Cibber and I are luckily no friends. VER. 111 in the MS.-- For song, for silence, some expect a bribe; And others roar aloud, 'Subscribe, subscribe!' Time, praise, or money, is the least they crave; Yet each declares the other fool or knave. After VER. 124 in the MS.-- But, friend, this shape, which you and Curll[118] admire Came not from Ammon's son, but from my sire:[119] And for my head, if you'll the truth excuse, I had it from my mother,[120] not the Muse. Happy, if he, in whom these frailties join'd, Had heir'd as well the virtues of the mind. After VER. 208 in the MS.-- Who, if two wits on rival themes contest, Approves of each, but likes the worst the best. After VER. 234 in the MS.-- To bards reciting he vouchsafed a nod, And snuff'd their incense like a gracious god. Our ministers like gladiators live, 'Tis half their bus'ness blows to ward, or give; The good their virtue would effect, or sense, Dies between exigents and self-defence. After VER. 270 in the MS.-- Friendships from youth I sought, and seek them still; Fame, like the wind, may breathe where'er it will. The world I knew, but made it not my school, And in a course of flattery lived no fool. After VER. 282 in the MS.-- _P_. What if I sing Augustus, great and good? _A_. You did so lately, was it understood? _P_. Be nice no more, but, with a mouth profound, As rumbling D----s or a Norfolk hound; With George and Fred'ric roughen every verse, Then smooth up all and Caroline rehearse. _A_. No--the high task to lift up kings to god Leave to court-sermons, and to birthday odes. On themes like these, superior far to thine, Let laurell'd Cibber and great Arnal shine. _P_. Why write at all? _A_. Yes, silence if you keep, The town, the court, the wits, the dunces weep. VER. 368 in the MS.-- Once, and but once, his heedless youth was bit, And liked that dangerous thing, a female wit: Safe as he thought, though all the prudent chid. He writ no libels, but my lady did: Great odds in amorous or poetic game, Where woman's is the sin, and man's the shame. After VER. 405 in the MS.-- And of myself, too, something must I say? Take then this verse, the trifle of a day. And if it live, it lives but to commend The man whose heart has ne'er forgot a friend, Or head, an author: critic, yet polite, And friend to learning, yet too wise to write. * * * * * SATIRES AND EPISTLES OF HORACE IMITATED. ADVERTISEMENT.