at those who for Subsistence write.
Summon thy Rags, invoke thy scurril Muse,
With keenest Malice _Addison_ abuse.
Sculking, the Scandal privately disperse,
(a) Then own in Prose the Baseness of thy Verse.

[Footnote a: He writ a vile Lampoon on Mr. _Addison_, and then in
a Preface owns, he deserves Respect from every Lover of Learning.]

So e're _Arachne_ to her Cell repairs,
Insidiously she weaves her glewy Snares.
Sullen, she meditates on Deaths to come,
And meliorates the Poison in her Womb.
(b) Should hapless _Clarion_ thither take his Flight,
He falls her Prey, mindful of ancient Spite.

[Footnote b: _Vide_ _Spencer_'s Fate of the Butterfly.]

With Malice swoll'n, Pride, Envy, Avarice,
Ingratitude attends this Train to Vice.
Yet one remains untold; with Lust endu'd,
Behold the Fribler lab'ring to be lewd.
Kind _Cibber_ interpos'd, forbad the Banns,
He'd peopled else this Isle with _Calibans_.

(a) The noble _Timon_, in thy waspish Strains,
A Proof of thy Ingratitude remains.
Courteous to all, munificent, humane,
Subject of others Praise, to thee of Pain.
Exalted far above thy groveling State,
The Object of his Pity, not his Hate.
He smiles at Scandal so unjustly thrown,
And at thy Malice he disdains to frown.

[Footnote a: _Vide_ a Poem on Taste.]

Thus oft we see a currish, Mungrel Crew,
A stately Mastiff eagerly pursue.
They swarm around, they yelp, they snarl, they grin,
Bold in Appearance, timerous within:
With such mean Foes he deigns not to engage,
But lifts his Leg, and pisses out their Rage.

How dar'st thou, Peasant, give thy Pen this Loose?
Becomes it thee thus madly to traduce?
The Great, the Low, the Virtuous, and the Base,
Alike are grown thy Subject of Disgrace.
Safe in thy Weakness, thou defi'st a Foe;
E'en (b) _Cibber_'s Cudgel scorn'd to stoop so low.
The Mercy of the Law restrains thy Fears;
_Coventry_'s Act secures thy Nose and Ears.
Yet there remains, to fill thy Soul with Care,
A Blanket to curvet thee in the Air.

[Footnote b: _Vide_ _Cibber_'s Letter to _Pope_.]

O wretched Life consum'd in restless Pains,
Where Dread of Punishment incessant reigns!
Poor Self-Tormentor! in whose gloomy Breast
The Vulture dwells, inhospitable Guest.
Be to my Foe no greater Curse assign'd!
Than a malignant Heart and envious Mind.

Thrice happy he! that's with