To Mr POPE, ON His DUNCIAD

Fain wou'd successless Folly blame Thy matchless Works, and thee; And Envy labours to defame The Charms, she grieves to see:

Merit, like thine, by these beset, May bless their dull Designs; The sparkling Di'mond fixt in Jet, With added Lustre shines.

O! Pope, each friend kind Heav'n bestows, That can thy Fame increase: Next them, thrice happy in the Foes, 'Twere ev'n Disgrace to please!

With puny Wit, and Spite profound, The Tribe its Shame pursues; As Bees, to dart a trivial Wound, Their little Lives would lose.

'Tis theirs, with Self-condemning guilt, To level harmless Sneers: 'Tis thine, like Phoebus, where thou wilt, To fix the Ass's Ears.