goose quill!

May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still!

So when a statesman wants a day's defence,

250

Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense,
Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Bless'd be the great, for those they take away,
And those they left me; for they left me GAY;
Left me to see neglected genius bloom,
Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb :
Of all thy blameless life the sole return

255

My verse, and QUEENSB'RY weeping o'er thy urn! Oh let me live my own, and die so too! (To live and die is all I have to do:)

VER. 261. Ob let me live] In the first edition;
Give me on Thames's banks, in honest ease,
To see what friends, or read what books I please.

261

Maintain

Maintain a poet's dignity and ease,

And see what friends, and read what books I please:

Above a patron, tho' I condescend

Sometimes to call a minister my friend.

265

I was not born for courts or great affairs;

I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray❜rs;
Can sleep without a poem in my head,

Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.

270

Why am I ask❜d what next shall see the light? Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write? Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)

Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?

274

"I found him close with Swift-Indeed? no doubt "(Cries prating Balbus) something will come out." 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will;

"No, such a genius never can lie still;"
And then for mine obligingly mistakes
The first lampoon Sir Will. or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltless I and can I chuse but smile,
When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my style?

After ver. 270 in the MS.

Friendships from youth I sought, and seek them still":
Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it will.
The world I knew, but made it not my school,
And in a course of flatt'ry liv'd no fcol.

VER. 280. Sir Will.] Sir William Young.

280

Curst

VER. 280. or Bubo makes.] By Bubo, it is univerfally consi dered Pope meant Bubb Doddington, afterwards Lord Melcombe. After ver. 282 in the MS.

P. What if I sing Augustus, great and good?

A. You did so lately, was it understood?

P. Be