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. 
  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;
  Blessed with each talent and each art to please,
  And born to write, converse, and live with ease: 
  Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
  Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
  View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
  And hate for arts that caused himself to rise;
  Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
  And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
  Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
  Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
  Alike reserved to blame, or to commend,
  A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
  Dreading e’en fools, by flatterers besieged,
  And so obliging, that he ne’er obliged;
  Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
  And sit attentive to his own applause;
  While wits and Templars every sentence raise,
  And wonder with a foolish face of praise—­
  Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? 
  Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!

* * * * *

  Oh, let me live my own, and die so too! 
  (To live and die is all I have to do:)
  Maintain a poet’s dignity and ease,
  And see what friends, and read what books I please;
  Above a patron, though I condescend
  Sometimes to call a minister my friend. 
  I was not born for courts or great affairs;
  I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers;
  Can sleep without a poem in my head,
  Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead. 
  Why am I asked what next shall see the light? 
  Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write? 
  Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)
  Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save? 
  ‘I found him close with Swift.’—­’Indeed? no doubt,’
  Cries prating Balbus, ‘something will come out.’ 
  ’Tis all in vain, deny it as I will. 
  ‘No, such a genius never can lie still;’
  And then for mine obligingly mistakes
  The first lampoon Sir Will or Bubo makes. 
  Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile,
  When every coxcomb knows me by my style? 
  Cursed be the verse, how well soe’er it flow,
  That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
  Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,
  Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear! 
  But he who hurts a harmless neighbour’s