Soft in her Lap her Laureat Son reclines.
Hah! fast asleep it seems! No, that’s a little too strong. Pert and Dull at least you might have allow’d me; but as seldom asleep as any Fool.——Sure your own Eyes could not be open, when so lame and solemn a Conceit came from you: What, am I only to be Dull, and Dull still, and again, and for ever? But this, I suppose, is one of your Decies repetita placebit’s. For, in other Words, you have really said this of me ten times before—No, it must be written in a Dream, and according to Dryden’s Description of dead Midnight too, where, among other strong Images, he gives us this—
Even Lust and Envy sleep.
Now, Sir, had not Your Envy been as fast as a fat Alderman in Sermon-time, you would certainly have thrown out something more spirited than so trite a Repetition could come up to. But it is the Nature of Malevolence, it seems, when it gets a spiteful Saying by the end, not to be tired of it so soon as its Hearers are.——Well, and what then? you will say; it lets the World see at least, that you are resolv’d to write About me, and About me, to the last. In fine, Mr. Pope, this yawning Wit would make one think you had got into the Laureat’s Place, and were taking a Nap yourself.
But, perhaps, there may be a concealed Brightness in this Verse, which your Notes may more plainly illustrate: let us see then what your fictitious Friend and Flatterer Scriblerus says to it. Why, first he mangles a Paragraph which he quotes from my Apology for my own Life, Chap. 2. and then makes his particular Use of it. But as I have my Uses to make of it as well as himself, I shall beg leave to give it the Reader without his Castrations. He begins it thus,
“When I find my Name in the Satyrical Works of this Poet,” &c.
But I say,——
“When I, therefore, find my Name, at length, in the Satyrical Works of our most celebrated living Author”——
Now, Sir, I must beg your Pardon, but I cannot think it was your meer Modesty that left out the Title I have given you, because you have so often suffer’d your Friend Scriblerus (that is yourself) in your Notes to make you Compliments of a much higher Nature. But, perhaps, you were unwilling to let the Reader observe, that though you had so often befoul’d my Name in your Satyrs, I could still give you the Language due to a Gentleman, which, perhaps, at the same time too, might have put him in mind of the poor and pitiful Return you have made to it. But to go on with our Paragraph——He again continues it thus——
“I never look upon it as any Malice meant to me, but Profit to himself”——