you at Twickenham plan the future
Or turn the volumes of the wise and good,
Our fenate meets; at parties, parties bawl,
And pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall;
So rushing tides bring things obscene to light,
Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight;
The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns,
And Codrus’ prose works up, and Lico's strains.
Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high,
Where speculation roosted near the sky ;
Letters, Eslays, Sock, Buskin, Satire, Song,
And all the Garret thunders on the throng !
O Pope ! I burst; nor can, nor will, refrain ;
I'll write ; let others, in their turn, complain :
Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear
Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer ;
I 've heard myself to death ; and, plagu'd each hour,
Shan't I return the vengeance in my power ?
For who can write the true absurd like me ?-
Thy pardon, Codrus ! who, I mean, but thee ?
Pope ! if like mine, or Codrus', were thy style,
The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy file;
Merit less solid, less despite had bred;
They had not bit, and then they had not bled.
Fame is a public mistress, none enjoys,
But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys;