But shall a low-born Wretch the best traduce, And call it Poetry, because Abuse? The Heav’n-born Muse, by Truth and Justice sway’d, To false Aspersions ne’er vouchsafes her Aid. When unprovok’d, not vengeful Wasps molest, Nor dart their Stings, when undisturb’d their Nest. Thy Muse, by _Virgil_’s Harpies taught to write, Scatters her Ordure in her screaming Flight; Sacred Religion and her Priests defames, And against Monarchs saucily exclames. (a) The Fathers, of our Church the surest Guides, As a poor Pack of Punsters she derides. But chief O _Cam!_ and _Isis!_ dread her Frown, (b) Chain’d to the Footstool of the Goddess’ Throne. No Order, no Degree escapes her Rage, And dull, and dull, and dull swells ev’ry Page. Thirsty, she Poison draws from ev’ry Flow’r, Like Satan, seeks whom next she may devour. [Footnote a: _Vide_ Notes on the new _Dunciad_.] [Footnote b: Goddess of Dullness.] So have I seen a Dog distracted roam; He bites, he snaps at all, disgorging Foam. The frighten’d Passenger the Danger flies, And sees the Poison flashing from his Eyes. Till some stout Dray-man dashes out his Brains, And his corrupted Blood the Kennel stains. Thy Notes pedantic shall no more engage; _Arbuthnot_’s Wit enlivens not the Page. Thy Muse, that Prostitute abandon’d Jade, Now flounders in the Mire without _Swift_’s Aid. Thy base Invectives Men no more regard; With just Disdain thy Scare-Crow Muse is heard. So when the latent Seeds their Fruits display, And gain fresh Vigour from a genial Ray: The careful Hind a monst’rous Figure frames; From various Rags unwonted Terror streams. The feather’d Choristers in Flocks retreat, And at a Distance view the tempting Bait. At length grown bold, they perch upon his Head, And with their Meute bedawb what late they fled. _B-ns-n_ abuse for raising _Milton_’s Bust, And impiously molest learn’d _Johnston_’s Dust. Religious, he the Psalms in _Latin_ sung, From hence the Malice of the Deist sprung. While with a just Derision we survey, Thy wretched Epitaph on poor _John Gay_. Had _Peter_, _Charters_ thee with Gold supply’d, _Peter_ and _Charters_ had been deify’d. But ev’ry Lord, each gen’rous Friend implore, And by Subscriptions meanly swell thy Store. When to the Town by sordid Int’rest led, Mump for a Dinner, flatter for a Bed. Then to thy Grot retire, indulge thy Spite, And rail at those who for Subsistence write. Summon thy Rags, invoke thy scurril Muse, With keenest Malice _Addison_ abuse. Sculking, the Scandal privately disperse, (a) Then own in Prose the Baseness of thy Verse. [Footnote a: He writ a vile Lampoon on Mr. _Addison_, and then in a Preface owns, he deserves Respect from every Lover of Learning.]