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AN EPISTLE FROM Mr. POPE, TO Dr. ARBUTHNOT.
Neque ſermonibus Vulgi dederis te, nec in Praemiis humanis ſpem poſueris rerum tuarum: ſuis te oportet illecebris ipſa Virtus trahat ad verum decus. Quid de te alii loquantur, ipſi vide⯑ant, ſed loquentur tamen.TULLY.
LONDON: Printed by J. Wright for LAWTON GILLIVER at Homer's Head in Fleetſtreet, 1734.
AN EPISTLE TO Dr. ARBUTHNOT.
[]SHUT, ſhut the door, good John! fatigu'd I ſaid,
Tye up the knocker, ſay I'm ſick, I'm dead,
The Dog-ſtar rages! nay 'tis paſt a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaſſus, is let out:
Fire in their eye, and Papers in their hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What Walls can guard me, or what Shades can hide?
They pierce my Thickets, thro' my Grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They ſtop the Chariot, and they board the Barge.
[2] No place is ſacred, not the Church is free,
Ev'n Sunday ſhines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of Ryme,
Happy! to catch me, juſt at Dinner-time.
Is there a Parſon, much be-mus'd in Beer,
A maudlin Poeteſs, a ryming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his Father's ſoul to croſs,
Who pens a Stanza when he ſhould engroſs?
Is there, who lock'd from Ink and Paper, ſcrawls
With deſp'rate Charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble ſtrain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whoſe giddy Son neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cauſe:
Poor Cornus ſees his frantic Wife elope,
And curſes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my Life, (which did not you prolong,
The World had wanted many an idle Song)
What Drop or Noſtrum can this Plague remove?
Or which muſt end me, a Fool's Wrath or Love?
A dire Dilemma! either way I'm ſped,
If Foes, they write, if Friends, they read me dead.
[3] Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be ſilent, and who will not lye;
To laugh, were want of Goodneſs and of Grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of Face.
I ſit with ſad Civility, I read
With honeſt anguiſh, and an aking head;
And drop at laſt, but in unwilling ears,
This ſaving counſel, "Keep your Piece nine years."
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane
Lull'd by ſoft Zephyrs thro' the broken Pane,
Rymes e're he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger and Requeſt of friends:
"The Piece you think is incorrect? why take it,
"I'm all ſubmiſſion, what you'd have it, make it."
Three things another's modeſt wiſhes bound,
My Friendſhip, and a Prologue, and ten Pound.
Pitholeon ſends to me: "You know his Grace,
"I want a Patron; ask him for a Place."
Pitholeon libell'd me—"but here's a Letter
"Informs you Sir, 'twas when he knew no better.
"Dare you refuſe him? Curl invites to dine,
"He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine."
[4]
Bleſs me! a Packet.—"'Tis a ſtranger ſues,
"A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muſe."
If I diſlike it, "Furies, death and rage!
If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage."
There (thank my Stars) my whole Commiſſion ends,
The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the Houſe reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it
"And ſhame the Fools—your Int'reſt, Sir, with Lintot."
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much.
"Not Sir, if you reviſe it, and retouch."
All my demurrs but double his attacks,
At laſt he whiſpers "Do, and we go ſnacks."
Glad of a quarrel, ſtrait I clap the door,
Sir, let me ſee your works and you no more.
'Tis ſung, when Midas' Ears began to ſpring,
(Midas, a ſacred Perſon and a King)
His very Miniſter who ſpy'd them firſt,
(Some ſay his* Queen) was forc'd to ſpeak, or burſt.
And is not mine, my Friend, a ſorer caſe,
When ev'ry Coxcomb perks them in my face?
[5] "Good friend forbear! you deal in dang'rous things,
"I'd never name Queens, Miniſters, or Kings;
"Keep cloſe to Ears, and thoſe let Aſſes prick,
"Tis nothing"—Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the ſecret paſs,
That Secret to each Fool, that he's an Aſs:
The truth once told, (and wherefore ſhou'd we lie?)
The Queen of Midas ſlept, and ſo may I.
You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
No creature ſmarts ſo little as a Fool.
Let Peals of Laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canſt hear the mighty Crack.
Pit, Box and Gall'ry in convulſions hurl'd,
Thou ſtand'ſt unſhook amidſt a burſting World.
Who ſhames a Scribler? break one cobweb thro',
He ſpins the ſlight, ſelf-pleaſing thread anew;
Deſtroy his Fib, or Sophiſtry; in vain,
The Creature's at his dirty work again;
Thron'd in the Centre of his thin deſigns;
Proud of a vaſt Extent of flimzy lines.
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loſt the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnaſſian ſneer?
[6] And has not C [...]lly ſtill his Lord, and Whore?
His Butchers H [...]ley, his Free-maſons M [...]r?
Does not one Table Bavius ſtill admit?
Still to one Biſhop Ph [...]ps ſeem a Wit?
Still Sapho—"Hold! nay ſee you, you'll offend:
"No Names—be calm—learn Prudence of a Friend:
"I too could write, and I am twice as tall,
"But Foes like theſe!—One Flatt'rer's worſe than all;
Of all mad Creatures, if the Learn'd are right,
It is the Slaver kills, and not the Bite.
A Fool quite angry is quite innocent;
Truſt me, 'tis ten times worſe when they repent.
One dedicates, in high Heroic proſe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes;
One from all Grubſtreet will my fame defend,
And, more abuſive, calls himſelf my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a Bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subſcribe, ſubſcribe.
There are, who to my Perſon pay their court,
I cough like Horace, and tho' lean, am ſhort,
[7] Ammon's great Son one ſhoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's noſe, and "Sir! you have an Eye—
Go on, obliging Creatures, make me ſee
All that diſgrac'd my Betters, met in me:
Say for my comfort, languiſhing in bed,
"Juſt ſo immortal Maro held his head:
And when I die, be ſure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thouſand years ago.
Why did I write? what ſin to me unknown
Dipt me in Ink, my Parent's, or my own?
As yet a Child, nor yet a Fool to Fame,
I liſp'd in Numbers, for the Numbers came.
I left no Calling for this idle trade,
No Duty broke, no Father diſ-obey'd.
The Muſe but ſerv'd to eaſe ſome Friend, not Wife,
To help me thro' this long Diſeaſe, my Life,
To ſecond, ARBURTHNOT! thy Art and Care,
And teach, the Being you preſerv'd, to bear.
But why then publiſh? Granville the polite,
And knowing Walſh, would tell me I could write;
[8] Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praiſe,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my Lays;
The Courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,
Ev'n mitred Rocheſter would nod the head,
With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.
Happy my Studies, when by theſe approv'd!
Happier their Author, when by theſe belov'd!
From theſe the world will judge of Men and Books,
Soft were my Numbers, who could take offence
While pure Deſcription held the place of Senſe?
Like gentle Damon's was my flow'ry Theme,
A painted Miſtreſs, or a purling Stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wiſh'd the man a dinner, and ſate ſtill:
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never anſwer'd, I was not in debt:
If want provok'd, or madneſs made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
[9]
Did ſome more ſober Critics come abroad?
If wrong, I ſmil'd; if right, I kiſs'd the rod.
Pains, reading, ſtudy, are their juſt pretence,
And all they want is ſpirit, taſte, and ſenſe.
Comma's and points they ſet exactly right,
And 'twere a ſin to rob them of their Mite.
Yet ne'r one ſprig of Laurel grac'd theſe ribalds,
From ſlaſhing B [...]ley down to pidling T [...]ds.
The Wight who reads not, and but ſcans and ſpells,
The Word-catcher that lives on ſyllables,
Such piece-meal Critics ſome regard may claim,
Preſerv'd in Milton's or in Shakeſpear's name.
Pretty! in Amber to obſerve the forms
Of hairs, or ſtraws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms;
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the Devil they got there?
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,
This, who can gratify? for who can gueſs?
[10] The Bard whom pilf'red 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:
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,
It is not Poetry, but Proſe run mad:
All theſe, my modeſt Satire bid tranſlate,
And own'd, that nine ſuch Poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and ſtamp, and roar, and chafe?
How did they ſwear, not Addiſon was ſafe.
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:
Shou'd ſuch a man, too fond to rule alone,
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;
[11] Damn with faint praiſe, aſſent with civil leer,
And without ſneering, teach the reſt to ſneer;
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,
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 Templers ev'ry ſentence raiſe,
And wonder with a fooliſh face of praiſe.
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 ſmoaking forth, a hundred Hawkers load,
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-rym'd ſo long)
No more than Thou, great GEORGE! a Birth-day Song.
[12] I ne'r with Wits and Witlings paſt 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,
With Handkerchief and Orange at my ſide:
But ſick of Fops, and Poetry, and Prate,
To Bufo left the whole Caſtalian State.
Proud, as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill;
Fed with ſoft Dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand in hand in ſong.
His Library, (where Buſts of Poets dead
And a true Pindar ſtood without a head)
Receiv'd of Wits an undiſtinguiſh'd race,
Who firſt his Judgment ask'd, and then a Place:
Much they extoll'd the Pictures, much the Seat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and ſome days eat:
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He pay'd ſome Bards with Port, and ſome with Praiſe,
To ſome a dry Rehearſal was aſſign'd,
And others (harder ſtill) he pay'd in kind.
[13]
May ſome choice Patron bleſs each gray gooſe quill!
May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo ſtill!
So, when a Stateſman wants a Day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole Week's war with Senſe,
Or ſimple Pride for Flatt'ry makes demands;
May Dunce by Dunce be whiſtled off my hands!
Bleſt be the Great! for thoſe they take away,
And thoſe they leave me—For they left me GAY,
Left me to ſee neglected Genius bloom,
Neglected die! and tell it on his Tomb;
Of all thy blameleſs Life the ſole Return
My Verſe, and QUEENSB'RY weeping o'er thy Urn!
Give me on Thames's Banks, in honeſt Eaſe,
To ſee what Friends, or read what Books I pleaſe;
There let me live my own, and die ſo too,
"To live and die is all I have to do!"
Above a Patron, tho' I condeſcend
Sometimes to call a Miniſter my Friend:
I was not born for Courts or great Affairs,
I pay my Debts, believe, and go to Pray'rs,
Can ſleep without a Poem in my head,
Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.
Why am I ask'd, what next ſhall ſee the light?
Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write?
[14] Has Life no Joys for me? or (to be grave)
Have I no Friend to ſerve, no Soul to ſave?
"I found him cloſe with Swift—Indeed? no doubt
(Cries prating Balbus) "ſomething will come out."
'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will.
"No, ſuch a Genius never can lye ſtill,"
And then for mine obligingly miſtakes
The firſt Lampoon Sir Will. or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltleſs I! and can I chuſe but ſmile,
When ev'ry Coxcomb knows me by my Style?
Curſt be the Verſe, how well ſoe'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy Man my foe,
Give Virtue ſcandal, Innocence a fear,
Or from the ſoft-ey'd Virgin ſteal a tear!
But he, who hurts a harmleſs neighbour's peace,
Inſults fal'n Worth, or Beauty in diſtreſs,
Who loves a Lye, lame ſlander helps about,
Who writes a Libel, or who copies out:
The Fop whoſe pride affects a Patron's name,
Yet abſent, wounds an Author's honeſt fame;
Who can your Merit ſelfiſhly approve,
And ſhow the Senſe of it, without the Love;
Who has the Vanity to call you Friend,
Yet wants the Honour injur'd to defend;
[15] Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you ſay,
And, if he lyes not, muſt at leaſt betray:
And ſees at Cannons what was never there:
Who reads but with a Luſt to miſ-apply,
Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lye.
A Laſh like mine no honeſt man ſhall dread,
But all ſuch babling blockheads in his ſtead.
Let Paris tremble—"What? that Thing of ſilk,
"Paris, that mere white Curd of Aſs's milk?
"Satire or Shame alas! can Paris feel?
"Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel?"
Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings,
This painted Child of Dirt that ſtinks and ſtings;
Whoſe Buzz the Witty and the Fair annoys,
Yet Wit ne'er taſtes, and Beauty ne'er enjoys,
So well-bred Spaniels civilly delight
In mumbling of the Game they dare not bite.
Eternal Smiles his Emptineſs betray,
As ſhallow ſtreams run dimpling all the way.
Whether in florid Impotence he ſpeaks,
And, as the Prompter breathes, the Puppet ſqueaks;
Half Froth, half Venom, ſpits himſelf abroad,
In Puns, or Politicks, or Tales, or Lyes,
Or Spite, or Smut, or Rymes, or Blaſphemies.
Did ever Smock-face act ſo vile a Part?
A trifling Head, and a corrupted Heart!
Eve's Tempter thus the Rabbins have expreſt,
A Cherub's face, a Reptile all the reſt;
Beauty that ſhocks you, Parts that none will truſt,
Wit that can creep, and Pride that licks the duſt.
Not Fortune's Worſhipper, nor Faſhion's Fool,
Nor Lucre's Madman, nor Ambition's Tool,
Nor proud, nor ſervile, be one Poet's praiſe
That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways;
That Flatt'ry, ev'n to Kings, he held a ſhame,
And thought a Lye in Verſe or Proſe the ſame:
In Fancy's Maze that wand'ring not too long,
He ſtoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his ſong:
That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,
He ſtood the furious Foe, the timid Friend,
The damning Critic, half-approving Wit,
The Coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
[17] Laugh'd at the loſs of Friends he never had,
The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
The Tales of Vengeance; Lyes ſo oft o'erthrown;6
The imputed Traſh,7 the Dulneſs not his own;
The Morals blacken'd when the Writings ſcape;
The libel'd Perſon, and the pictur'd Shape;
Th' Abuſe on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, ſpread,8
A Friend in Exile, or a Father, dead;
The Whiſper that to Greatneſs ſtill too near,
Perhaps, yet vibrates on his SOVEREIGN'S Ear—
Welcome for thee, fair Virtue! all the paſt:
For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the laſt!
"But why inſult the Poor, affront the Great?"
A Knave's a Knave, to me, in ev'ry State,
Alike my ſcorn, if he ſucceed or fail,
Glencus at Court, or Japhet in a Jayl,
A hireling Scribler, or a hireling Peer,
Knight of the Poſt corrupt, or of the Shire,
If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
He gain his Prince's Ear, or loſe his own.
[18]
Yet ſoft by Nature, more a Dupe than Wit,
Sapho can tell you how this Man was bit:
This dreaded Sat'riſt Dennis will confeſs
Foe to his Pride, but Friend to his Diſtreſs:
So humble, he has knock'd at T [...]b [...]ld's door,
Has drank with C [...]r, nay has rym'd for M [...]r.
Full ten years ſlander'd,9 did he once reply?
Three thouſand Suns went down on Welſted's Lye:10
To pleaſe a Miſtreſs, One aſpers'd his life;
He laſh'd him not, but let her be his Wife:
Let Budgel charge low Grubſtreet on his quill,
And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will;
Let the Two Curls of Town and Court, abuſe
His Father, Mother, Body, Soul, and Muſe.11.
[19] 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 M *
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—"What Fortune, pray?—Their own,
And better got than Beſtia's from a Throne.
Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife,
Nor marrying Diſcord in a Noble Wife,
Stranger to Civil and Religious Rage,
The good Man walk'd innoxious thro' his Age.
No Courts he ſaw, no Suits would ever try,
Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lye:
Un-learn'd, he knew no Schoolman's ſubtle Art,
No Language, but the Language of the Heart.
[30] By Nature honeſt, by Experience wiſe,
Healthy by Temp'rance and by Exerciſe:
His Life, tho' long, to ſickneſs paſt unknown,
His Death was inſtant, and without a groan.
Oh grant me thus to live, and thus to die!
Who ſprung from Kings ſhall know leſs joy than I.
O Friend! may each Domeſtick 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,
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 Heav'n, to bleſs thoſe days, preſerve my Friend,
Preſerve him ſocial, chearful, and ſerene,
And juſt as rich as when he ſerv'd a QUEEN!
Whether that Bleſſing be deny'd, or giv'n,
Thus far was right, the reſt belongs to Heav'n.
Notes
*
The Story is told by ſome of his Barber, but by Chaucer of his Queen. See Wife of Bath's Tale in Dryden's Fables.
†
All theſe were Patrons or Admirers of Mr. Dryden, tho' a ſcandalous Libel againſt him, entituled, Dryden's Satyr to his Muſe, has been printed in the Name of the Lord Somers, of which he was wholly ignorant.
*
Authors of ſecret and ſcandalous Hiſtory.
*
See the Epiſtle to the Earl of Burlington.
*
In the fourth Book of Milton, the Devil is repreſented in this Poſture. It is but juſtice to own, that the Hint of Eve and the Serpent was taken from the Verſes on the Imitator of Horace.
6
Lies ſo oft o'erthrown.] Such as thoſe in relation to Mr. A [...], that Mr. P. writ his Character after his death, &c. that he ſet his Name to Mr. Broom's Verſes, that he receiv'd Subſcriptions for Shakeſpear, &c. which tho' publickly diſprov'd by the Teſtimonies prefix'd to the Dunciad, were nevertheleſs ſhameleſly repeated in the Libels, and even in the Paper call'd, The Nobleman's Epiſtle.
7
Th' imputed Traſh.] Profane Pſalms, Court Poems, and many Libellous Things in his Name, printed by Curl, &c.
8
Abuſe on all he lov'd, or lov'd him ſpread.] Namely on the Duke of Buckingham, Earl of Burlington, Biſhop Atterbury, Dr. Swift, Mr. Gay, Dr. Arbuthnot, his Friends, his Parents, and his very Nurſe, aſpers'd in printed Papers.
9
Ten Years.] It was ſo long, before the Author of the Dunciad publiſhed that Poem, till when, he never writ a word of the many Scurrilities and Falſe⯑hoods concerning him.
10
Welſted's Lye.] This Man had the Impudence to tell in print, that Mr. P. had occaſion'd a Lady's death, and to name a perſon he never heard of. He alſo publiſh'd that he had libell'd the Duke of Chandos; with whom (it was added) that he had liv'd in familiarity, and receiv'd from him a Preſent of five hundred pounds: The Falſehood of which is known to his Grace, whom Mr. P. never had the honour to ſee but twice, and never receiv'd any Preſent farther than the Subſcription for Homer, from him, or from Any Great Man whatſoever.
Budgel in a Weekly Pamphlet call'd the Bee, beſtow'd much abuſe on him, in the imagination that he writ ſome things about the Laſt Will of Dr. Tindal, in the Grubſtreet Journal; a Paper wherein he never had the leaſt Hand, Direction, or Superviſal, nor the leaſt knowledge of its Authors. He took no notice of ſo frantick an Abuſe; and expected that any man who knew himſelf Author of what he was ſlander'd for, would have juſtify'd him on that Article.
11
His Father, Mother, &c.] In ſome of Curl's and other Pamphlets, Mr. Pope's Father was ſaid to be a Mechanic, a Hatter, a Farmer, nay a Bankrupt. But, what is ſtranger, a Nobleman (if ſuch a Reflection can be thought to come from a Nobleman) has dropt an Alluſion to this pitiful Untruth, in his Epiſtle to a Doctor of Divinity: And the following Line, had fallen from a like Courtly pen, in the Verſes to the Imitator of Horace. Mr. Pope's Father was of a Gentleman's Family in Oxfordſhire, the Head of which was the Earl of Downe, whoſe ſole Heireſs married the Earl of Lind⯑ſey.—His Mother was the Daughter of William Turnor, Eſq; of York: She had three Brothers, one of whom was kill'd, another died in the Service of King Charles, the eldeſt following his Fortunes, and becoming a General Of⯑ficer in Spain, left her what Eſtate remain'd after the Sequeſtrations and For⯑feitures of her Family—Mr. Pope died in 1717, aged 75; She in 1733, aged 93, a very few Weeks after this Poem was finiſhed.
Hard as thy Heart, and as thy Birth Obſcure,
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3674 An epistle from Mr Pope to Dr Arbuthnot. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-60D2-A