VER. 373, in the MS. thus--
And now transported o'er so vast a plain,
While the wing'd courser flies with all her rein,
While heavenward now her mounting wing she feels,
Now scatter'd fools fly trembling from her heels,
Wilt thou, my St John! keep her course in sight,
Confine her fury, and assist her flight?
VER. 397, in the MS. thus--
That just to find a God is all we can,
And all the study of mankind is Man.
EPISTLE TO DR ARBUTHNOT;
OR, PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.
ADVERTISEMENT.
This paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and
drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. I had no
thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and
fortune (the authors of 'Verses to the Imitator of Horace,' and of an
'Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a Nobleman at Hampton Court') to
attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings (of which,
being public, the public is judge) but my person, morals, and family,
whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite.
Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my
own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest
way to put the last hand to this epistle. If it have anything pleasing,
it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the
sentiment; and if anything offensive, it will be only to those I am
least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269