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PROLOGUE

By Mr. POPE,

To a Play for Mr. DENNIS'S Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great Distress, a little before his Death.

As

S when that Hero, who in each Campaign, Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal flain, Lay Fortune-ftruck, a spectacle of Woe! Wept by each Friend, forgiv'n by ev'ry Foe: Was there a gen'rous, a reflecting mind, But pitied BELISARIUS old and blind? Was there a Chief but melted at the Sight? A common Soldier, who but clubb'd his Mite?

NOTES.

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VER. 6. But pitied Belifarius, etc.] Nothing was ever more happily imagined than this allufion, or finelier conducted. And the continued pleafantry fo delicately touched, that it took nothing from the self fatisfaction the Critic had in his merit, or the Audience in their charity. With fo much maftery has the Poet executed, in this benevolent irony, that which he fuppofed Dennis himself, had he the wit to fee, would have the ingenuity to own: This dreaded Sat'rift, Dennis will confefs, Foe to his pride, but Friend to his Difirefs. VER. 7. Was there a Chief, etc.] The fine figure of the Commander in that capital Picture of Belifarius at Chifwick, fupplied the Poet with this beautiful idea.

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Such, fuch emotions fhould in Britons rife,

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When prefs'd by want and weakness DENNIS lies;
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
A defp'rate Bulwark, fturdy, firm, and fierce
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verse :

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How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And fhook the ftage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain PRETENDER's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the POPE!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, 19
Who holds Dragoons and wooden fhoes in fcorn;
If there's a Critic of diftinguifh'd rage;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to night his just affistance lend,

And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend,

NOTES.

VER. 12. Their Quibbles routed and defy'd their Puns ;} See Dunciad, Note on v. 63. B. I.

VER. 13. A defp'rate Bulwark, etc.] See Dunc. Note on v. 268. B. II.

VER. 16. And hook the Stage with Thunders all hiş own!] See Dunc. Note on v. 226. B. II.

VER. 17. Stood up to dash, etc.] See Dunc. Note on V. 173. B. III.

VER. 18. Maul the French Tyrant-] See Dunc. Note on v. 413. B. II.

Ibid. or pull down the POPE !] See Dunc. Note on v. 63. B. I.

VER. 21. If there's a critic of diftinguish'd rage,] See Dunc. Notes on v. 106. B. I,

MACER

MACE R:

A

CHARACTER.

HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,

WH
W Firft fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,

'Twas all th' Ambition his high foul could feel,
To wear red ftockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some Ends of verfe his Betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Set up with thefe, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd Play, out-did poor Crown.
There he stop'd short, nor fince has writ a tittle,
But has the wit to make the most of little :
Like ftunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.

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Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends. 14
So fome coarfe Country Wench, almoft decay'd,
Trudges to town, and firft turns Chambermaid;
Aukward and supple, each devoir to pay ;
She flatters her good Lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honeft, tho' of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity:

In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:.
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.

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24.

Το

(58)

To Mr. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR of the celebrated W OR MPOWDER.

OW much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!

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Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,

All Humankind are Worms.

Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, Reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then fhrinks to earth again.

That Woman is a Worm, we find
E're fince our Grandame's evil?
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient Worm, the Devil.

The Learn'd themfelves we Book-worms name,
The Blockhead is a Slow-worm;
The Nymph whofe tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm:

The Fops are painted Butterflies,

That flutter for a day;

Firft from a Worm they take their rise,

And in a Worm decay.

The

The Flatterer an Earwig grows;
Thus Worms fuit all conditions;

Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus,

And Death-watches Physicians.

That Statesmen have the Worm, is feen,

By all their winding-play;

Their Confcience is a Worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.

Ah Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rife,

If thou could'ft make the Courtier void
The Worm that never dies!

O learned Friend of Abchurch-Lane,
Who fett'ft our entrails free?

Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain,
Since Worms fhall eat ev'n thee.

Our Fate thou only can'ft adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms fhall turn,
Who Maggots were before.

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