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His undisputed rights extend
Through all the lane, from end to end;
The neighbors round admire his shrewdness
For songs of loyalty and lewdness;
Outdone by none in rhyming well,
Although he never learn'd to spel'

Two bordering wits contend for glory;
And one is Whig, and one is Tory:
And this for epics claims the bays,
And that for elegiac lays :

Some fam'd for numbers soft and smooth,
By lovers spoke in Punch's booth;
And some as justly fame extols
For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls.
Bavius in Wapping gains renown,
And Mævius reigns o'er Kentish-town:
Tigellius, plac'd in Phoebus' car,
From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar;
Harmonious Cibber entertains
The court with annual birth-day strains;
Whence Gay was banish'd in disgrace;
Where Pope will never show his face;
Where Young must torture his invention
To flatter knaves, or lose his pension.

But these are not a thousandth part
Of jobbers in the poet's art,
Attending each his proper station,
And all in dae subordination,
Through every alley to be found,
In garrets high, or under ground;
And when they join their pericranies,
Out skips a book of miscellanies.
Hobbes clearly proves that every creature
Lives in a state of war by nature.
The greater for the smallest watch,
But meddle seldom with their match.
A whale of moderate size will draw
A shoal of herrings down his maw;
A fox with geese his belly crams;
A wolf destroys a thousand lambs:
But search among the rhyming race,
The brave are worried by the base.
If on Parnassus' top you sit,
You rarely bite, are always bit.
Each poet of inferior size
On you shall rail and criticise,
And strive to tear you limb from limb;
While others do as much for him.

The vermin only tease and pinch Their foes superior by an inch. So, naturalists observe, a flea Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; And these have smaller still to bite 'em, And so proceed ad infinitum. Thus every poet in his kind Is bit by him that comes behind : Who, though too little to be seen, Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; Call dunces fools and sons of whores, Lay Grub-street at each other's doors; Extol the Greek and Roman masters, And curse our modern poetasters; Complain, as many an ancient bard did, How genius is no more rewarded; How wrong a taste prevails among us; How much our ancestors outsung us; Can personate an awkward scorn For those who are not poets born; And all their brother-dunces lash, Who crowd the press with hourly trash.

O Grub-street! how do I bemoan thee, Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! Their filial piety forgot,

Deny their country, like a Scot;
Though, by their idiom and grimace,
They soon betray their native place.
Yet thou hast greater cause to be
Asham'd of them, than they of thee,
Degenerate from their ancient brood,
Since first the court allow'd them food.
Remains a difficulty still,

To purchase fame by writing ill.
From Flecknoe down to Howard's time,
How few have reach'd the low sublime!
For when our high-born Howard died,
Blackmore alone his place supplied:
And, lest a chasm should intervene,
When death had finish'd Blackmore's reign,
The leaden crown devolv'd to thee,
Great poet of the hollow tree.
But ah! how insecure thy throne!
A thousand bards thy right disown:
They plot to turn, in factious zeal,
Duncinia to a commonweal;
And with rebellious arms pretend
An equal privilege to descend.

In bulk there are not more degrees
From elephants to mites in cheese,
Than what a curious eye may trace
In creatures of the rhyming race.
From bad to worse, and worse, they fall;
But who can reach the worst of all?

For though, in nature, depth and height Are equally held infinite;

In poetry, the height we know ;
"Tis only infinite below.

For instance: when you rashly think,
No rhymer can like Welsted sink,
His merits balanc'd, you shall find
The laureate leaves him far behind.
Concannen, more aspiring bard,
Soars downwards deeper by a yard.
Smart Jemmy Moor with vigor drops:
The rest pursue as thick as hops.
With heads to points the gulf they enter,
Link'd perpendicular to the centre;
And, as their heels elated rise,

Their heads attempt the nether skies.
Oh, what indignity and shame,
To prostitute the Muse's name!

By flattering kings, whom Heaven design'd
The plagues and scourges of mankind;
Bred up in ignorance and sloth,
And every vice that nurses both.

Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, Whose virtues bear the strictest test; Whom never faction could bespatter, Nor minister nor poet flatter; What justice in rewarding merit! What magnanimity of spirit! What lineaments divine we trace Through all his figure, mien, and face! Though peace with olive bind his hands, Confess'd the conquering hero stands. Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges, Dread from his hand impending changes. From him the Tartar and Chinese, Short by the knees, entreat for peace. The consort of his throne and bed, A perfect goddess born and bred,

Appointed sovereign judge to sit
On learning, eloquence, and wit.
Our eldest hope, divine Iülus,
(Late, very late, oh may he rule us!)
What early manhood has he shown,
Before his downy beard was grown!
Then think, what wonders will be done,
By going on as he begun,

An heir for Britain to secure

As long as Sun and Moon endure.

The remnant of the royal blood Comes pouring on me like a flood: Bright goddesses, in number five; Duke William, sweetest prince alive. Now sing the minister of state, Who shines alone without a mate. Observe with what majestic port This Atlas stands to prop the court: Intent the public debts to pay, Like prudent Fabius, by delay. Thou great vicegerent of the king, Thy praises every Muse shall sing! In all affairs thou sole director, Of wit and learning chief protector; Though small the time thou hast to spare, The church is thy peculiar care. Of pious prelates what a stock You choose, to rule the sable flock! You raise the honor of the peerage, Proud to attend you at the steerage. You dignify the noble race, Content yourself with humbler place. Now, learning, valor, virtue, sense, To titles give the sole pretence. St. George beheld thee with delight Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, When on thy breasts and sides Herculean He fix'd the star and string cerulean.

Say, poet, in what other nation Shone ever such a constellation! Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, And tune your harps, and strow your bays: Your panegyrics here provide; You cannot err on flattery's side. Above the stars exalt your style, You still are low ten thousand mile. On Lewis, all his bards bestow'd Of incense many a thousand load; But Europe mortified his pride, And swore the fawning rascals lied. Yet what the world refus'd to Lewis, Applied to George, exactly true is. Exactly true! invidious poet! "Tis fifty thousand times below it.

Translate me now some lines, if you can,
From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan.
They could all power in Heaven divide,
And do no wrong on either side;
They teach you how to split a hair,
Give George and Jove an equal share.
Yet why should we be lac'd so straight?
I'll give my monarch butter-weight.
And reason good; for many a year
Jove never intermeddled here:
Nor, though his priests be duly paid,
Did ever we desire his aid;

We now can better do without him,
Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him.
Cætera desiderantur.

In imitation of Virgil's Georgics.-1710.
CAREFUL observers may foretell the hour
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower.
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.

| Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then go not far to dine;
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.

Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope :
Such is that sprinkling which some careless
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she, singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn'd th' unequal strife,
But aided by the wind, fought still for life;
And, wafted with its foe by violent gust,
"Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
Sole coat! where dust cemented by the rain
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!

Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deluge this devoted town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within. So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go: Filths of all hues and odors seem to tell What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force, From Smithfield or St. 'Pulchre's shape their course, And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge. Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.


Sent to him when in the Tower, 1617.
How blest is he who for his country dies,
Since Death pursues the coward as he flies!
The youth in vain would fly from fate's attack,
With trembling knees and terror at his back;
Though fear should lend him pinions like the wind,
Yet swifter fate will seize him from behind.

Virtue repuls'd, yet knows not to repine,
But shall with unattainted honor shine;
Nor stoops to take the staff,* nor lays it down,
Just as the rabble please to smile or frown.

Virtue, to crown her favorites, loves to try
Some new unbeaten passage to the sky;
Where Jove a seat among the gods will give
To those who die for meriting to live.


Next, faithful silence hath a sure Within our breast be every secret barr'd! He who betrays his friend, shall never be Under one roof, or in one ship, with me. For who with traitors would his safety trust, Lest, with the wicked, Heaven involve the just? And, though the villain 'scape awhile, he feels Slow vengeance, like a blood-hound, at his heels.



To their excellencies the lords justices of Ireland,† the humble petition of Frances Harris, Who must starve, and die a maid, if it miscarries;

Humbly showeth,

That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber, because I was cold;

And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, besides farthings, in money and gold: So, because I had been buying things for my lady last night,

I was resolv'd to tell my money, to see if it was right. Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock,

I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next to my smock.

So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was unript, And, instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt; Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed; And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead.

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Pugh! said I, but that's not the business that I ail. Says Cary, says he, I have been a servant this fiveand-twenty years, come spring,

And in all the places I liv'd, I never heard of such a thing.

Yes, says the steward,** I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's, Such a thing as this happen'd just about the time of gooseberries.

So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief,

(Now, you must know, of all things in the world, I hate a thief.)

However, I am resolv'd to bring the discourse slily about;


Dukes, said I, here's an ugly accident has happen'd out:

"Tis not

that I value the money three skips of a louse ;tt But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house.

"Tis true,

seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence,
makes a great hole in my wages:
as they say, service is no inheritance in
these ages.

*Wife to one of the footmen.

† Earl of Berkeley's valet. The old deaf housekeeper. § Galway.

The Earl of Drogheda, who, with the primate, was to succeed the two earls.

TT Clerk of the kitchen.

** Ferris.

†† An usual saying of hers.

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Hard exercise and harder fare
Soon make my dame grow lank and spare:
Her body light, she tries her wings,
And scorns the ground, and upward springs;
While all the parish, as she flies,
Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.

Such is the poet fresh in pay (The third night's profits of his play); His morning-draughts till noon can Among his brethren of the quill; With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight, What poet e'er could take his flight? Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat, What poet e'er could sing a note? Nor Pegasus could bear the load Along the high celestial road;

The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth,
To raise the lumber from the Earth.
But view him in another scene,
When all his drink is Hippocrene,
His money spent, his patrons fail,
His credit out for cheese and ale;
His two-years' coat so smooth and bare,
Through every thread it lets in air;
With hungry meals his body pin'd,
His guts and belly full of wind;
And, like a jockey for a race,
His flesh brought down to flying case:
Now his exalted spirit lothes
Encumbrances of food and clothes;
And up he rises, like a vapor,
Supported high on wings of paper;
He singing flies, and flying sings,
While from below all Grub-street rings.
2 L

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