His learning, though a poet faid it
Before a play, would lofe no credit
Nor Pope would dare deny him wit,
Although to praise it Phillips writ.
I own, he hates an action base,
His virtues battling with his place;
Nor wants a nice difcerning fpirit
Betwixt a true and spurious merit;
Can fometimes drop a voter's claim,
And give up party to his fame.
I do the most that friendship can ;
I hate the vice-roy, love the man.
But you who, till your fortune's made,
Must be a fweetener by your trade,
Should fwear he never meant us ill
We fuffer fore against his will;
That, if we could but fee his heart,
He would have chose a milder part:
We rather should lament his cafe,
Who must obey, or lose his place.
Since this reflexion flipt your pen,
Infert it when you write again:
And, to illuftrate it, produce
This fimile for his excufe:
"So to deftroy a guilty land
"An angel fent by heaven's command,
"While he obeys almighty will,
"Perhaps may feel compassion still;
* "So when an angel by divine command," &c.
And wish the task had been affign'd "To fpirits of lefs gentle kind." But I, in politicks grown old, Whofe thoughts are of a different mould, Who from my foul fincerely hate Both kings and minifters of flate, Who look on courts with ftricter eyes To fee the feeds of vice arife,
Can lend you an allufion fitter,
Though flattering knaves may call it bitter;
Which, if you durft but give it place,
Would fhew you many a flatesman's face:
Fresh from the tripod of Apollo
I had it in the words that follow
(Take notice, to avoid offence,
I here except his excellence).
"So, to effect his monarch's ends,
"From hell a vice-ray devil afcends;
"His budget with corruptions cramm'd,
"The contributions of the damn'd;
"Which with unfparing hand he ftrows
"Through courts and fenates as he goes;
"And then at Beelzebub's black ball
"Complains his budget was too fmall."
Your fimile may better shine
In verfe; but there is truth in mine.
For no imaginable things
Can differ more than gods and kings:
And fatefmen by ten thousand odds
Are angels juft as kings are gods.
As fome raw youth in country bred,
To arms by thirst of honour led,
When at a fkirmith firft he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears,
Will duck his head afide, will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart,
Till fcaping oft' without a wound
Leffens the terror of the found;
Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
He runs into a cannon's chops.
An author thus, who pants for fame,
Begins the world with fear and shame;
When first in print you see him dread
Each pop-gun level'd at his head :
The lead yon critic's quill contains,
Is deftin'd to beat out his brains :
As if he heard loud thunders roll,
Cries, Lord, have mercy on his foul !
Concluding, that another fhot
Will strike him dead upon the fpot.
But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping,
He cannot fee one creature dropping;
That, miffing fire, or miffing aim,
His life is fafe, I mean his fame;
The danger paft, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critic in the face.
Though fplendor gives the faireft mark
To poifon'd arrows from the dark,
Yet, in yourself when smooth and round,
They glance afide without a wound.
'Tis faid, the gods try'd all their art,
How pain they might from pleasure part;
But little could their ftrength avail;
Both still are faften'd by the tail.
Thus fame and cenfure with a tether
By fate are always link'd together.
Why will you aim to be preferr'd
In wit before the common herd;
yet grow mortify'd and vex'd
the penalty annex'd ?
'Tis eminence makes envy rife;
As faireft fruits attract the flies.
Should ftupid libels grieve your mind,
You foon a remedy may find;
Lie down obfcure like other folks
Below the lafh of fnarlers' jokes.
Their faction is five hundred odds;
For every coxcomb lends them reds,
And fneers as learnedly as they,
Like females o'er their morning tea.
You fay, the Mufe will not contain,
And write you must, or break a vein.
VOL. II.
Then, if you find the terms too hard,
No longer my advice regard :
But raise your fancy on the wing;
The Irish fenate's praises fing;
How jealous of the nation's freedom,
And for corruptions, how they weed 'em ;
How each the public good purfues,
How far their hearts from private views;
Make all true patriots, up to fhoc-boys,
Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;
Thus grown a member of the club,
No longer dread the rage of Grub.
How oft' am I for rhyme to feek!
To drefs a thought, may toil a week:
And then how thankful to the town,
If all my pains will earn a crown!
Whilft every critick can devour
My work and me in half an hour.
Would men of genius cease to write,
The rogues muft die for want and fpite;
Muft die for want of food and raiment,
If fcandal did not find them payment.
How chearfully the hawkers cry
A fatire, and the gentry buy!
While my
hard-labour'd pocm pínes
Unfold upon the printer's lines.
A genius in the reverend gown
Muft ever keep its owner down;
'Tis an unnatural conjunction,
And fpoils the credit of the function.
|