Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, Sappho[111] can tell you how this man was bit: This dreaded satirist Dennis will confess 370 Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress: So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhymed for Moore. Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply? Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's[112] lie. To please a mistress one aspersed his life; He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife: Let Budgell[113] charge low Grub-street on his quill, And write whate'er he pleased, except his will;[114] Let the two Curlls of town and court[115] abuse 380 His father, mother, body, soul, and Muse. Yet why that father held it for a rule, It was a sin to call our neighbour fool: That harmless mother thought no wife a whore: Hear this, and spare his family, James Moore! Unspotted names, and memorable long! If there be force in virtue, or in song. Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause, While yet in Britain honour had applause) Each parent sprung---- _A._ What fortune, pray?---- _P._ Their own, 390 And better got, than Bestia's from the throne. Born to no pride, inheriting no strife, Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,[116] Stranger to civil and religious rage, The good man walk'd innoxious through his age. No courts he saw, no suits would ever try, Nor dared an oath,[117] nor hazarded a lie. Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art, No language but the language of the heart. By nature honest, by experience wise, 400 Healthy by temperance, and by exercise; His life, though long, to sickness pass'd unknown, His death was instant, and without a groan. O grant me thus to live, and thus to die! Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I. O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine! Be no unpleasing melancholy mine: Me, let the tender office long engage, To rock the cradle of reposing age, With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, 410 Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, And keep a while one parent from the sky! On cares like these if length of days attend, May Heaven, to bless those days, preserve my friend, Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene, And just as rich as when he served a Queen. _A_. Whether that blessing be denied or given, Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heaven. * * * * * VARIATIONS. After VER. 20 in the MS.-- Is there a bard in durance? turn them free, With all their brandish'd reams they run to me: Is there a 'prentice, having seen two plays, Who would do something in his semptress' praise? VER. 29 in the first edition-- Dear Doctor, tell me, is not this a curse? Say, is their anger or their friendship worse? VER. 53 in the MS.-- If you refuse, he goes, as fates incline, To plague Sir Robert, or to turn divine. VER. 60 in the former edition--