PARODIE on the Imitation of the Second Epistle of the Second Book of HORACE

Pleasingly, Sir, you Horace still pursue; And I as pleasingly still follow you. Dear Mr Pope your Own, not Country's Friend, You rapture us with ev'ry Verse you send; But turn your Frenchman and his Boy adrift, And with one Shirt let Man and Master shift; Let 'em at Blois their Services record, Such Raggamuffins ill befit a Lord. The Town still judge you in a proper light, Whether Lampoons or Letters you indite; Sober Advice from Horace you have giv'n, Yet disavow it in the face of Heav'n. To this and other Points your quite excentric, Till you put in the Claim, then All's Authentic. The Case being stated thus 'twixt you, and I, You've here the Instance, now let me apply. Two Years ago, by Jesuitic-Arts, I was, poor Culprit, Game for Men of Parts; But whether I have been the Hunt or not, I'll frankly leave to Wilcox and to Motte, Your New Associates, Brothers of the Quill, Who push'd the Fate of your Depending Bill, The One was Typographically bred, T'other to any Craft can turn his Head. But what have Tonson, Lintot, Lawton , done, That you to Brindley, Corbet, Dodsley run? 'Tis kind indeed a Liv'ry Muse to aid, Who scribbles Farces to augment his Trade. Where You and Spence , and Glover drive the Nail The Devil's in it if the Plot should fail. From you to ask a Verse can be no Crime, The only thing you're good for is to Rime. The Story you of Anna's Days have told, Of a Pot-Valiant Soldier poor and old. May serve at Chelsea-College for Chit-Chat, Each Invalid there knows what you'd be at. And if such pretty Stories you'll rehearse, A Jest-book will sell very well in Verse. It was for Lintot's Gold that you begun To rime from Greek the wrath of Peleus' Son. Rest to your Father's Soul: who from a Lad, Taught you the Art to know the Good from Bad. All Laws by Those who smart are thought unjust, Thieves only swing poor Souls for Breach of Trust. The Pious hopes of Papists still will fail, Whilst Brunswick Rules and Hardwick holds the Scale. Thro' Life you may enjoy true Peace of Mind, Poet's-Convict, are neither Tax'd nor Fin'd. With what your Muse brings in per Annum clear, No Prince or Peer alive, will interfere. Repose, or scribble, be assur'd that Time, Will part ev'n you and me, and snatch your Rime. And ev'ry Wheel of the Satyric Mill That turns your daily Libels must stand still. You never can Relapse, for want of Grace, Is stampt upon your Soul where'er the Place. Before the Lords whene'er your Cause comes on, If Pop'ry be the Theme you'll be undone. And much you'll suffer, if you don't in Bounds. Keep in your spleenetic, ill-manner'd Sounds. Let me with Arbuthnot your Friend advise, Study to mend Mankind but not chastise, Much you can flatter when the Whim does bite, This All your Patrons know to whom you write. This Maxim's true, all Mankind will reject, Malevolence, not treat it with respect. There liv'd in primo Georgij they record, Sev'ral Large-Paper-Dupes, and each a Lord; Who in the Senate-House, and in their own, Thought you an Homer, Milton but a Drone. Howe'er 'tis granted that in bounds to roll, You can make Thoughts, keep Measure with the Soul.

Thus, for your Sake Sir, I have play'd the Fool, As Boys make random Verses when at School, And when you offer any thing that's New Wagging must be my Quill, and so Adieu.