III. ATTICUS.
Quod Te Roma legit, Rumpitur Invidia!
If meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,
I wish the Man a Dinner, and sit still;
If D---s rhymes, and raves in furious Fret,
I'll answer D---s, when I am in debt:
Hunger, not Malice, makes such Authors print,
And who'l wage War with Bedlam or the Mint?
But were there One whom better Stars conspire
To bless, whom Titan touch'd with purer Fire,
Who born with Talents, bred in Arts to please,
Was form'd to write, converse, and live, with ease:
Should 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;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil Leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Or pleas'd 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 suspitious Friend:
Fearing ev'n Fools, by Flatterers besieg'd;
And so obliging, that he ne'r oblig'd:
Who when two Wits on rival themes contest,
Approves them both, but likes the worst the best:
Like Cato, gives his little Senate Laws,
And sits attentive to his own Applause;
While Fops and Templars ev'ry Sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish Face of Praise:
What pity, Heav'n! if such a Man there be?
Who would not weep, if A---n were He?
