Were others angry: I excus'd them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That Casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, 175 This, who can gratify? for who can _guess?_ The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half a Crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; 180 He, who still wanting, tho' 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, 185 It is not Poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest Satire bade _translate_, And own'd that nine such Poets made a _Tate_. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! And swear, not ADDISON himself was safe. 190 Peace to all such! but were there One whose fires True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires; Blest 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, 195 Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne. View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 200 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend. A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd, 205 And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Like _Cato_, give his little Senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise:-- 210 Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? What tho' my Name stood rubric on the walls Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, 215 On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I sought no homage from the Race that write; I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight: Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long) No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. 220 I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, 225 With handkerchief and orange at my side; But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.