But now, as nothing in this world, no, not the most sacred or perfect things either of religion or government, can escape the sting of envy, methinks I already hear these carpers objecting to the clearness of our hero's title.

It would never (say they) have been esteemed sufficient to make an hero for the Iliad or Aeneis, that Achilles was brave enough to overturn one empire, or Aeneas pious enough to raise another, had they not been goddess-born, and princes bred. What, then, did this author mean by erecting a player instead of one of his patrons (a person 'never a hero even on the stage,'[215]) to this dignity of colleague in the empire of Dulness, and achiever of a work that neither old Omar, Attila, nor John of Leyden could entirely bring to pass?

To all this we have, as we conceive, a sufficient answer from the Roman historian, Fabrum esse suae quemque fortunae: That every man is the smith of his own fortune. The politic Florentine, Nicholas Machiavel, goeth still further, and affirmeth that a man needeth but to believe himself a hero to be one of the worthiest. 'Let him (saith he) but fancy himself capable of the highest things, and he will of course be able to achieve them.' From this principle it follows, that nothing can exceed our hero's prowess; as nothing ever equalled the greatness of his conceptions. Hear how he constantly paragons himself; at one time to Alexander the Great and Charles XII of Sweden, for the excess and delicacy of his ambition;[216] to Henry IV of France for honest policy;[217] to the first Brutus, for love of liberty;[218] and to Sir Robert Walpole, for good government while in power.[219] At another time, to the godlike Socrates, for his diversions and amusements;[220] to Horace, Montaigne, and Sir William Temple for an elegant vanity that maketh them for ever read and admired;[221] to two Lord Chancellors, for law, from whom, when confederate against him at the bar, he carried away the prize of eloquence;[222] and, to say all in a word, to the right reverend the Lord Bishop of London himself, in the art of writing pastoral letters.[223]

Nor did his actions fall short of the sublimity of his conceit. In his early youth he met the Revolution[224] face to face in Nottingham, at a time when his betters contented themselves with following her. It was here he got acquainted with old Battle-array, of whom he hath made so honourable mention in one of his immortal odes. But he shone in courts as well as camps. He was called up when the nation fell in labour of this Revolution;[225] and was a gossip at her christening, with the bishop and the ladies.[226]

As to his birth, it is true he pretended no relation either to heathen god or goddess; but, what is as good, he was descended from a maker of both.[227] And that he did not pass himself on the world for a hero as well by birth as education was his own fault: for his lineage he bringeth into his life as an anecdote, and is sensible he had it in his power to be thought he was nobody's son at all:[228] And what is that but coming into the world a hero?

But be it (the punctilious laws of epic poesy so requiring) that a hero of more than mortal birth must needs be had, even for this we have a remedy. We can easily derive our hero's pedigree from a goddess of no small power and authority amongst men, and legitimate and install him after the right classical and authentic fashion: for like as the ancient sages found a son of Mars in a mighty warrior, a son of Neptune in a skilful seaman, a son of Phoebus in a harmonious poet, so have we here, if need be, a son of Fortune in an artful gamester. And who fitter than the offspring of Chance to assist in restoring the empire of Night and Chaos?

There is, in truth, another objection, of greater weight, namely, 'That this hero still existeth, and hath not yet finished his earthly course. For if Solon said well, that no man could be called happy till his death, surely much less can any one, till then, be pronounced a hero, this species of men being far more subject than others to the caprices of fortune and humour.' But to this also we have an answer, that will (we hope) be deemed decisive. It cometh from himself, who, to cut this matter short, hath solemnly protested that he will never change or amend.

With regard to his vanity, he declareth that nothing shall ever part them. 'Nature (saith he) hath amply supplied me in vanity—a pleasure which neither the pertness of wit nor the gravity of wisdom will ever persuade me to part with.'[229] Our poet had charitably endeavoured to administer a cure to it: but he telleth us plainly, 'My superiors perhaps may be mended by him; but for my part I own myself incorrigible. I look upon my follies as the best part of my fortune.'[230] And with good reason: we see to what they have brought him!

Secondly, as to buffoonery, 'Is it (saith he) a time of day for me to leave off these fooleries, and set up a new character? I can no more put off my follies than my skin; I have often tried, but they stick too close to me; nor am I sure my friends are displeased with them, for in this light I afford them frequent matter of mirth, &c., &c.'[231] Having then so publicly declared himself incorrigible, he is become dead in law (I mean the law Epopoeian), and devolveth upon the poet as his property, who may take him and deal with him as if he had been dead as long as an old Egyptian hero; that is to say, embowel and embalm him for posterity.

Nothing therefore (we conceive) remaineth to hinder his own prophecy of himself from taking immediate effect. A rare felicity! and what few prophets have had the satisfaction to see alive! Nor can we conclude better than with that extraordinary one of his, which is conceived in these oraculous words, 'My dulness will find somebody to do it right.'[232]

'Tandem Phoebus adest, morsusque inferre parantem Congelat, et patulos, ut erant, indurat hiatus.'[233]

BY AUTHORITY.

By virtue of the Authority in Us vested by the Act for subjecting poets to the power of a licenser, we have revised this piece; where finding the style and appellation of King to have been given to a certain pretender, pseudo-poet, or phantom, of the name of Tibbald; and apprehending the same may be deemed in some sort a reflection on Majesty, or at least an insult on that Legal Authority which has bestowed on another person the crown of poesy: We have ordered the said pretender, pseudo-poet, or phantom, utterly to vanish and evaporate out of this work: And do declare the said Throne of Poesy from henceforth to be abdicated and vacant, unless duly and lawfully supplied by the Laureate himself. And it is hereby enacted, that no other person do presume to fill the same.



THE DUNCIAD:[234]

BOOK THE FIRST.

TO DR JONATHAN SWIFT.

ARGUMENT.

The proposition, the invocation, and the inscription. Then the original of the great empire of Dulness, and cause of the continuance thereof. The college of the goddess in the city, with her private academy for poets in particular; the governors of it, and the four cardinal virtues. Then the poem hastes into the midst of things, presenting her, on the evening of a Lord Mayor's day, revolving the long succession of her sons, and the glories past and to come. She fixes her eye on Bayes to be the instrument of that great event which is the subject of the poem. He is described pensive among his books, giving up the cause, and apprehending the period of her empire: after debating whether to betake himself to the Church, or to gaming, or to party-writing, he raises an altar of proper books, and (making first his solemn prayer and declaration) purposes thereon to sacrifice all his unsuccessful writings. As the pile is kindled, the goddess, beholding the flame from her seat, flies and puts it out by casting upon it the poem of Thule. She forthwith reveals herself to him, transports him to her temple, unfolds her arts, and initiates him into her mysteries; then announcing the death of Eusden the poet laureate, anoints him, carries him to court, and proclaims him successor.

The mighty mother, and her son, who brings[235] The Smithfield Muses[236] to the ear of kings, I sing. Say you, her instruments, the great! Called to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate;[237] You by whose care, in vain decried and cursed, Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first: Say, how the goddess[238] bade Britannia sleep, And pour'd her spirit o'er the land and deep.

In eldest time, ere mortals writ or read, Ere Pallas issued from the Thunderer's head, 10 Dulness o'er all possess'd her ancient right, Daughter of Chaos[239] and Eternal Night: Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave, Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave, Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind,[240] She ruled, in native anarchy, the mind.

Still her old empire[241] to restore she tries, For, born a goddess, Dulness never dies. O thou! whatever title please thine ear, Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver![242] 20 Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air, Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy-chair, Or praise the court, or magnify mankind,[243] Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind; From thy Boeotia though her power retires, Mourn not, my Swift, at ought our realm acquires. Here pleased behold her mighty wings outspread To hatch a new Saturnian age of lead.

Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monro would take her down, 30 Where o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand,[244] Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand, One cell there is, conceal'd from vulgar eye, The cave of Poverty and Poetry. Keen, hollow winds howl through the bleak recess, Emblem of music caused by emptiness. Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, Escape in monsters, and amaze the town. Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boast Of Curll's chaste press, and Lintot's rubric post:[247] 40 Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lines,[248] Hence Journals, Medleys, Merc'ries, Magazines: Sepulchral lies,[249] our holy walls to grace, And new-year odes,[250] and all the Grub Street race.

In clouded majesty here Dulness shone; Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne: Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears: Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake Who hunger and who thirst for scribbling sake: 50 Prudence, whose glass presents the approaching jail: Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise.

Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep, Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, 'Till genial Jacob,[251] or a warm third day, Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play; How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie, How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry, 60 Maggots half-form'd in rhyme exactly meet, And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes, And ductile Dulness new meanders takes; There motley images her fancy strike, Figures ill pair'd, and similes unlike. She sees a mob of metaphors advance, Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance; How Tragedy and Comedy embrace; How Farce and Epic[252] get a jumbled race; 70 How Time himself stands still at her command, Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land. Here gay Description Egypt glads with showers, Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers; Glittering with ice here hoary hills are seen, There painted valleys of eternal green; In cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.

All these, and more, the cloud-compelling queen Beholds through fogs that magnify the scene. 80 She, tinsell'd o'er in robes of varying hues, With self-applause her wild creation views; Sees momentary monsters rise and fall, And with her own fools-colours gilds them all.

'Twas on the day,[253] when Thorold rich and grave, Like Cimon, triumphed both on land and wave: (Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces, Glad chains,[254] warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces.) Now night descending, the proud scene was o'er, But lived, in Settle's numbers, one day more.[255] 90 Now mayors and shrieves all hushed and satiate lay, Yet eat, in dreams, the custard of the day; While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep. Much to the mindful queen the feast recalls What city swans once sung within the walls; Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise, And sure succession down from Heywood's[256] days. She saw, with joy, the line immortal run, Each sire impress'd and glaring in his son: 100 So watchful Bruin forms, with plastic care, Each growing lump, and brings it to a bear. She saw old Pryn in restless Daniel[257] shine, And Eusden[258] eke out Blackmore's endless line; She saw slow Philips creep like Tate's[259] poor page, And all the mighty mad in Dennis rage.[260]

In each she marks her image full express'd, But chief in Bayes's monster-breeding breast; Bayes formed by nature stage and town to bless, And act, and be, a coxcomb with success. 110 Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce, Remembering she herself was pertness once. Now (shame to Fortune![261]) an ill run at play Blank'd his bold visage, and a thin third day; Swearing and supperless the hero sate, Blasphemed his gods, the dice, and damn'd his fate. Then gnaw'd his pen, then dash'd it on the ground, Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound! Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there, Yet wrote and floundered on, in mere despair. 120 Round him much embryo, much abortion lay, Much future ode, and abdicated play; Nonsense precipitate, like running lead, That slipp'd through cracks and zig-zags of the head; All that on Folly Frenzy could beget, Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit. Next, o'er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole, How here he sipp'd, how there he plunder'd snug, And suck'd all o'er, like an industrious bug. 130 Here lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes,[262] and here The frippery of crucified Moliere; There hapless Shakspeare, yet of Tibbald[263] sore, Wish'd he had blotted[264] for himself before. The rest on outside merit but presume, Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room; Such with their shelves as due proportion hold, Or their fond parents dress'd in red and gold; Or where the pictures for the page atone, And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own. 140 Here swells the shelf with Ogilby the great;[265] There, stamp'd with arms, Newcastle shines complete:[266] Here all his suffering brotherhood retire, And 'scape the martyrdom of Jakes and fire: A Gothic library! of Greece and Rome Well purged, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome.[267]

But, high above, more solid learning shone, The classics of an age that heard of none; There Caxton[268] slept, with Wynkyn at his side, One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide; 150 There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year, Dry bodies of divinity appear: De Lyra[269] there a dreadful front extends, And here the groaning shelves Philemon[270] bends.

Of these, twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size, Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies, Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise: An hecatomb of pure, unsullied lays That altar crowns: a folio common-place Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base: 160 Quartos, octavos, shape the lessening pyre: A twisted birth-day ode completes the spire.

Then he: Great tamer of all human art! First in my care, and ever at my heart; Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end, E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig[271] was praise, To the last honours of the butt and bays: O thou! of business the directing soul; To this our head, like bias to the bowl, 170 Which, as more ponderous, made its aim more true, Obliquely waddling to the mark in view; Oh, ever gracious to perplexed mankind, Still spread a healing mist before the mind; And, lest we err by wit's wild dancing light, Secure us kindly in our native night. Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence, Guard the sure barrier between that and sense; Or quite unravel all the reasoning thread, And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! 180 As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, And ponderous slugs cut swiftly through the sky; As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, The wheels above urged by the load below: Me Emptiness and Dulness could inspire, And were my elasticity and fire. Some demon stole my pen (forgive the offence) And once betrayed me into common sense: Else all my prose and verse were much the same; This, prose on stilts; that, poetry fallen lame. 190 Did on the stage my fops appear confined? My life gave ampler lessons to mankind. Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove? The brisk example never fail'd to move. Yet sure, had Heaven decreed to save the state, Heaven had decreed these works a longer date. Could Troy be saved by any single hand, This gray-goose weapon must have made her stand. What can I now my Fletcher cast aside, Take up the Bible, once my better guide? 200 Or tread the path by venturous heroes trod, This box my thunder, this right hand my god? Or chair'd at White's amidst the doctors sit, Teach oaths to gamesters, and to nobles wit? Or bidst thou rather party to embrace? (A friend to party thou, and all her race; 'Tis the same rope at different ends they twist; To Dulness Ridpath is as dear as Mist.[272]) Shall I, like Curtins, desperate in my zeal, O'er head and ears plunge for the common weal? 210 Or rob Rome's ancient geese[273] of all their glories, And, cackling, save the monarchy of Tories? Hold—to the minister I more incline; To serve his cause, O queen! is serving thine. And see! thy very gazetteers give o'er, Ev'n Ralph repents, and Henley writes no more. What then remains? Ourself. Still, still remain Cibberian forehead, and Cibberian brain. This brazen brightness, to the squire so dear; This polish'd hardness, that reflects the peer: 220 This arch absurd, that wit and fool delights; This mess, tossed up of Hockley-hole and White's; Where dukes and butchers join to wreathe my crown, At once the bear and fiddle[274] of the town.

O born in sin, and forth in folly brought! Works damn'd, or to be damn'd (your father's fault)! Go, purified by flames, ascend the sky, My better and more Christian progeny! Unstain'd, untouch'd, and yet in maiden sheets; While all your smutty sisters walk the streets. 230 Ye shall not beg, like gratis-given Bland,[275] Sent with a pass, and vagrant through the land; Nor sail with Ward[276] to ape-and-monkey climes, Where vile Mundungus trucks for viler rhymes: Not sulphur-tipp'd, emblaze an ale-house fire; Not wrap up oranges, to pelt your sire! Oh, pass more innocent, in infant state, To the mild limbo of our father Tate:[277] Or peaceably forgot, at once be blest In Shadwell's bosom with eternal rest! 240 Soon to that mass of nonsense to return, Where things destroyed are swept to things unborn.

With that, a tear (portentous sign of grace!) Stole from the master of the sevenfold face: And thrice he lifted high the birth-day brand, And thrice he dropp'd it from his quivering hand; Then lights the structure with averted eyes: The rolling smoke involves the sacrifice. The opening clouds disclose each work by turns, Now flames the Cid, and now Perolla burns; 250 Great Caesar roars, and hisses in the fires; King John in silence modestly expires: No merit now the dear Nonjuror claims, Moliere's[278] old stubble in a moment flames. Tears gush'd again, as from pale Priam's eyes When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies.

Roused by the light, old Dulness heaved the head, Then snatch'd a sheet of Thule[279] from her bed, Sudden she flies, and whelms it o'er the pyre; Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire. 260

Her ample presence fills up all the place; A veil of fogs dilates her awful face: Great in her charms! as when on shrieves and mayors She looks, and breathes herself into their airs. She bids him wait her to her sacred dome: Well pleased he enter'd, and confessed his home. So, spirits ending their terrestrial race, Ascend, and recognise their native place. This the great mother dearer held than all The clubs of quidnuncs, or her own Guildhall: 270 Here stood her opium, here she nursed her owls, And here she plann'd the imperial seat of fools.

Here to her chosen all her works she shows; Prose swell'd to verse, verse loitering into prose: How random thoughts now meaning chance to find, Now leave all memory of sense behind: How prologues into prefaces decay, And these to notes are fritter'd quite away: How index-learning turns no student pale, Yet holds the eel of science by the tail: 280 How, with less reading than makes felons 'scape, Less human genius than God gives an ape, Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece, A past, vamp'd, future, old, revived, new piece, 'Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Shakspeare, and Corneille, Can make a Cibber, Tibbald,[280] or Ozell.[281]

The goddess then o'er his anointed head, With mystic words, the sacred opium shed. And, lo! her bird (a monster of a fowl, Something betwixt a Heidegger[282] and owl,) 290 Perch'd on his crown. 'All hail! and hail again, My son! the promised land expects thy reign. Know, Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise; He sleeps among the dull of ancient days; Safe, where no critics damn, no duns molest, Where wretched Withers, Ward, and Gildon[283] rest, And high-born Howard,[284] more majestic sire, With fool of quality completes the quire, Thou, Cibber! thou, his laurel shalt support, Folly, my son, has still a friend at Court. 300 Lift up your gates, ye princes, see him come! Sound, sound, ye viols, be the cat-call dumb! Bring, bring the madding bay, the drunken vine; The creeping, dirty, courtly ivy join. And thou! his aide-de-camp, lead on my sons, Light-arm'd with points, antitheses, and puns. Let Bawdry, Billingsgate, my daughters dear, Support his front, and Oaths bring up the rear: And under his, and under Archer's wing, Gaming[285] and Grub Street, skulk behind the king. 310 Oh! when shall rise a monarch all our own, And I, a nursing mother, rock the throne; 'Twixt prince and people close the curtain draw, Shade him from light, and cover him from law; Fatten the courtier, starve the learned band, And suckle armies, and dry-nurse the land: Till senates nod to lullabies divine, And all be sleep, as at an ode of thine.'

She ceased. Then swells the chapel-royal[286] throat: God save King Cibber! mounts in every note. 320 Familiar White's, God save King Colley! cries; God save King Colley! Drury lane replies: To Needham's quick the voice triumphal rode, But pious Needham[287] dropp'd the name of God; Back to the Devil[288] the last echoes roll, And Coll! each butcher roars at Hockley-hole.

So when Jove's block descended from on high (As sings thy great forefather Ogilby[289]), Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog, And the hoarse nation croak'd, God save King Log!

VARIATIONS.

VER. 1. The mighty mother, &c. In the first edition it was thus—

Books and the man I sing, the first who brings The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings. Say, great patricians! since yourselves inspire These wondrous works (so Jove and Fate require) Say, for what cause, in vain decried and cursed, Still—-

After VER. 22, in the MS.—

Or in the graver gown instruct mankind, Or silent let thy morals tell thy mind.

But this was to be understood, as the poet says, ironice, like the 23d verse.

VER. 29. Close to those walls, &c. In the former edition thus—

Where wave the tatter'd ensigns of Rag-fair,[245] A yawning ruin hangs and nods in air;[246] Keen hollow winds howl through the bleak recess, Emblem of music caused by emptiness; Here in one bed two shivering sisters lie, The cave of Poverty and Poetry.

VER. 41 in the former lines—

Hence hymning Tyburn's elegiac lay, Hence the soft sing-song on Cecilia's day.

VER. 42 alludes to the annual songs composed to music on St Cecilia's Feast.

VER. 85 in the former editions—

'Twas on the day—when Thorald,[290] rich and grave.

VER. 108. But chief in Bayes's, &e. In the former edition thus—

But chief, in Tibbald's monster-breeding breast; Sees gods with demons in strange league engage, And earth, and heaven, and hell her battles wage. She eyed the bard, where supperless he sate, And pined, unconscious of his rising fate; Studious he sate, with all his books around, Sinking from thought to thought, &c—

VER. 121. Round him much embryo, &c. In the former editions thus—

He roll'd his eyes, that witness'd huge dismay, Where yet unpawn'd much learned lumber lay; Volumes whose size the space exactly fill'd, Or which fond authors were so good to gild, Or where, by sculpture made for ever known, The page admires new beauties not its own. Here swells the shelf, &c.—

VER. 146. In the first edition it was—

Well-purged, and worthy W—y, W—s, and Bl—-.

VER. 162. A twisted, &c. In the former edition—

And last, a little Ajax[291] tips the spire.

VER. 177. Or, if to wit, &c. In the former edition—

Ah! still o'er Britain stretch that peaceful wand, Which lulls th' Helvetian and Batavian land; Where rebel to thy throne if science rise, She does but show her coward face, and dies: There thy good scholiasts with unwearied pains Make Horace flat, and humble Maro's strains: Here studious I unlucky moderns save, Nor sleeps one error in its father's grave, Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek, And crucify poor Shakspeare once a week. For thee supplying, in the worst of days. Notes to dull books, and prologues to dull plays; Not that my quill to critics was confined, My verse gave ampler lessons to mankind; So gravest precepts may successless prove. But sad examples never fail to move. As, forced from wind-guns, &c.

VER. 195. Yet sure had Heaven, &c. In the former edition—

Had Heaven decreed such works a longer date, Heaven had decreed to spare the Grub Street state. But see great Settle to the dust descend, And all thy cause and empire at an end! Could Troy be saved, &c.—

VER. 213. Hold—to the minister. In the former edition—

Yes, to my country I my pen consign Yes, from this moment, mighty Mist! am thine.

VER. 225. O born in sin, &c. In the former edition—

Adieu, my children! better thus expire Unstall'd, unsold; thus glorious mount in fire, Fair without spot; than greased by grocer's hands, Or shipp'd with Ward to ape-and-monkey lands, Or wafting ginger, round the streets to run, And visit ale-house, where ye first begun, With that he lifted thrice the sparkling brand, And thrice he dropp'd it, &c.—

VER. 250. Now flames the Cid, &c. In the former edition—

Now flames old Memnon, now Rodrigo burns, In one quick flash see Proserpine expire, And last, his own cold Aeschylus took fire. Then gushed the tears, as from the Trojan's eyes, When the last blaze, &c.

After VER. 268, in the former edition, followed these two lines—

Raptured, he gazes round the dear retreat, And in sweet numbers celebrates the seat.

VER. 293. Know, Eusden, &c. In the former edition—

Know, Settle, cloy'd with custard and with praise, Is gather'd to the dull of ancient days, Safe where no critics damn, no duns molest, Where Gildon, Banks, and high-born Howard rest. I see a king! who leads my chosen sons To lands that flow with clenches and with puns: Till each famed theatre my empire own; Till Albion, as Hibernia, bless my throne! I see! I see!—Then rapt she spoke no more. God save King Tibbald! Grub Street alleys roar. So when Jove's block, &c.

BOOK THE SECOND.

ARGUMENT.

The king being proclaimed, the solemnity is graced with public games and sports of various kinds; not instituted by the hero, as by Aeneas in Virgil, but for greater honour by the goddess in person (in like manner as the games Pythia, Isthmia, &c., were anciently said to be ordained by the gods, and as Thetis herself appearing, according to Homer, Odyss. xxiv., proposed the prizes in honour of her son Achilles). Hither flock the poets and critics, attended, as is but just, with their patrons and booksellers. The goddess is first pleased, for her disport, to propose games to the booksellers, and setteth up the phantom of a poet, which they contend to overtake. The races described, with their divers accidents. Next, the game for a poetess. Then follow the exercises for the poets, of tickling, vociferating, diving: The first holds forth the arts and practices of dedicators; the second of disputants and fustian poets; the third of profound, dark, and dirty party-writers. Lastly, for the critics, the goddess proposes (with great propriety) an exercise, not of their parts, but their patience, in hearing the works of two voluminous authors, one in verse, and the other in prose, deliberately read, without sleeping: the various effects of which, with the several degrees and manners of their operation, are here set forth; till the whole number, not of critics only, but of spectators, actors, and all present, fall fast asleep; which naturally and necessarily ends the games.

High on a gorgeous seat, that far out-shone Henley's gilt tub,[292] or Flecknoe's Irish throne,[293] Or that where on her Curlls the public pours,[294] All-bounteous, fragrant grains and golden showers, Great Cibber sate: the proud Parnassian sneer, The conscious simper, and the jealous leer, Mix on his look: all eyes direct their rays On him, and crowds turn coxcombs as they gaze. His peers shine round him with reflected grace, New edge their dulness, and new bronze their face. 10 So from the sun's broad beam, in shallow urns Heaven's twinkling sparks draw light, and point their horns.

Not with more glee, by hands Pontific crown'd, With scarlet hats wide-waving circled round, Rome in her Capitol saw Querno sit,[295] Throned on seven hills, the Antichrist of wit.

And now the queen, to glad her sons, proclaims By herald hawkers, high heroic games. They summon all her race: an endless band Pours forth, and leaves unpeopled half the land. 20 A motley mixture! in long wigs, in bags, In silks, in crapes, in garters, and in rags, From drawing-rooms, from colleges, from garrets, On horse, on foot, in hacks, and gilded chariots: All who true dunces in her cause appear'd, And all who knew those dunces to reward.

Amid that area wide they took their stand, Where the tall maypole once o'er-looked the Strand, But now (so Anne and piety ordain) A church collects the saints of Drury Lane. 30

With authors, stationers obey'd the call, (The field of glory is a field for all). Glory and gain the industrious tribe provoke; And gentle Dulness ever loves a joke. A poet's form she placed before their eyes, And bade the nimblest racer seize the prize; No meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin, In a dun night-gown of his own loose skin; But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, Twelve starveling bards of these degenerate days. 40 All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair, She form'd this image of well-bodied air; With pert flat eyes she window'd well its head; A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead; And empty words she gave, and sounding strain, But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain! Never was dash'd out, at one lucky hit,[297] A fool, so just a copy of a wit; So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore, A wit it was, and call'd the phantom More.[298] 50

All gaze with ardour: some a poet's name, Others a sword-knot and laced suit inflame. But lofty Lintot[299] in the circle rose: 'This prize is mine; who tempt it are my foes; With me began this genius, and shall end.' He spoke: and who with Lintot shall contend? Fear held them mute. Alone, untaught to fear, Stood dauntless Curll:[300] 'Behold that rival here! The race by vigour, not by vaunts is won; So take the hindmost Hell.' He said, and run. 60 Swift as a bard the bailiff leaves behind, He left huge Lintot, and out-stripp'd the wind. As when a dab-chick waddles through the copse On feet and wings, and flies, and wades, and hops: So labouring on, with shoulders, hands, and head, Wide as a wind-mill all his figure spread, With arms expanded Bernard rows his state, And left-legg'd Jacob[301] seems to emulate. Full in the middle way there stood a lake, Which Curll's Corinna[302] chanced that morn to make: 70 (Such was her wont, at early dawn to drop Her evening cates before his neighbour's shop,) Here fortuned Curll to slide; loud shout the band, And Bernard! Bernard! rings through all the Strand. Obscene with filth the miscreant lies bewray'd, Fallen in the plash his wickedness had laid: Then first (if poets aught of truth declare) The caitiff vaticide conceived a prayer: 'Hear, Jove! whose name my bards and I adore, As much at least as any god's, or more; 80 And him and his if more devotion warms, Down with the Bible, up with the Pope's arms.'[303]

A place there is, betwixt earth, air, and seas,[304] Where, from Ambrosia, Jove retires for ease. There in his seat two spacious vents appear, On this he sits, to that he leans his ear, And hears the various vows of fond mankind; Some beg an eastern, some a western wind: All vain petitions, mounting to the sky, With reams abundant this abode supply; 90 Amused he reads, and then returns the bills Sign'd with that ichor which from gods distils.

In office here fair Cloacina stands, And ministers to Jove with purest hands. Forth from the heap she pick'd her votary's prayer, And placed it next him, a distinction rare! Oft had the goddess heard her servant's call, From her black grottos near the Temple-wall, Listening delighted to the jest unclean Of link-boys vile, and watermen obscene; 100 Where as he fish'd her nether realms for wit, She oft had favour'd him, and favours yet. Renew'd by ordure's sympathetic force, As oil'd with magic juices for the course, Vigorous he rises; from the effluvia strong Imbibes new life, and scours and stinks along; Repasses Lintot, vindicates the race, Nor heeds the brown dishonours of his face.

And now the victor stretch'd his eager hand Where the tall Nothing stood, or seem'd to stand; 110 A shapeless shade, it melted from his sight, Like forms in clouds, or visions of the night. To seize his papers, Curll, was next thy care; His papers light, fly diverse, toss'd in air; Songs, sonnets, epigrams the winds uplift, And whisk them back to Evans, Young, and Swift.[305] The embroider'd suit at least he deem'd his prey, That suit an unpaid tailor snatch'd away. No rag, no scrap, of all the beau, or wit, That once so flutter'd, and that once so writ. 120

Heaven rings with laughter: of the laughter vain, Dulness, good queen, repeats the jest again. Three wicked imps, of her own Grub Street choir, She deck'd like Congreve, Addison, and Prior; Mears, Warner, Wilkins run: delusive thought! Breval, Bond, Bezaleel,[306] the varlets caught. Curll stretches after Gay, but Gay is gone, He grasps an empty Joseph[307] for a John: So Proteus, hunted in a nobler shape, Became, when seized, a puppy, or an ape. 130

To him the goddess: 'Son! thy grief lay down, And turn this whole illusion on the town:[308] As the sage dame, experienced in her trade, By names of toasts retails each batter'd jade; (Whence hapless Monsieur much complains at Paris Of wrongs from duchesses and Lady Maries;) Be thine, my stationer! this magic gift; Cook shall be Prior,[309] and Concanen, Swift: So shall each hostile name become our own, And we too boast our Garth and Addison.' 140

With that she gave him (piteous of his case, Yet smiling at his rueful length of face[310]) A shaggy tapestry, worthy to be spread On Codrus' old, or Dunton's modern bed;[311] Instructive work! whose wry-mouth'd portraiture Display'd the fates her confessors endure. Earless on high, stood unabash'd Defoe, And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge below.[312] There Ridpath, Roper,[313] cudgell'd might ye view, The very worsted still look'd black and blue. 150 Himself among the storied chiefs he spies,[314] As, from the blanket, high in air he flies, And oh! (he cried) what street, what lane but knows Our purgings, pumpings, blanketings, and blows? In every loom our labours shall be seen, And the fresh vomit run for ever green!

See in the circle next, Eliza[315] placed, Two babes of love close clinging to her waist; Fair as before her works she stands confess'd, 159 In flowers and pearls by bounteous Kirkall[316] dress'd. The goddess then: 'Who best can send on high The salient spout, far-streaming to the sky; His be yon Juno of majestic size, With cow-like udders, and with ox-like eyes. This China Jordan let the chief o'ercome Replenish, not ingloriously, at home.'

Osborne[317] and Curll accept the glorious strife, (Though this his son dissuades, and that his wife;) One on his manly confidence relies, One on his vigour and superior size. 170 First Osborne lean'd against his letter'd post; It rose, and labour'd to a curve at most. So Jove's bright bow displays its watery round (Sure sign, that no spectator shall be drown'd), A second effort brought but new disgrace, The wild meander wash'd the artist's face: Thus the small jet, which hasty hands unlock, Spurts in the gardener's eyes who turns the cock. Not so from shameless Curll; impetuous spread The stream, and smoking flourish'd o'er his head. 180 So (famed like thee for turbulence and horns) Eridanus his humble fountain scorns; Through half the heavens he pours the exalted urn; His rapid waters in their passage burn.

Swift as it mounts, all follow with their eyes: Still happy impudence obtains the prize. Thou triumph'st, victor of the high-wrought day, And the pleased dame, soft-smiling, lead'st away. Osborne, through perfect modesty o'ercome, Crown'd with the Jordan, walks contented home. 190

But now for authors nobler palms remain; Room for my lord! three jockeys in his train; Six huntsmen with a shout precede his chair: He grins, and looks broad nonsense with a stare. His honour's meaning Dulness thus express'd, 'He wins this patron, who can tickle best.'

He chinks his purse, and takes his seat of state: With ready quills the dedicators wait; Now at his head the dext'rous task commence, And, instant, fancy feels the imputed sense; 200 Now gentle touches wanton o'er his face, He struts Adonis, and affects grimace: Rolli[318] the feather to his ear conveys, Then his nice taste directs our operas: Bentley[319] his mouth with classic flattery opes, And the puff'd orator bursts out in tropes. But Welsted[320] most the poet's healing balm Strives to extract from his soft, giving palm; Unlucky Welsted! thy unfeeling master, The more thou ticklest, gripes his fist the faster. 210

While thus each hand promotes the pleasing pain, And quick sensations skip from vein to vein; A youth unknown to Phoebus, in despair, Puts his last refuge all in Heaven and prayer. What force have pious vows! The Queen of Love Her sister sends, her votaress, from above. As taught by Venus, Paris learn'd the art To touch Achilles' only tender part; Secure, through her, the noble prize to carry, He marches off, his Grace's secretary. 220

'Now turn to different sports (the goddess cries), And learn, my sons, the wondrous power of noise. To move, to raise, to ravish every heart, With Shakspeare's nature, or with Jonson's art, Let others aim: 'tis yours to shake the soul With thunder rumbling from the mustard bowl,[321] With horns and trumpets now to madness swell, Now sink in sorrows with a tolling bell; Such happy arts attention can command, When fancy flags, and sense is at a stand. 230 Improve we these. Three cat-calls be the bribe Of him whose chattering shames the monkey tribe: And his this drum whose hoarse heroic bass Drowns the loud clarion of the braying ass.'

Now thousand tongues are heard in one loud din: The monkey-mimics rush discordant in; 'Twas chattering, grinning, mouthing, jabbering all, And noise and Norton, brangling and Breval,[322] Dennis and dissonance, and captious art, And snip-snap short, and interruption smart, 240 And demonstration thin, and theses thick, And major, minor, and conclusion quick. 'Hold' (cried the queen) 'a cat-call each shall win; Equal your merits! equal is your din! But that this well-disputed game may end, Sound forth, nay brayers, and the welkin rend.'

As when the long-ear'd milky mothers wait At some sick miser's triple-bolted gate, For their defrauded, absent foals they make A moan so loud, that all the guild awake; 250 Sore sighs Sir Gilbert, starting at the bray, From dreams of millions, and three groats to pay. So swells each windpipe; ass intones to ass, Harmonic twang! of leather, horn, and brass; Such as from labouring lungs the enthusiast blows, High sound, attemper'd to the vocal nose, Or such as bellow from the deep divine; There, Webster![323] peal'd thy voice, and, Whitfield![324] thine. But far o'er all, sonorous Blackmore's strain; Walls, steeples, skies, bray back to him again. 260 In Tottenham fields, the brethren, with amaze, Prick all their ears up, and forget to graze; 'Long Chancery Lane retentive rolls the sound, And courts to courts return it round and round; Thames wafts it thence to Rufus' roaring hall, And Hungerford re-echoes bawl for bawl. All hail him victor in both gifts of song, Who sings so loudly, and who sings so long.

This labour past, by Bridewell all descend, (As morning prayer, and flagellation end)[325] 270 To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames, The king of dikes! than whom no sluice of mud With deeper sable blots the silver flood. 'Here strip, my children! here at once leap in, Here prove who best can dash through thick and thin,[326] And who the most in love of dirt excel, Or dark dexterity of groping well. Who flings most filth, and wide pollutes around The stream, be his the weekly journals[327] bound; 280 A pig of lead to him who dives the best; A peck of coals a-piece[328] shall glad the rest.'

In naked majesty Oldmixon stands,[329] And, Milo-like, surveys his arms and hands; Then sighing, thus, 'And am I now threescore? Ah why, ye gods! should two and two make four?' He said, and climb'd a stranded lighter's height, Shot to the black abyss, and plunged downright. The senior's judgment all the crowd admire, Who but to sink the deeper, rose the higher. 290

Next Smedley dived;[330] slow circles dimpled o'er The quaking mud, that closed, and oped no more. All look, all sigh, and call on Smedley lost; 'Smedley!' in vain, resounds through all the coast.

Then Hill[331] essay'd; scarce vanish'd out of sight, He buoys up instant, and returns to light: He bears no token of the sable streams, And mounts far off among the swans of Thames.

True to the bottom, see Concanen creep, A cold, long-winded, native of the deep: 300 If perseverance gain the diver's prize, Not everlasting Blackmore this denies: No noise, no stir, no motion can'st thou make, The unconscious stream sleeps o'er thee like a lake.

Next plunged a feeble, but a desperate pack, With each a sickly brother at his back:[332] Sons of a day! just buoyant on the flood, Then number'd with the puppies in the mud. Ask ye their names? I could as soon disclose The names of these blind puppies as of those. 310 Fast by, like Niobe (her children gone) Sits Mother Osborne,[333] stupified to stone! And monumental brass this record bears, 'These are,—ah no! these were, the gazetteers!'[334]

Not so bold Arnall;[335] with a weight of skull, Furious he dives, precipitately dull. Whirlpools and storms his circling arm invest, With all the might of gravitation bless'd. No crab more active in the dirty dance, Downward to climb, and backward to advance. 320 He brings up half the bottom on his head, And loudly claims the journals and the lead.

The plunging Prelate,[336] and his ponderous Grace, With holy envy gave one layman place. When, lo! a burst of thunder shook the flood, Slow rose a form, in majesty of mud: Shaking the horrors of his sable brows, And each ferocious feature grim with ooze. Greater he looks, and more than mortal stares: Then thus the wonders of the deep declares. 330

First he relates, how sinking to the chin, Smit with his mien, the mud-nymphs suck'd him in: How young Lutetia, softer than the down, Nigrina black, and Merdamante brown, Vied for his love in jetty bowers below, As Hylas fair was ravish'd long ago. Then sung, how, shown him by the nut-brown maids; A branch of Styx here rises from the shades, That, tinctured as it runs with Lethe's streams, And wafting vapours from the land of dreams, 340 (As under seas Alpheus' secret sluice Bears Pisa's offerings to his Arethuse,) Pours into Thames: and hence the mingled wave Intoxicates the pert, and lulls the grave: Here brisker vapours o'er the Temple creep, There, all from Paul's to Aldgate drink and sleep.

Thence to the banks where reverend bards repose, They led him soft; each reverend bard arose; And Milbourn[337] chief, deputed by the rest, Gave him the cassock, surcingle, and vest. 350 'Receive (he said) these robes which once were mine, Dulness is sacred in a sound divine.'

He ceased, and spread the robe; the crowd confess The reverend Flamen in his lengthen'd dress. Around him wide a sable army stand, A low-born, cell-bred, selfish, servile band, Prompt or to guard or stab, to saint or damn, Heaven's Swiss, who fight for any god, or man. Through Lud's famed gates,[338] along the well-known Fleet Rolls the black troop, and overshades the street, 360 Till showers of sermons, characters, essays, In circling fleeces whiten all the ways: So clouds replenish'd from some bog below, Mount in dark volumes, and descend in snow. Here stopp'd the goddess; and in pomp proclaims A gentler exercise to close the games.

'Ye critics! in whose heads, as equal scales, I weigh what author's heaviness prevails, Which most conduce to soothe the soul in slumbers, My Henley's periods, or my Blackmore's numbers, 370 Attend the trial we propose to make: If there be man, who o'er such works can wake, Sleep's all-subduing charms who dares defy, And boasts Ulysses' ear with Argus' eye; To him we grant our amplest powers to sit Judge of all present, past, and future wit; To cavil, censure, dictate, right or wrong, Full and eternal privilege of tongue.'

Three college Sophs, and three pert Templars came, The same their talents, and their tastes the same; 380 Each prompt to query, answer, and debate, And smit with love of poesy and prate. The ponderous books two gentle readers bring; The heroes sit, the vulgar form a ring. The clamorous crowd is hush'd with mugs of mum, Till all, tuned equal, send a general hum. Then mount the clerks, and in one lazy tone Through the long, heavy, painful page drawl on; Soft creeping, words on words, the sense compose, At every line they stretch, they yawn, they doze. 390 As to soft gales top-heavy pines bow low Their heads, and lift them as they cease to blow, Thus oft they rear, and oft the head decline, As breathe, or pause, by fits, the airs divine; And now to this side, now to that they nod, As verse or prose infuse the drowsy god. Thrice Budgell aim'd to speak,[339] but thrice suppress'd By potent Arthur, knock'd his chin and breast. Toland and Tindal,[340] prompt at priests to jeer, Yet silent bow'd to Christ's no kingdom here.[341] 400 Who sate the nearest, by the words o'ercome, Slept first; the distant nodded to the hum. Then down are roll'd the books; stretch'd o'er 'em lies Each gentle clerk, and, muttering, seals his eyes, As what a Dutchman plumps into the lakes, One circle first, and then a second makes; What Dulness dropp'd among her sons impress'd Like motion from one circle to the rest; So from the midmost the nutation spreads Round and more round, o'er all the sea of heads. 410 At last Centlivre[342] felt her voice to fail, Motteux[343] himself unfinished left his tale, Boyer the state, and Law the stage gave o'er,[344] Morgan[345] and Mandeville[346] could prate no more; Norton,[347] from Daniel and Ostroea sprung, Bless'd with his father's front and mother's tongue, Hung silent down his never-blushing head; And all was hush'd, as Polly's self lay dead.

Thus the soft gifts of sleep conclude the day, And stretch'd on bulks, as usual, poets lay. 420 Why should I sing what bards the nightly Muse Did slumbering visit, and convey to stews; Who prouder march'd, with magistrates in state, To some famed round-house, ever open gate! How Henley lay inspired beside a sink, And to mere mortals seem'd a priest in drink; While others, timely, to the neighbouring Fleet (Haunt of the Muses!) made their safe retreat?

VARIATIONS.

VER. 207 in the first edition—

But Oldmixon the poet's healing balm, &c.

After VER. 298 in the first edition, followed these—

Far worse unhappy D—-r succeeds, He searched for coral, but he gather'd weeds.

VER. 399. In the first edition it was—

Collins and Tindal, prompt at priests to jeer.

VER. 413. In the first edition it was—

T—-s and T—— the Church and State gave o'er, Nor —— talk'd nor S—— whisper'd more.

BOOK THE THIRD.

ARGUMENT.

After the other persons are disposed in their proper places of rest, the goddess transports the king to her temple, and there lays him to slumber with his head on her lap; a position of marvellous virtue, which causes all the visions of wild enthusiasts, projectors, politicians, inamoratos, castle-builders, chemists, and poets. He is immediately carried on the wings of Fancy, and led by a mad poetical Sibyl, to the Elysian shade; where, on the banks of Lethe, the souls of the dull are dipped by Bavius, before their entrance into this world. There he is met by the ghost of Settle, and by him made acquainted with the wonders of the place, and with those which he himself is destined to perform. He takes him to a mount of vision, from whence he shows him the past triumphs of the empire of Dulness, then the present, and lastly the future: how small a part of the world was ever conquered by science, how soon those conquests were stopped, and those very nations again reduced to her dominion: then distinguishing the island of Great Britain, shows by what aids, by what persons, and by what degrees it shall be brought to her empire. Some of the persons he causes to pass in review before his eyes, describing each by his proper figure, character, and qualifications. On a sudden the scene shifts, and a vast number of miracles and prodigies appear, utterly surprising and unknown to the king himself, till they are explained to be the wonders of his own reign now commencing. On this subject Settle breaks into a congratulation, yet not unmixed with concern, that his own times were but the types of these. He prophesies how first the nation shall be overrun with farces, operas, and shows; how the throne of Dulness shall be advanced over the theatres, and set up even at Court; then how her sons shall preside in the seats of arts and sciences; giving a glimpse, or Pisgah-sight, of the future fulness of her glory, the accomplishment whereof is the subject of the fourth and last book.

But in her temple's last recess enclosed, On Dulness' lap the anointed head reposed. Him close the curtains round with vapours blue, And soft besprinkles with Cimmerian dew. Then raptures high the seat of sense o'erflow, Which only heads refined from reason know. Hence, from the straw where Bedlam's prophet nods, He hears loud oracles, and talks with gods: Hence the fool's Paradise, the statesman's scheme, The air-built castle, and the golden dream, 10 The maid's romantic wish, the chemist's flame, And poet's vision of eternal fame.

And now, on Fancy's easy wing convey'd, The king descending, views the Elysian shade, A slip-shod sibyl led his steps along, In lofty madness meditating song; Her tresses staring from poetic dreams, And never wash'd, but in Castalia's streams. Taylor,[348] their better Charon, lends an oar, (Once swan of Thames, though now he sings no more.) 20 Benlowes,[349] propitious still to blockheads, bows; And Shadwell nods the poppy[350] on his brows. Here, in a dusky vale where Lethe rolls, Old Bavius sits,[351] to dip poetic souls, And blunt the sense, and fit it for a skull Of solid proof, impenetrably dull: Instant, when dipp'd, away they wing their flight, Where Brown and Mears[352] unbar the gates of light, Demand new bodies, and in calf's array Rush to the world, impatient for the day. 30 Millions and millions on these banks he views, Thick as the stars of night, or morning dews, As thick as bees o'er vernal blossoms fly, As thick as eggs at Ward in pillory.[353]

Wond'ring he gazed: when, lo! a sage appears, By his broad shoulders known, and length of ears, Known by the band and suit which Settle[354] wore (His only suit) for twice three years before: All as the vest appear'd the wearer's frame, Old in new state—another, yet the same. 40 Bland and familiar as in life, begun Thus the great father to the greater son:

'Oh born to see what none can see awake! Behold the wonders of the oblivious lake. Thou, yet unborn, hast touch'd this sacred shore; The hand of Bavius drench'd thee o'er and o'er. But blind to former as to future fate, What mortal knows his pre-existent state? Who knows how long thy transmigrating soul Might from Boeotian to Boeotian roll? 50 How many Dutchmen she vouchsafed to thrid? How many stages through old monks she rid? And all who since, in mild benighted days, Mix'd the owl's ivy with the poet's bays. As man's meanders to the vital spring Roll all their tides, then back their circles bring; Or whirligigs, twirl'd round by skilful swain, Suck the thread in, then yield it out again: All nonsense thus, of old or modern date, Shall in thee centre, from thee circulate. 60 For this our queen unfolds to vision true Thy mental eye, for thou hast much to view: Old scenes of glory, times long cast behind, Shall, first recall'd, rush forward to thy mind: Then stretch thy sight o'er all thy rising reign, And let the past and future fire thy brain.

'Ascend this hill, whose cloudy point commands Her boundless empire over seas and lands. See, round the poles where keener spangles shine, Where spices smoke beneath the burning line, 70 (Earth's wide extremes), her sable flag display'd, And all the nations cover'd in her shade!

'Far eastward cast thine eye, from whence the sun And orient science their bright course begun; One god-like monarch[355] all that pride confounds, He whose long wall the wandering Tartar bounds; Heavens! what a pile! whole ages perish there, And one bright blaze turns learning into air.

'Thence to the south extend thy gladden'd eyes; There rival flames with equal glory rise, 80 From shelves to shelves see greedy Vulcan roll, And lick up all their physic of the soul.[356]

'How little, mark! that portion of the ball, Where, faint at best, the beams of science fall: Soon as they dawn, from Hyperborean skies Embodied dark, what clouds of Vandals rise! Lo! where Maeotis sleeps, and hardly flows The freezing Tanais through a waste of snows, The North by myriads pours her mighty sons, Great nurse of Goths, of Alans, and of Huns! 90 See Alaric's stern port! the martial frame Of Genseric! and Attila's dread name! See the bold Ostrogoths on Latium fall; See the fierce Visigoths on Spain and Gaul! See, where the morning gilds the palmy shore, (The soil that arts and infant letters bore,) His conquering tribes the Arabian prophet draws, And saving ignorance enthrones by laws. See Christians, Jews, one heavy sabbath keep, And all the western world believe and sleep. 100

'Lo! Rome herself, proud mistress now no more Of arts, but thundering against heathen lore; Her gray-hair'd synods damning books unread, And Bacon trembling for his brazen head. Padua, with sighs, beholds her Livy burn, And ev'n the Antipodes Virgilius mourn. See, the cirque falls, the unpillar'd temple nods, Streets paved with heroes, Tiber choked with gods: Till Peter's keys some christen'd Jove adorn, And Pan to Moses lends his pagan horn; 110 See graceless Venus to a virgin turn'd, Or Phidias broken, and Apelles burn'd.

'Behold yon isle, by palmers, pilgrims trod, Men bearded, bald, cowl'd, uncowl'd, shod, unshod, Peel'd, patch'd, and piebald, linsey-woolsey brothers, Grave mummers! sleeveless some, and shirtless others. That once was Britain—happy! had she seen No fiercer sons, had Easter never been.[357] In peace, great goddess, ever be adored; How keen the war, if Dulness draw the sword! 120 Thus visit not thy own! on this bless'd age Oh spread thy influence, but restrain thy rage.

'And see, my son! the hour is on its way That lifts our goddess to imperial sway; This favourite isle, long sever'd from her reign, Dove-like she gathers to her wings again. Now look through Fate! behold the scene she draws! What aids, what armies to assert her cause! See all her progeny, illustrious sight! Behold, and count them, as they rise to light. 130 As Berecynthia, while her offspring vie In homage to the mother of the sky, Surveys around her, in the bless'd abode, An hundred sons, and every son a god; Not with less glory mighty Dulness crown'd, Shall take through Grub Street her triumphant round; And her Parnassus glancing o'er at once, Behold an hundred sons, and each a dunce.

'Mark first that youth who takes the foremost place, And thrusts his person full into your face. 140 With all thy father's virtues bless'd, be born! And a new Cibber shall the stage adorn.

'A second see, by meeker manners known, And modest as the maid that sips alone; From the strong fate of drams if thou get free, Another D'Urfey, Ward! shall sing in thee. Thee shall each ale-house, thee each gill-house mourn, And answering gin-shops sourer sighs return.

'Jacob, the scourge of grammar, mark with awe,[358] Nor less revere him, blunderbuss of law. 150 Lo Popple's brow, tremendous to the town, Horneck's fierce eye, and Roome's[359] funereal frown. Lo, sneering Goode,[360] half-malice and half-whim, A fiend in glee, ridiculously grim. Each cygnet sweet, of Bath and Tunbridge race, Whose tuneful whistling makes the waters pass: Each songster, riddler, every nameless name, All crowd, who foremost shall be damn'd to fame. Some strain in rhyme; the Muses, on their racks, Scream like the winding of ten thousand jacks; 160 Some, free from rhyme or reason, rule or check, Break Priscian's head and Pegasus's neck; Down, down the 'larum, with impetuous whirl, The Pindars, and the Miltons of a Curll.

'Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph[361] to Cynthia howls, And makes night hideous—answer him, ye owls!

'Sense, speech, and measure, living tongues and dead, Let all give way—and Morris may be read. Flow, Welsted, flow! like thine inspirer, beer; Though stale, not ripe; though thin, yet never clear; 170 So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull; Heady, not strong; o'erflowing, though not full.

'Ah Dennis! Gildon ah! what ill-starr'd rage Divides a friendship long confirm'd by age? Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool is barbarous civil war. Embrace, embrace, my sons! be foes no more! Nor glad vile poets with true critics' gore.

'Behold yon pair,[362] in strict embraces join'd; How like in manners, and how like in mind! 180 Equal in wit, and equally polite, Shall this a Pasquin, that a Grumbler write? Like are their merits, like rewards they share, That shines a consul, this commissioner.

'But who is he, in closet close y-pent, Of sober face, with learned dust besprent? Right well mine eyes arede the myster wight, On parchment scraps y-fed, and Wormius hight.[363] To future ages may thy dulness last, As thou preserv'st the dulness of the past! 190

'There, dim in clouds, the poring scholiasts mark, Wits, who, like owls, see only in the dark, A lumberhouse of books in every head, For ever reading, never to be read!

'But where each science lifts its modern type, History her pot, divinity her pipe, While proud philosophy repines to show, Dishonest sight! his breeches rent below; Embrown'd with native bronze, lo! Henley[364] stands, Tuning his voice, and balancing his hands. 200 How fluent nonsense trickles from his tongue! How sweet the periods, neither said nor sung! Still break the benches, Henley! with thy strain, While Sherlock, Hare, and Gibson[365] preach in vain. O great restorer of the good old stage, Preacher at once, and zany of thy age! O worthy thou of Egypt's wise abodes, A decent priest, where monkeys were the gods! But fate with butchers placed thy priestly stall, Meek modern faith to murder, hack, and maul; 210 And bade thee live to crown Britannia's praise, In Toland's, Tindal's, and in Woolston's days.[366]

'Yet O! my sons, a father's words attend (So may the fates preserve the ears you lend): 'Tis yours a Bacon or a Locke to blame, A Newton's genius, or a Milton's flame: But O! with One, immortal One dispense, The source of Newton's light, of Bacon's sense. Content, each emanation of his fires That beams on earth, each virtue he inspires, 220 Each art he prompts, each charm he can create, Whate'er he gives, are given for you to hate. Persist, by all divine in man unawed, But, "Learn, ye Dunces! not to scorn your God."'

Thus he, for then a ray of reason stole Half through the solid darkness of his soul; But soon the cloud return'd—and thus the sire: 'See now, what Dulness and her sons admire! See what the charms that smite the simple heart Not touch'd by Nature, and not reach'd by art.' 230

His never-blushing head he turn'd aside, (Not half so pleased when Goodman prophesied), And looked, and saw a sable sorcerer[367] rise, Swift to whose hand a winged volume flies: All sudden, Gorgons hiss, and dragons glare, And ten-horn'd fiends and giants rush to war. Hell rises, heaven descends, and dance on earth:[368] Gods, imps, and monsters, music, rage, and mirth, A fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball, Till one wide conflagration swallows all. 240 Thence a new world to Nature's laws unknown

Breaks out refulgent, with a heaven its own: Another Cynthia her new journey runs, And other planets circle other suns. The forests dance, the rivers upward rise, Whales sport in woods, and dolphins in the skies; And last, to give the whole creation grace, Lo! one vast egg produces human race.[369]

Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought: 249 'What power,' he cries, 'what power these wonders wrought?' 'Son, what thou seek'st is in thee! Look, and find Each monster meets his likeness in thy mind. Yet would'st thou more? In yonder cloud behold, Whose sarsenet skirts are edged with flamy gold, A matchless youth! his nod these worlds controls, Wings the red lightning, and the thunder rolls. Angel of Dulness, sent to scatter round Her magic charms o'er all unclassic ground Yon stars, yon suns, he rears at pleasure higher, Illumes their light, and sets their flames on fire. 260 Immortal Rich![370] how calm he sits at ease 'Mid snows of paper, and fierce hail of pease; And proud his mistress' orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

'But, lo! to dark encounter in mid air, New wizards rise; I see my Cibber there! Booth[371] in his cloudy tabernacle shrined, On grinning dragons thou shalt mount the wind. Dire is the conflict, dismal is the din, Here shouts all Drury, there all Lincoln's inn; 270 Contending theatres our empire raise, Alike their labours, and alike their praise.

'And are these wonders, son, to thee unknown? Unknown to thee? These wonders are thy own. These Fate reserved to grace thy reign divine, Foreseen by me, but ah! withheld from mine. In Lud's old walls though long I ruled, renown'd Far as loud Bow's stupendous bells resound; Though my own Aldermen conferred the bays, To me committing their eternal praise, 280 Their full-fed heroes, their pacific mayors, Their annual trophies, and their monthly wars; Though long my party[372] built on me their hopes, For writing pamphlets, and for roasting popes; Yet lo! in me what authors have to brag on! Reduced at last to hiss in my own dragon. Avert it, Heaven! that thou, my Cibber, e'er Should'st wag a serpent-tail in Smithfield fair! Like the vile straw that's blown about the streets, The needy poet sticks to all he meets, 290 Coach'd, carted, trod upon, now loose, now fast, And carried off in some dog's tail at last; Happier thy fortunes! like a rolling stone, Thy giddy dulness still shall lumber on, Safe in its heaviness, shall never stray, But lick up every blockhead in the way. Thee shall the patriot, thee the courtier taste, And every year be duller than the last; Till raised from booths, to theatre, to court, Her seat imperial Dulness shall transport. 300 Already Opera prepares the way, The sure forerunner of her gentle sway: Let her thy heart, next drabs and dice, engage, The third mad passion of thy doting age. Teach thou the warbling Polypheme[373] to roar, And scream thyself as none e'er scream'd before! To aid our cause, if Heaven thou can'st not bend, Hell thou shalt move; for Faustus[374] is our friend: Pluto with Cato thou for this shalt join, And link the Mourning Bride to Proserpine. 310 Grub Street! thy fall should men and gods conspire, Thy stage shall stand, ensure it but from fire.[375] Another AEschylus appears![376] prepare For new abortions, all ye pregnant fair! In flames, like Semele's, be brought to bed, While opening Hell spouts wild-fire at your head.

'Now, Bavius, take the poppy from thy brow, And place it here! here, all ye heroes, bow! This, this is he, foretold by ancient rhymes: Th' Augustus born to bring Saturnian times. 320 Signs following signs lead on the mighty year! See! the dull stars roll round and re-appear. See, see, our own true Phoebus wears the bays! Our Midas sits Lord Chancellor of Plays! On poets' tombs see Benson's titles writ![377] Lo! Ambrose Philips[378] is preferr'd for wit! See under Ripley rise a new Whitehall, While Jones' and Boyle's united labours fall;[379] While Wren with sorrow to the grave descends, Gay dies unpension'd with a hundred friends; 330 Hibernian politics, O Swift! thy fate; And Pope's, ten years to comment and translate.

'Proceed, great days! till Learning fly the shore, Till Birch shall blush with noble blood no more, Till Thames see Eton's sons for ever play, Till Westminster's whole year be holiday, Till Isis' elders reel, their pupils sport, And Alma Mater lie dissolved in port!'

Enough! enough! the raptured monarch cries; And through the Ivory Gate the vision flies. 340

VARIATIONS.

VER. 73. In the former edition—

Far eastward cast thine eye, from whence the sun And orient science at a birth begun.

VER. 149. In the first edition it was—

Woolston, the scourge of scripture, mark with awe! And mighty Jacob, blunderbuss of law!

VER. 151. Lo Popple's brow, &c. In the former edition—

Haywood, Centlivre, glories of their race, Lo Horneck's fierce, and Roome's funereal face.

VER. 157. Each songster, riddler, &c. In the former edition—

Lo Bond and Foxton, every nameless name.

After VER. 158 in the first edition followed—

How proud, how pale, how earnest all appear! How rhymes eternal jingle in their ear!

VER. 197. In the first edition it was—

And proud philosophy with breeches tore, And English music with a dismal score: Fast by in darkness palpable enshrined W—-s, B—-r, M—-n, all the poring kind.

After VER. 274 in the former edition followed—

For works like these let deathless journals tell, 'None but thyself can be thy parallel.'

VER. 295. Safe in its heaviness, etc. In the former edition—

Too safe in inborn heaviness to stray, And lick up every blockhead in the way. Thy dragons, magistrates and peers shall taste, And from each show rise duller than the last; Till raised from booths, etc.

VER. 323. See, see, our own, &c. In the former edition—

Beneath his reign shall Eusden wear the bays. Cibber preside Lord Chancellor of plays, Benson sole Judge of Architecture sit, And Namby Pamby be preferr'd for wit! I see the unfinish'd dormitory wall, I see the Savoy totter to her fall; Hibernian politics, O Swift! thy doom, And Pope's, translating three whole years with Broome. Proceed great days, &c.

VER. 331. In the former edition, thus—

—— O Swift! thy doom, And Pope's, translating ten whole years with Broome.

See Life.

After VER. 338, in the first edition, were the following lines—

Then when these signs declare the mighty year, When the dull stars roll round and re-appear; Let there be darkness! (the dread Power shall say) All shall be darkness, as it ne'er were day; To their first Chaos wit's vain works shall fall, And universal darkness cover all.

BOOK THE FOURTH.

ARGUMENT.

The poet being, in this book, to declare the completion of the prophecies mentioned at the end of the former, makes a new invocation; as the greater poets are wont, when some high and worthy matter is to be sung. He shows the goddess coming in her majesty to destroy order and science, and to substitute the kingdom of the Dull upon earth; how she leads captive the Sciences, and silenceth the Muses; and what they be who succeed in their stead. All her children, by a wonderful attraction, are drawn about her; and bear along with them divers others, who promote her empire by connivance, weak resistance, or discouragement of Arts; such as half-wits, tasteless admirers, vain pretenders, the flatterers of Dunces, or the patrons of them. All these crowd round her; one of them offering to approach her, is driven back by a rival, but she commends and encourages both. The first who speak in form are the geniuses of the schools, who assure her of their care to advance her cause, by confining youth to words, and keeping them out of the way of real knowledge. Their address, and her gracious answer; with her charge to them and the Universities. The Universities appear by their proper deputies, and assure her that the same method is observed in the progress of education. The speech of Aristarchus on this subject. They are driven off by a band of young gentlemen returned from travel with their tutors; one of whom delivers to the goddess, in a polite oration, an account of the whole conduct and fruits of their travels; presenting to her at the same time a young nobleman perfectly accomplished. She receives him graciously, and indues him with the happy quality of want of shame. She sees loitering about her a number of indolent persons abandoning all business and duty, and dying with laziness: to these approaches the antiquary Annius, entreating her to make them virtuosos, and assign them over to him; but Mummius, another antiquary, complaining of his fraudulent proceeding, she finds a method to reconcile their difference. Then enter a troop of people fantastically adorned, offering her strange and exotic presents: amongst them, one stands forth and demands justice on another, who had deprived him of one of the greatest curiosities in nature; but he justifies himself so well, that the goddess gives them both her approbation. She recommends to them to find proper employment for the indolents before-mentioned, in the study of butterflies, shells, birds' nests, moss, &c., but with particular caution not to proceed beyond trifles, to any useful or extensive views of nature, or of the Author of nature. Against the last of these apprehensions, she is secured by a hearty address from the minute philosophers and freethinkers, one of whom speaks in the name of the rest. The youth thus instructed and principled, are delivered to her in a body, by the hands of Silenus; and then admitted to taste the cup of the Magus her high-priest, which causes a total oblivion of all obligations, divine, civil, moral, or rational. To these her adepts she sends priests, attendants, and comforters, of various kinds; confers on them orders and degrees; and then dismissing them with a speech, confirming to each his privileges, and telling what she expects from each, concludes with a yawn of extraordinary virtue: the progress and effects whereof on all orders of men, and the consummation of all, in the restoration of Night and Chaos, conclude the poem.

Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of light Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night! Of darkness visible so much be lent, As half to show, half veil the deep intent. Ye Powers! whose mysteries restored I sing, To whom Time bears me on his rapid wing, Suspend a while your force inertly strong, Then take at once the poet and the song.

Now flamed the dog-star's unpropitious ray, Smote every brain, and wither'd every bay; 10 Sick was the sun, the owl forsook his bower, The moon-struck prophet felt the madding hour: Then rose the seed of Chaos, and of Night, To blot out order, and extinguish light, Of dull and venal a new world to mould, And bring Saturnian days of lead and gold.

She mounts the throne: her head a cloud conceal'd, In broad effulgence all below reveal'd, ('Tis thus aspiring Dulness ever shines), Soft on her lap her laureate son reclines. 20

Beneath her foot-stool, Science groans in chains, And Wit dreads exile, penalties and pains. There foam'd rebellious Logic, gagg'd and bound, There, stripp'd, fair Rhetoric languish'd on the ground; His blunted arms by Sophistry are borne, And shameless Billingsgate her robes adorn. Morality, by her false guardians drawn. Chicane in furs, and Casuistry in lawn, Gasps, as they straiten at each end the cord, And dies, when Dulness gives her page the word. 30 Mad Mathesis[380] alone was unconfined, Too mad for mere material chains to bind, Now to pure space[381] lifts her ecstatic stare, Now running round the circle, finds it square.[382] But held in tenfold bonds the Muses lie, Watch'd both by Envy's and by Flattery's eye: There to her heart sad Tragedy address'd The dagger wont to pierce the tyrant's breast; But sober History restrain'd her rage, And promised vengeance on a barbarous age. 40 There sunk Thalia, nerveless, cold, and dead, Had not her sister Satire held her head: Nor could'st thou, Chesterfield![383] a tear refuse, Thou wept'st, and with thee wept each gentle Muse.

When, lo! a harlot form[384] soft sliding by, With mincing step, small voice, and languid eye: Foreign her air, her robe's discordant pride In patchwork fluttering, and her head aside: By singing peers upheld on either hand, She tripp'd and laugh'd, too pretty much to stand; 50 Cast on the prostrate Nine a scornful look, Then thus in quaint recitative spoke:

'O Cara! Cara! silence all that train: Joy to great Chaos! let division reign:[385] Chromatic[386] tortures soon shall drive them hence, Break all their nerves, and fritter all their sense: One trill shall harmonise joy, grief, and rage, Wake the dull church, and lull the ranting stage;[387] To the same notes thy sons shall hum, or snore, And all thy yawning daughters cry, Encore! 60 Another Phoebus, thy own Phoebus, reigns, Joys in my jigs, and dances in my chains. But soon, ah soon, rebellion will commence, If music meanly borrows aid from sense: Strong in new arms, lo! giant Handel stands, Like bold Briareus, with a hundred hands; To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes, And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums. Arrest him, empress; or you sleep no more'— She heard, and drove him to the Hibernian shore. 70

And now had Fame's posterior trumpet blown, And all the nations summon'd to the throne. The young, the old, who feel her inward sway, One instinct seizes, and transports away. None need a guide, by sure attraction led, And strong impulsive gravity of head; None want a place, for all their centre found, Hung to the goddess, and cohered around. Not closer, orb in orb, conglobed are seen The buzzing bees about their dusky queen. 80

The gathering number, as it moves along, Involves a vast involuntary throng, Who, gently drawn, and struggling less and less, Roll in her vortex, and her power confess. Not those alone who passive own her laws, But who, weak rebels, more advance her cause. Whate'er of dunce in college or in town Sneers at another, in toupee or gown; Whate'er of mongrel no one class admits, A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits. 90

Nor absent they, no members of her state, Who pay her homage in her sons, the great; Who, false to Phoebus, bow the knee to Baal; Or, impious, preach his word without a call. Patrons, who sneak from living worth to dead, Withhold the pension, and set up the head; Or vest dull flattery in the sacred gown; Or give from fool to fool the laurel crown. And (last and worst) with all the cant of wit, Without the soul, the Muse's hypocrite. 100

There march'd the bard and blockhead, side by side, Who rhymed for hire, and patronised for pride. Narcissus,[388] praised with all a parson's power, Look'd a white lily sunk beneath a shower. There moved Montalto with superior air; His stretch'd-out arm display'd a volume fair; Courtiers and patriots in two ranks divide, Through both he pass'd, and bow'd from side to side; But as in graceful act, with awful eye Composed he stood, bold Benson[389] thrust him by: 110 On two unequal crutches propp'd he came, Milton's on this, on that one Johnston's name. The decent knight[390] retired with sober rage, Withdrew his hand, and closed the pompous page. But (happy for him as the times went then) Appear'd Apollo's mayor and aldermen, On whom three hundred gold-capp'd youths await, To lug the ponderous volume off in state.

When Dulness, smiling—'Thus revive the wits! But murder first, and mince them all to bits; 120 As erst Medea (cruel, so to save!) A new edition of old Aeson gave; Let standard authors, thus, like trophies borne, Appear more glorious as more hack'd and torn. And you, my critics! in the chequer'd shade, Admire new light through holes yourselves have made. Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone, A page, a grave, that they can call their own; But spread, my sons, your glory thin or thick, On passive paper, or on solid brick. 130 So by each bard an alderman[391] shall sit, A heavy lord shall hang at every wit, And while on Fame's triumphal car they ride, Some slave of mine be pinion'd to their side.'

Now crowds on crowds around the goddess press, Each eager to present the first address. Dunce scorning dunce beholds the next advance, But fop shows fop superior complaisance. When, lo! a spectre rose, whose index-hand Held forth the virtue of the dreadful wand; 140 His beaver'd brow a birchen garland wears, Dropping with infants' blood and mothers' tears. O'er every rein a shuddering horror runs; Eton and Winton shake through all their sons. All flesh is humbled, Westminster's bold race Shrink, and confess the genius of the place: The pale boy-senator yet tingling stands, And holds his breeches close with both his hands.

Then thus: 'Since man from beast by words is known, Words are man's province, words we teach alone, 150 When reason doubtful, like the Samian letter,[392] Points him two ways, the narrower is the better. Placed at the door of Learning, youth to guide, We never suffer it to stand too wide. To ask, to guess, to know, as they commence, As fancy opens the quick springs of sense, We ply the memory, we load the brain, Bind rebel wit, and double chain on chain, Confine the thought, to exercise the breath, And keep them in the pale of words till death. 160 Whate'er the talents, or howe'er design'd, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind: A poet the first day he dips his quill; And what the last? a very poet still. Pity! the charm works only in our wall, Lost, lost too soon in yonder House or Hall.[393] There truant Wyndham every Muse gave o'er, There Talbot sunk, and was a wit no more! How sweet an Ovid, Murray was our boast! How many Martials were in Pulteney lost! 170 Else sure some bard, to our eternal praise, In twice ten thousand rhyming nights and days, Had reach'd the work, the all that mortal can, And South beheld that master-piece of man.'[394]

'Oh (cried the goddess) for some pedant reign! Some gentle James,[395] to bless the land again; To stick the doctor's chair into the throne, Give law to words, or war with words alone, Senates and courts with Greek and Latin rule, And turn the council to a grammar school! 180 For sure, if Dulness sees a grateful day, 'Tis in the shade of arbitrary sway. Oh! if my sons may learn one earthly thing, Teach but that one, sufficient for a king; That which my priests, and mine alone, maintain, Which as it dies or lives, we fall or reign: May you, may Cam and Isis, preach it long! "The right divine of kings to govern wrong."'

Prompt at the call, around the goddess roll Broad hats, and hoods, and caps, a sable shoal: 190 Thick and more thick the black blockade extends, A hundred head of Aristotle's friends. Nor wert thou, Isis! wanting to the day, Though Christ-church long kept prudishly away. Each stanch polemic, stubborn as a rock, Each fierce logician, still expelling Locke,[396] Came whip and spur, and dash'd through thin and thick On German Crousaz,[397] and Dutch Burgersdyck. As many quit the streams[398] that murmuring fall To lull the sons of Margaret and Clare-hall, 200 Where Bentley late tempestuous wont to sport In troubled waters, but now sleeps in port.[399] Before them march'd that awful Aristarch! Plough'd was his front with many a deep remark: His hat, which never vail'd to human pride, Walker with reverence took, and laid aside. Low bow'd the rest: he, kingly, did but nod; So upright Quakers please both man and God. 'Mistress! dismiss that rabble from your throne: Avaunt! is Aristarchus yet unknown? 210 Thy mighty scholiast, whose unwearied pains Made Horace dull, and humbled Milton's strains. Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain, Critics like me shall make it prose again. Roman and Greek grammarians! know your better, Author of something yet more great than letter;[400] While towering o'er your alphabet, like Saul, Stands our digamma,[401] and o'ertops them all.

''Tis true, on words is still our whole debate, Disputes of me or te, of aut or at, 220 To sound or sink in cano, O or A, Or give up Cicero[402] to C or K. Let Freind[403] affect to speak as Terence spoke, And Alsop never but like Horace joke: For me, what Virgil, Pliny, may deny, Manilius or Solinus[404] shall supply: For Attic phrase in Plato let them seek, I poach in Suidas[405] for unlicensed Greek. In ancient sense if any needs will deal, Be sure I give them fragments, not a meal; 230 What Gellius or Stobaeus hash'd before, Or chew'd by blind old scholiasts o'er and o'er, The critic eye, that microscope of wit, Sees hairs and pores, examines bit by bit: How parts relate to parts, or they to whole, The body's harmony, the beaming soul, Are things which Kuster, Burman, Wasse shall see, When Man's whole frame is obvious to a flea.

'Ah, think not, mistress! more true Dulness lies In Folly's cap, than Wisdom's grave disguise; 240 Like buoys, that never sink into the flood, On Learning's surface we but lie and nod. Thine is the genuine head of many a house, And much divinity[406] without a [Greek: Nous]. Nor could a Barrow work on every block, Nor has one Atterbury spoil'd the flock. See! still thy own, the heavy cannon roll, And metaphysic smokes involve the pole. For thee we dim the eyes, and stuff the head With all such reading as was never read: 250 For thee explain a thing till all men doubt it, And write about it, goddess, and about it: So spins the silk-worm small its slender store, And labours till it clouds itself all o'er.

'What though we let some better sort of fool Thrid every science, run through every school? Never by tumbler through the hoops was shown Such skill in passing all, and touching none. He may indeed (if sober all this time) Plague with dispute, or persecute with rhyme. 260 We only furnish what he cannot use, Or wed to what he must divorce, a Muse: Full in the midst of Euclid dip at once, And petrify a genius to a dunce;[407] Or, set on metaphysic ground to prance, Show all his paces, not a step advance. With the same cement, ever sure to bind, We bring to one dead level every mind. Then take him to develop, if you can, And hew the block off,[408] and get out the man. 270 But wherefore waste I words? I see advance Whore, pupil, and laced governor from France. Walker! our hat,'—nor more he deign'd to say, But, stern as Ajax' spectre,[409] strode away.

In flow'd at once a gay embroider'd race, And tittering push'd the pedants off the place: Some would have spoken, but the voice was drown'd By the French horn, or by the opening hound. The first came forwards,[410] with an easy mien, As if he saw St James's[411] and the queen; 280 When thus the attendant orator begun: 'Receive, great empress! thy accomplish'd son: Thine from the birth, and sacred from the rod, A dauntless infant! never scared with God. The sire saw, one by one, his virtues wake: The mother begg'd the blessing of a rake. Thou gav'st that ripeness which so soon began, And ceased so soon—he ne'er was boy nor man; Through school and college, thy kind cloud o'ercast, Safe and unseen the young AEneas pass'd: 290 Thence bursting glorious, all at once let down, Stunn'd with his giddy 'larum half the town. Intrepid then, o'er seas and lands he flew: Europe he saw, and Europe saw him too. There all thy gifts and graces we display, Thou, only thou, directing all our way, To where the Seine, obsequious as she runs, Pours at great Bourbon's feet her silken sons; Or Tiber, now no longer Roman, rolls, Vain of Italian arts, Italian souls: 300 To happy convents, bosom'd deep in vines, Where slumber abbots, purple as their wines: To isles of fragrance, lily-silver'd vales,[412] Diffusing languor in the panting gales: To lands of singing or of dancing slaves, Love-whispering woods, and lute-resounding waves. But chief her shrine where naked Venus keeps, And Cupids ride the lion of the deeps;[413] Where, eased of fleets, the Adriatic main Wafts the smooth eunuch and enamour'd swain, 310 Led by my hand, he saunter'd Europe round, And gather'd every vice on Christian ground; Saw every court, heard every king declare His royal sense of operas or the fair; The stews and palace equally explored, Intrigued with glory, and with spirit whored; Tried all hors-d'oeuvres, all liqueurs defined, Judicious drank, and greatly-daring dined;[414] Dropp'd the dull lumber of the Latin store, Spoil'd his own language, and acquired no more; 320 All classic learning lost on classic ground; And last turned air, the echo of a sound! See now, half-cured, and perfectly well-bred, With nothing but a solo in his head; As much estate, and principle, and wit, As Jansen, Fleetwood, Cibber[415] shall think fit; Stolen from a duel, follow'd by a nun, And, if a borough choose him, not undone; See, to my country happy I restore This glorious youth, and add one Venus more. 330 Her too receive (for her my soul adores), So may the sons of sons of sons of whores Prop thine, O empress! like each neighbour throne, And make a long posterity thy own.' Pleased, she accepts the hero, and the dame Wraps in her veil, and frees from sense of shame.

Then look'd, and saw a lazy, lolling sort, Unseen at church, at senate, or at court, Of ever-listless loiterers that attend No cause, no trust, no duty, and no friend. 340 Thee, too, my Paridel![416] she marked thee there, Stretch'd on the rack of a too easy chair, And heard thy everlasting yawn confess The pains and penalties of idleness. She pitied! but her pity only shed Benigner influence on thy nodding head. But Annius,[417] crafty seer, with ebon wand, And well-dissembled emerald on his hand, False as his gems, and canker'd as his coins, Came, cramm'd with capon, from where Pollio dines. 350 Soft, as the wily fox is seen to creep, Where bask on sunny banks the simple sheep, Walk round and round, now prying here, now there, So he; but pious, whisper'd first his prayer.

'Grant, gracious goddess! grant me still to cheat,[418] Oh may thy cloud still cover the deceit! Thy choicer mists on this assembly shed, But pour them thickest on the noble head. So shall each youth, assisted by our eyes, See other Caesars, other Homers rise; 360 Through twilight ages hunt the Athenian fowl,[419] Which Chalcis gods, and mortals call an owl, Now see an Attys, now a Cecrops[420] clear, Nay, Mahomet! the pigeon at thine ear; Be rich in ancient brass, though not in gold, And keep his Lares, though his house be sold; To headless Phoebe his fair bride postpone, Honour a Syrian prince above his own; Lord of an Otho, if I vouch it true; Bless'd in one Niger, till he knows of two.' 370

Mummius[421] o'erheard him; Mummius, fool-renown'd, Who like his Cheops[422] stinks above the ground, Fierce as a startled adder, swell'd, and said, Rattling an ancient sistrum at his head;

'Speak'st thou of Syrian prince?[423] Traitor base! Mine, goddess! mine is all the horned race. True, he had wit to make their value rise; From foolish Greeks to steal them was as wise; More glorious yet, from barbarous hands to keep, When Sallee rovers chased him on the deep. 380 Then, taught by Hermes, and divinely bold, Down his own throat he risk'd the Grecian gold, Received each demi-god, with pious care, Deep in his entrails—I revered them there, I bought them, shrouded in that Irving shrine, And, at their second birth, they issue mine.'

'Witness, great Ammon![424] by whose horns I swore, (Replied soft Annius) this our paunch before Still bears them, faithful; and that thus I eat, Is to refund the medals with the meat. 390 To prove me, goddess! clear of all design, Bid me with Pollio sup, as well as dine: There all the learn'd shall at the labour stand, And Douglas[425] lend his soft, obstetric hand.'

The goddess smiling seem'd to give consent; So back to Pollio, hand in hand, they went.

Then thick as locusts blackening all the ground, A tribe, with weeds and shells fantastic crown'd, Each with some wondrous gift approach'd the power, A nest, a toad, a fungus, or a flower. 400 But far the foremost, two, with earnest zeal, And aspect ardent, to the throne appeal.

The first thus open'd: 'Hear thy suppliant's call, Great queen, and common mother of us all! Fair from its humble bed I rear'd this flower, Suckled, and cheer'd, with air, and sun, and shower; Soft on the paper ruff its leaves I spread, Bright with the gilded button tipp'd its head; Then throned in glass, and named it Caroline:[426] Each maid cried, charming! and each youth, divine! 410 Did Nature's pencil ever blend such rays, Such varied light in one promiscuous blaze? Now prostrate! dead! behold that Caroline: No maid cries, charming! and no youth, divine! And lo, the wretch! whose vile, whose insect lust Laid this gay daughter of the spring in dust. Oh, punish him, or to th' Elysian shades Dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.' He ceased, and wept. With innocence of mien, Th' accused stood forth, and thus address'd the queen: 420