Who ftrictly faft, because they find,
The flesh ftill wars against the mind,
And flesh of faints, like finner's, must
Be mortified, to keep down luft;
Who, four times in the year at least,
Join feaft of love to love of feaft,
Which, though the profligate and vain
In terms of blafphemy prophane,
Yet all the ceremony here is
Pure as the mysteries of Ceres;
Who, God's elect, with triumph feel
Within themselves falvation's feal,
And will not, muft not, dare not doubt,
That heav'n itself cant blot it out;
After they've done their holy labours,
Return to fcandalize their neighbours,
And think they can't serve heav'n fo well,
As with its creatures filling hell:
So that, inflam'd with holy pride,
They fave themselves, damn all befide,
For perfons, who pretend to feel
The glowings of uncommon zeal,
Who others fcorn, and feem to be
Righteous in very great degree,
Do, 'bove all others, take delight
To vent their spleen in tales of fpite,
And think they raise their own renown
By pulling of a neighbour's down;
Still lying on with most fuccefs,
Because they charity profess,
And make the outfide of religion,
Like Mahomet's infpiring pigeon,
To all their forgeries gain credit,
'Tis enough fure that-
But what can all this rambling mean?
Was ever fuch an hodge-podge feen?
VENUS, CECILIA, Saints, and whores,
Thomas, Vertù, Bells, Knockers, Doors,
Lords, Rogues, Relations, Ladies, Cits,
Stars, Flambeaux, Thunderbolts, Horns, Wits,
Vulcan, and Cuckold-maker, Scandal,
Mufic, and Footmen, Ear of Handel,
Weather, News, Envy, Politicks,
Intrigues, and Women's Thousand Tricks
Prudes, Methodists and Devotees,
Faftings, Feafts, Pray'rs, and Charities,
Ceres, with her myfterious train,
Flesh, Spirit, Love, Hate and Religon,
A Quail, a Raven and a Pigeon,
All jumbled up in one large dish,
Red-Herring, Bread, Fowl, Flesh, and Fish.
Where's the connection, where's the plan
The devil fure is in the man.
All in an inftant we are hurl'd
From place to place all round the world,
Yet find no reafon for it-mum-
There, my good critic, lies the hum-
Well but me thinks, it would avail
To know the end of this A TALE
AN EPISTLE TO MR. GARRICK.
HANKS to much industry and pains,
Tranflation has unlock'd the ftore,
And spread abroad the Grecian lore,
While Sophocles his scenes are grown
E'en as familiar as ourown.
No more shall tafte presume to speak
From its inclofures in the Greek;
But, all its fences broken down.
Lie at the mercy of the town.
Critic, I hear thy torrent rage, "Tis blafphemy against that stage, "Which Æfchylus his warmth defign'd, "Euripides his tafte refin'd,
"And Sophocles his laft direction,
"Stamp'd with the fignet of perfection."
Perfection! 'tis a word ideal,
That bears about it nothing real:
For excellence was never hit
In the firft effays of man's wit.
Shall ancient worth, or ancient fame
Preclude the Moderns from their claim?
Muft they be blockheads, dofts, and fools, Who write not up to Grecian rules?
Who tread in bufkins or in focks.
Muft they be damn'd as Heterodox,
Nor merit of good works prevail,
Except within the claffic pale ?
'Tis ftuff that bears the name of knowledge,
Not current half a mile from college;
Where half their lectures yield no more
(Befure I fpeak of times of yore)
Than juft a niggard light, to mark
How much we all are in the dark:
As ruhlights in a fpacious room,
Juft burn enough to form a gloom.
When Shakspeare leads the mind a dance From France to England, hence to France, Talk not to me of time and place ;
I own I'm happy in the chace.
Whether the drama's here or there,
'Tis nature, Shakspeare, every where.
The poet's fancy can create,
Contract, enlarge, annihilate,
Bring paft and present close together,
In fpite of distance, feas, or weather
And fhut up in a single action
What coft whole years in its tranfaction
So, ladies at a play, or rout,
Can flirt the universe about.
Whofe geographical account
Is drawn and pictured on the mount:
Yet, when they please; contract the plays
And fhut the world up in a fan.
True Genius, like Armida's wand,
Can raife the fpring from barren land,
While all the art of Imitation,
Is pilf'ring from the first creation
Transplanting flowers, with useless toil;
Which wither in a foreign foil.
As confcience often fets us right
By its interior active light,
Without th' affiftance of the laws
To combat in the moral caufe;
So Genius, of itself discerning,
Without the myftic rules of learning,
Can, from its prefent intuition,
Stike at the truth of compofition.
Yet those who breathe the claffic vein,
Enlifted in the mimic train,
Who ride their fteed with double bit,
Ne'er run away with by their wit,
Delighted with the pomp of rules,
The fpecious pedantry of schools,
(Which rules, like crutches, ne'er became
Of any ufe but to the lame,)
Purfue the method fet before 'em ;
Talk much of order, and decorum,
Of probability of fiction,
Of manners, ornament, and diction,
And with a jargon of hard names,
A privilege which dulnefs claims,
And merely us'd by way of fence,
To keep out plain and common fenfe,)
Extol the wit of antient days,
The fimple fabric of their plays;
Then from the fable, all fo chafte,
Trick'd up in antient modern taste,
So mighty gentle all the while,
In fuch a sweet defcriptive ftile.
While chorus marks the fervile mode
With fine reflection, in an ode,
Prefent you with a perfect piece,
Form'd on the model of old Greece.
Come, pr'ythee Critic, fet before us,
The ufe and office of a chorus.
What! filent! why then I'll produce
Its fervices from antient ufe.
'Tis to be ever on the stage,
Attendants upon grief or rage;
To be an arant go. between,
Chief-mourner at each dismal scene;
Shewing its forrow, or delight,
By fhifting dances, left and right,
Not much unlike our modern notions;
Adagio or Allegro motions;
To watch upon the deep diftrefs,
And plaints of royal wretchednefs;
And when, with tears, and execration,
They've pour'd out all their lamentation,
And wept whole cataracts from their eyes,
To call on rivers for fupplies,
And with their Hais, and Hees, and Hoes,
To make a fymphony of woes.
Doubtless the Antient want the art
To strike at once upon the heart:
Or why their prologues of a mile
In fimple-call it-humble ftile,
In unimpaffioned phrase to say
"Fore the beginning of this play.
"I, hapless Polydore, was found
"By fishermen, or others drown'd!”
Or," I, a gentleman, did wed,
"The lady I wou'd never bed,
"Great Agamemnon's royal daughter,
"Who's coming hither to draw water."
VOL. VIU
Or need the chorus to reveal
Reflexions, which the audience feel;
And jog them, left attention fink,
To tell them how and what to think?
Oh, where's the Bard, who at one view
Cou'd look the whole creation through,
Who travers'd all the human heart,
Without recourfe to Grecian art?
He fcorn'd the modes of imitation,
Of altering, pilfering, and tranflation,
Nor painted horror, grief, or rage,
From models of a former age;
The bright original he took,
And tore the leaf from nature's book.
'Tis Shakspeare, thus, who stands alone-
-But why repeat what You have shown?
How true, how perfect, and how well,
The feelings of our hearts muit tell..
AN EPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL,
F at a Tavern, where you'd wish to dine, They cheat your palate with adulterate wine, Would you, refolve me, critics for you can, Send for the mafter up, or chide the man? The man no doubt a knavish bufinefs drives, But tell me what's the mafter who connives Hence you'H infer, and fure the doctrine's true, Which ys, no quarter to a foul Review. It matters not who vends the nauseous flop, Mafter or 'prentice; we deteft the shop.
Critics of old, a manly liberal race,
Approv'd or cenfur'd with an open face;
Boldly purfu'd the free decifive task,
Nor ftabb'd, conceal'd beneath a ruffian's ma.
To works not men, with honeft warmth, fevere,
Th' impartial judges laugh'd at hope or fear:
Theirs was the noble skill, with gen'rous aim,
To fan true genius to an active flame;
To bring forth merit in its strongest light,
Or damn the blockhead to his native night.
But, as all ftates are fubject to decay,
The ftate of letters too will melt away,
Smit with the harlot charms of trilling found,
Softnefs now wantons e'en on Roman ground;
Where Thebans, Spartans, fought their honour'd
graves,
Behold a weak enervate race of flaves.
In claffic lore, deep fcience, language dead,
Though modern witlings are but fcantly read,
Profeffors fail not, who will loudly bawl -
In praife of either, with the want of all:
Hail'd mighty critics to this prefent hour.
-The tribune's name furviv'd the tribune's pow'r.
The author takes this opportunity, notwithstanding all infinuations to the contrary, to declare, that he has no particular aim at a gentleman, whose ability he fufficiently acknowledges.
Now Quack and Critic differ but in name,
Empirics frontless both, they mean the fame;
This raw in Phyfic, that in Letters fresh,
Both fpring, like warts, excrefcence from the
flesh.
Half form'd, half bred in printers' hireling fchools,
For all profeffions have their rogues and fools,
Though the pert witling, or the coward knave,
Cafts no reflection on the wife or brave.
Yet, in thefe leaden times, this idle age,
When, blind with dulnefs, or as blind with rage,
Author 'gainst author rails with venom curft,
And happy He who calls out blockhead first;
From the low earth aspiring genius fprings,
And fails triumphant, born on eagles wings,
No toothless fpleen, no venom'd critic's aim,
Shall rob thee Churchill, of thy proper fame;
While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous rhyme,
Fool lives, and fhines out fool to latest time.
Pity perhaps might with a harmless fool
To fcape th' obfervance of the critic school;
But if low malice, leagu'd with folly, rife,
Arm'd with invectives, and hedg'd round
Should wakeful dulnefs, if the ever wake,
Write fleepy nonfenfe but for writing's fake,
And, ftung with rage, and piously severe,
With bitter comforts to your dying car;
If fome fmall wit, fome filk-lin'd verfeman rakes,
For quaint reflections in the putrid jakes,
Talents ufurp'd demand a cenfor's rage,
A dunce is dunce profcrib'd in ev'ry age.
Courtier, phyfician, lawyer, parfon, cit,
All, all are objects of theatric wit.
Are ye then, actors, privileg'd alone.
To make that weapon, ridicule your own ?
Profeffions bleed not from his juft attack,
Who laughs at pedant, coxcomb, knave, of quack;
Fools on and off the stage are fools the fame,
And every dunce is fatire's lawful game.
Freely you thought, where thought has freeft room,
Why then apologize?" for what? to whom?
Though Gray's-Inn wits with author fquires unite,
And felf-made giants club their labour'd mite,
Though pointless fatire make its weak escape,
In the dull babble of a mimic ape,
Boldly purfue where genius points the ways
Nor heed what monthly puny critics fay.
Firm in thyfelf, with calm indifference fmile,
When the wife Vet'ran knows you by your stile,
With critic fcales weighs out the partial wit,
What I, or You, or He, or no one writ ;
Denying thee thy juft and proper worth,
But to give falfhood's fpurious iffue birth;
And all felf-will'd with lawless hand to raise
Malicious flander on the bafe of praise.
Difgrace eternal wait the wretch's name
Who lives on credit of a borrow'd fame
Who wears the trappings of another's wit,
Of fathers bantlings which he could not get !
But threwd Sufpicion with her fquinting eye,
To truth declar'd, prefers a whisper'd lye.
With greedy mind the proffer'd tale believes,
Relates her wishes, and with joy deceives.
The World, a pompous name, by caftom due
To the small circle of a talking few,
With heart-felt glee th' injurious tale repeats,
And fends the whisper buzzing through the streets.
The prude demure, with fober faint-like air,
Pities her neighbour for fhe's wand'rous fair.
And when temptations lie before our feet,
Beauty is frail, and females indifcreet:
She hopes the nymph will every danger shun,
Yet prays devoutly-that the deed were done.
Mean time fits watching for the daily lie,
As fpiders, lurk to catch a fimple fly.
Yet is not fcandal to one fex confin'd,
Though men would fix it on the weaker kind.
Yet, this great lord, creation's master, man,
Will vent his malice where the blockhead can,
Imputing crimes, of which e'en thought is free,
For instance now, your Rofciad, all to me.
If partial friendship, in thy fterling lays,
Grows all too wanton in another's praise,
Critics, who judge by ways themselves have known,
Shall fwear the praife, the poem is my own;
For 'tis the method in thefe learned days
For wits to fcribble first, and after praife.
Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched ftuff,
And help out nonfenfe by a monthly puff,
Exalt to giant forms weak puny elves,
And defcant sweetly on their own dear felves;
For works per month by learning's midwives paid,
Demand a puffing in the way of trade.
Referv'd and cautious, with no partial aim
My mufe e'er fought to blast another's fame.
With willing hand cou'd twine a rival's bays,
From candour filent where the cou'd not praise :
But if vile rancour, from (no matter who)
Actor or mimic, printer, or Review;
Lies, oft o'erthrown, with ceafelefs venom fpread
Still hifs out fcandal from their Hydra head;
If the dull malice boldly walk the town,
Patience herself wou'd wrinkle to a frown.
Come then with justice draw the ready pen,
Give me the works, I wou'd not know the men:
All in their turns might make reprisals too,
Had all the patience but to tread them through.
Come, to the utmoft, probe the defperate wound,
Nor fpare the knife where'er infection's found!
But, prudence, Churchill, of her fifter, Fear,
Whifpers forbearance to my fright'ned ear.
Oh! then with me forfake the thorny road,
Left we should flounder in fome Fleet-Ditch Ode,
And funk for ever in the lazy flood
Weep with the Naiads heavy drops of Mud.
Hail mighty Ode! which like a picture frame,
Holds any portrait, and with any name;
Or, like your hitches, planted thick and thin,
Will ferve to cram the random hero in.
Hail mighty bard too-whatfo'er thy name,
-or Durfy, for it's all the fame.
To brother bards fhall equal praise belong,
For wit, for us, comedy and fong?
No coftive M: fe is thine, which freely rakes
With cafe familiar in the well-known jakes,
Happy in fkill to foufe through foul and fair,
And tofs the dung out with a lordly air.
So have I feen, amidst the grinning throng,
The fledge proceffion flowly dragg'd along
Where the mock female fhrew and hen-peck'd male
Scoop'd rich contents from either copious pail,
Call'd burfts of laughter from the roaring rout,
And dafh'd and splash'd the filthy grains about.
Quit then, my friend, the Mufes' lov'd abode
Alas! they lead not to preferment's road.
Be folemn, fad, put on the priestly frown,
Be dull! 'tis facred, and becomes the gown.
Leave wit to others, do a Chriftian deed,
Your foes fhall thank you, for they know their need.
Broad is the path by learning's fons poffefs'd,
A thousand modern wits might walk abreast,
Did not each poet mourn his luckless doom,
Joftled by pedants out of elbow room.
1, who nor court their love, nor fear their hate,
Muft mourn in filence o'er the Mufe's fate.
No right of common now on Pindus' hill,
While all our tenures are by critic's will;
Where, watchful guardians of the lady mufe,
Dwell monstrous giants, dreadful tall REVIEWS,
Who, as we read in fam'd romance of yore,
Sound but a horn, prefs forward to the door:
But let fome chief, fome bold advent'rous knight,
Provoke those champions to an equal fight,
Strait into air of spacelefs nothing fall
The caftle, lions, giants, dwarf and all.
Ill it befits with undifcerning rage,
To cenfure giants in this polish'd age.
No lack of genius ftains thefe happy times,
No want of learning, and no dearth of rhymes.
The fee-faw Mufe that flows by measur'd laws,
In tuneful numbers, and affected paufe,
With found alone, found's happy virtue fraught,
Which hates the trouble and expence of thought,
Once, every moon throughout the circling year,
With even cadence charms the critic ear.
While, dire promoter of poetic fin,
A Magazine mult hand the lady in.
How Moderns write, how nervous, ftrong and
well,
The ANTI-ROSCIAD's decent Mufe does tell :
Who, while fhe ftrives to cleanse each actor hurt,
Daubs with her praife, and rubs him into dirt.
Sure never yet was happy æra known
So gay,
fo wife, fo tafteful as our own.
Our curious hiftories rife at once cOMPLETE,
Yet still continued, as they're paid, per sheet.
See every science which the world wou'd know,
Your Magazines fhall every month bestow,
Whofe very titles fill the mind with awe,
Imperial, Chriftian, Royal, British, Law,
Their rich contents will every reader fit,
Statefman, Divine, Philofopher, and Wit;
Compendious fchemes! which teach all things
And make a pedant coxcomb of a dunce.
But let not anger with fuch frenzy grow, Drawcanfir like, to ftrike down friend and foe, Toreal worth be homage duly paid, But no allowance to the paltry trade. My friends I name not (though I boast a few, To me an honour, and to letters too)
Or who like him shall sweep the Theban lyre,
And, as his mafter pour forth thoughts of fire?
E'en now to guard afflicted learning's cause,
To judge by reason's rules, and nature's laws,
Boaft we true critics in their proper right,
While LowTH and Learning, HURD and Tafte
unite.
Hail facred names !-Oh guard the Mufe's page,
Save your lov'd mistress from a ruffian's rage;
See how the gafps and struggles hard for life,
Her wounds all bleeding from the butcher's knife
Critics, like furgeons, bleft with curious art,
Should mark each paffage to the human heart,
But not, unfkilful, yet with lordly air,
Read furgeon's lectures while they fcalp and tear.
To names like thefe I pay the hearty vow,
Proud of their worth, and not afham'd to bow.
To thefe infcribe my rude, but honeft lays,
And feel the pleasures of my confcious praise :
Not that I mean to court each letter'd name,
And poorly glimmer from reflected fame,
But that the Mufe, who owns no fervile fear,
Is proud to pay her willing tribute here.
EPISTLE TO J. B. ESQ. 1757
GAIN I urge my old objection,
That modern rules obftruct perfection,
And the feverity of Tafte
Has laid the walk of genius waste.
Fancy's a flight we deal no more in,
Our authors creep inftead of foaring,
And all the brave imagination
Is dwindled into declamation.
But still you cry in sober sadness,
"There is difcretion e'en in madness."
A pithy fentence, which wants credit!
Because I find a poet faid it:
Their verdict makes but small impreffion,
Who are known lyars by profeffion.
Rife what exalted flights it will,
at True genius will be genius ftill;
Fain would I praife, but, when fuch Things oppofe, My praife of course must make them
If manly JOHNSON, with fatyric rage, Lafh the dull follies of a trifling age, If his strong Mufe with genuine strength aspire, Glows not the reader with the poet's fire? HIS the true fire, where creep the witling fry To warm themselves, and light their rufhlights by. What Mufe like GRAY's fhall pleafing penfive flow
Attemper'd sweetly to the ruftic woe?
And fay, that horfe would you prefer,
Which wants a bridle or a fpur?
The mettled fteed may lose his tricks ;
The jade grows callous to your kicks.
Had Shakspeare crept by modern rules,
We'd loft his Witches, Fairies, Fools!
Instead of all that wild creation,
He'd form'd a regular plantation,
A garden trim, and all inclos'd,
In niceft fymmetry difpos'd,
The hedges cut in proper order,
Not e'en a branch beyond the border
Now like a forest he appears,
The growth of twice three hundred years
Where many a tree afpiring shrouds
Its airy fummit in the clouds,
While round its root still love to twine
The ivy or wild eglantine.
"But Shakspeare's all creative fancy "Made others love extravagancy: "While cloud-capt nonfenfe was their aim, "Like Hurlothrumbo's mad lord Flame." True-who can stop dull imitators ? Thofe younger brothers of tranflators, Thofe infects, which from genius rife, And buzz about, in fwarms, like flies? Fashion, that fets the modes of dress, Sheds too her influence o'er the prefs: As formerly the fons of rhyme Sought Shakspeare's fancy and fublime; By cool correctness now they hope To emulate the praife of Pope. But Pope and Shakspeare both disclaim These low retainers to their fame. What tafk can dullness e'er effect So eafy, as to write correct? Poets, 'tis faid, are sure to split By too much or too little wit;
So, to avoid th' extremes of either,
They miss their mark and follow neither;
They fo exactly poife the scale
That neither measure will prevail,
And mediocrity the Mufe
Did never in her fons excufe.
'Tis true, their tawdry works are grac'd
With all the charms of modern taste,
And every fenfelefs line is dreft
In quaint expreffion's tinfel veft.
Say, did you never chance to meet
A monfieur-baroer in the street,
Whofe ruffle, as it lank depends,
And dangles o'er his fingers' ends,
His olive tann'd complexion graces
With little dabs of Drefden laces,
While for the Body Monfieur Puff,
Wou'd think e'en dowlas fine enough?
So fears it with our men of rhymes,
Sweet tinklers of poetic chimes.
For lace, and fringe, and tawdry cloaths,
Sure never yet were greater beaux ;
But fairly strip them to the shirt,
They're all made up of rags and dirt.
And fhall thefe wretches bards commence,
Without or fpirit, taste, or sense?
And when they bring no other treasure,
Shall I admire them for their measure ?
Or do I fcorn the critic's rules
Because I will not learn of fools?
Although Longinus' full-mouth'd profe
With all the force of genius glows;
Though Dionyfius' learned tafte
Is ever manly, juft, and chaste,
Who, like a skilful wife phyfician,
Diffects each part of compofition,
And fhews how beauty ftrikes the foul
From a juft compact of the whole;
Though judgment, in Quintillian's page,
Holds forth her lamp for ev'ry age;
Yet Hypercritis I disdain,
A race of blockheads dull and vain,
And laugh at all thofe empty fools,
Who cramp a genius with dull rules,
And what their narrow science mocks
Damn with the name of Het'rodox.
Thefe butchers of a poet's fame,
While they ufurp the critic's name,
Cry" This is tafte-that's my opinion."
And poets dread their mock dominion.
So have you feen with dire affright,
The petty monarch of the night,
Seated aloft in elbow chair,
Command the prisoners to appear,
Harangue an hour on watchmen's praise,
And on the dire effect of frays;
Then cry, "You'll fuffer for your daring,
"And d-n you, you shall pay for fwearing."
Then turning, tell the astonish'd ring,
I fit to reprefent the KING,
EPISTLE TO THE SAME, 1757
AS my good dame a wicked child? It takes the gentle name of wild ; if chefts he breaks, if locks he picks, "Tis nothing more than youthful tricks: The mother's fondness ftamps it merit, For vices are a fign of spirit.
Say, do the neighbours think the fame With the good old indulgent dame? Cries goflip Prate, "I hear with grief "My neighbour's fon's an arrant thief. "Nay, could you think it, I am told, "He ftole five guineas, all in gold, "You know the youth was always wild"He got his father's maid with child; "And robb'd his master, to defray "The money he had loft at play. "All means to fave him muft now fail, "What can it end in ?—In a Jail."
Howe'er the dame doats o'er her youth, My goffip fays the very truth.
But as his vices love wou'd hide,
Or torture them to virtue's fide,
So friendship's glafs deceives the eye,
(A glafs too apt to magnify)
And makes you think at least you fee
Some fpark of genius ev'n in me,
You fay I fhou'd get fame: I doubt it:
Perhaps I am as well without it.
For what's the worth of empty praife?
What poet ever din'd on bays?
For though the Laurel, rareft wonder!
May fcreen us from the ftroke of thunder,
This mind I ever was, and am in,
It is no antidote to famine.
And poets live on flender fare,
Who, like Cameleons, feed on air,"
And ftarve, to gain an empty breath,
Which only ferves them after death.
Grant I fucceed, like Horace rife,
And ftrike my head against the skies:
Common experience daily fhews,
That poets have a world of foes;
And we fhall find in every town
Goffips enough to cry them down;
Who meet in pious converfation
T'anatomize a reputation,
With flippant tongue, and empty head,
Who talk of things they never read.
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