llo, still 'tis mine
To give the real laurel:
For that my Pope, my son divine,
Of rivals ends the quarrel.
But guessing who would have the luck
To be the birth-day fibber,
I thought of Dennis, Tibbald, Duck,
But never dreamt of Cibber!"--ED.

[220] It may be reasonably doubted, however, if vanity had not
something to do with this--the vanity of appearing as a
philosophical writer, and astonishing the friends who had
considered him only as a good comedian. The volume was
magnificently printed in quarto on fine paper, "for the
author," in 1747. It is entitled, "The Character and Conduct
of Cicero Considered, from the History of his Life by the Rev.
Dr. Middleton; with occasional Essays and Observations upon
the most Memorable Facts and Persons during that Period." The
entire work is a series of somewhat too-familiar notes on the
various passages of "Cicero's Life and Times," as narrated by
Middleton. He terms the unsettled state after the death of
Sylla "an uncomfortable time for those sober citizens who had
a mind and a right to be quiet." His professional character
breaks forth when he speaks of Roscius instructing Cicero in
acting; and in the very commencement of his grave labour he
rambles back to the theatre to quote a scene from Vanbrugh's
_Relapse_, as a proof how little fashionable readers _think_
while they _read_. Colley's well-meaning but free-and-easy
reflections on the gravities of Roman history, in the progress
of his work, are remarkable, and have all the author's coarse
common sense, but very little depth or refinement--ED.

[221] With what good-humour he retorts a piece of sly malice of
Pope's; who, in the notes to the _Dunciad_, after quoting
Jacob's account of Cibber's talents, adds--"Mr. Jacob omitted
to remark that he is particularly admirable in tragedy." To
which Cibber rejoins--"Ay, sir, and your remark has omitted,
too, that (with all his commendations) I can't dance upon the
rope, or make a saddle, nor play upon the organ. My dear, dear
Mr. Pope, how could a man of your stinging capacity let so
tame, so low a reflection escape him? Why, this hardly rises
above the petty malice