XXXVII.  SATIRE ON THE WHIG POETS.

This is practically the whole of Pope’s famous Epistle to Arbuthnot, otherwise the Prologue to the Satires.  The only portion I have omitted, in order to include in this collection one of the greatest of his satires, is the introductory lines, which are frequently dropped, as the poem really begins with the line wherewith it is represented as opening here.

  Soft were my numbers; who could take offence,
  While pure description held the place of sense? 
  Like gentle Fanny’s was my flowery theme,
  A painted mistress, or a purling stream. 
  Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;—­
  I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. 
  Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
  I never answered,—­I was not in debt. 
  If want provoked, or madness made them print,
  I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. 
    Did some more sober critic come abroad;
  If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. 
  Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
  And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. 
  Commas and points they set exactly right,
  And ’twere a sin to rob them of their mite. 
  Yet ne’er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds,
  From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds: 
  Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
  Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
  Even such small critic some regard may claim,
  Preserved in Milton’s or in Shakespeare’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. 
    Were others angry:  I excused 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 pilfered pastorals renown,
  Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown,[198]
  Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
  And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a-year;
  He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft,
  Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: 
  And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
  Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: 
  And he, whose fustian’s so sublimely bad,
  It is not poetry, but prose run mad: 
  All these, my modest satire bade translate,
  And owned that nine such poets made a Tate.[199]
  How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! 
  And swear, not Addison himself was safe. 
    Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires
  True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires;
  Blest with each talent and each art to