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The stiff expression, phrases strange,
The Epithet's preposterous change.
Forc'd numbers, rough and unpolite,
Such as the judging ear aftright,
Stop in mid verle. Ye mimics vile!
Is't thus ye copy Milton's style?
His faults religiously you trace,
But borrow not a single grace.

How few, (say, whence can it proceed ?)
Who copy Milton, e'er succeed !
But all their labours are in vain :
And wherefore fu ? the reason's plain.
Take it for granted, 'tis by those
Milton's the model mostly chose,
Who can't write verse, and won't write profe.

Others, who aim at fancy, chufe To woo the gentle Spencer's Muse, This poet fixes for his theme An allegory, or a dream ; Fiction and truth together joins Through a long waste of Himfy lines ; Fondly believes his fancy glows, And image upon image grows; Thinks his Itrong Muse takes wond'rous flights, Whene'er the sings of peerless wights, of dens, of palfreys, spells and knights : 'Till allegory, Spencer's veil T' instruct and please in moral tale, With him's no veil the truth to shroud, But one impenetrable cloud.

Others, more daring, fix their hope
On rivaling the fame of Pope.
Satyr's the word against the times
These catch the cadence of his rhymes,
And borne from earth by Pope's strong wings,
Their Muse aspires, and boldly flings
Her dirt up in the face of kings.
In these the spleen of Pope we find ;
But where the greatness of his mind ?
His numbers are their whole pretence,
Mere strangers to his manly sense.

Some few, the fav'rites of the Muse,
Whom with her kindeft eyes the views;
Round whom Apollo's brightest rays
Shine forth with undiminish'd blaze ;
Some few, my friend, have sweetly trod
In Imitation's dang'rous road,
Long as Tobacco's mild perfume
Shall scent each happy curate's room,
Oft as in elbow-chair he smokes,
And quaffs his ale, and cracks his jokes,
So long, O* Brown, shall last thy praise,
Crown'd with Tobacco-leaf for bays ;
And whosoe'er thy verse thall see,
Shall fill another Pipe to thee.

VINCE now, all scruple's cast away,

Your works are rising into day,
Forgive, though I presume to send
This honest counsel of a friend.

Let not your verse, as verse now goes,
Be a strange kind of measur'd prose;
Nor let your prose, which sure is worse,
Want nought but measure to be verse.
Write from your own imagination,
Nor curb your Muse by imitation ;
For copies Thew, howe'er expreit,
A barren genius at the beft.
But Imitation's all the mode
Yet where one hits, ten miss the road.

The mimic bard with pleasure sees
Mat. Prior's unaffected ease :
Allumes his style, affects a story,
Sets every circumstance before ye,
The day, the hour, the name, the dwellinge
And mars a curious tale in telling:
Observes how caly Prior flows,
Then runs his numbers down to prose,

Others have fought the filthy stews To find a dirty flip-Thod Muse. Their groping genius, while it rakes The bogs, the common-sew'rs, aud jakes, Ordure and filth in rhyme exposes, Disguftful to our cyes and noses ; With many a dah that must offend. us, And much


* Ifaac Hawkins Brown, Esq. author of a piece called the Pipe of Tobacco, a most excellent imitatin on pf six different authors.

Hiatus non deflendus. O Swift! how would'At thou bluth to fee, Such are the bards who copy Thee?

This, Milton for his plan will chuse: Wherçin resembling Milton's Muse? Milton, like thunder, rolls along In all the majesty of song ; While his low mimics meanly

creep, Not quite awake; nor quite asleep ; Or, if their thunder chance to roll, 'Tis thunder of the mustard bowl.


Where thought appears in dishabille,
And fancy does just what she will,

The lourest critic would excuse
TO GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ. Which lady, for Apollo's biesling,

The vagrant fallies of the Muse :
Has still attended our caressing,

As many children round her fees

As maggots in a Cheshire cheese,

Which I maintain at vast expence,

Of pen and paper, time and sense :
And surely 'twas no small miscarriage
When firit I enter'd into marriage.

The poet's title which I bear,

With some strange castles in the air,

Was all my portion with the fair.
FRIENDSHIP with most is dead and cool,

However narrowly I look,
A dull, inactive, ftagnant pool ;

In Phæbus's valorem book,
Cours like the lively current flows,

I cannot from enquiry find And hares the pleasure it bestows.

Poets had much to leave behind. If there is ought, whose lenient pow's

They had a coyphold estate Can foothe affliction's painful hour,

In lands which they themselves create Sweeten the bitter cup of care,

A foolish title to a fountain, And snatch the wretched from despair,

A right of common in a mountain, Superior to the sense of woes,

And yet they liv'd amongst the great, From friendship's source the balsam flows.

More than their brethren do of late; Rich then am I, poffest of thine,

Invited out at feasts to dine, Who know that happy balsam mine.

Eat as they pleas'd, and drank their wine; In youth, from nature's genuine heste

Nor is it any where set down The fouls congenial spring to meet,

They tipt the servants half a crown And emulation's infant strife,

But pals'd amid the waiting throng Cements the man in future life.

And pay'd the porter with a song i Oft too the mind well-pleas'd surveys

As once, a wag, in modern days, Its progress from its childish days ;

When all are in these bribing ways, Sees how the current upwards ran,

His Chillings to dispense unable, And reads the child o'er in the map.

Scrap'd half the fruit from off the table Por men, in reason's sober eyes,

And walking gravely through the croud, Are children, but of larger size,

Which stood obsequiously, and bow'd, Have still their idle hopes and fears,

To keep the fashion up of tipping, And Hobby-Horse of riper years.

Dropt in each hand a golden pippin. Whether a blessing, or a curse,

But there's a difference indeed My rattle is the love of verse.

'Twixt ancient bards and modern breed. Some fancied parts, and emulation

Though poet known, in Roman dayı, Which Gill aspires to reputation,

Fearless he walk'd the public ways, Bade infant fancy plume her light,

Nor ever knew that sacred name And held the laurel full to fight.

Contemptuous smile, or painful shame . For vanity, the poet's fin,

While with a foolish face of praise, Had ta’en poffeffion all within s

The folks would stop to gape and gaze, And he whole brain is verse poffefe

And half untold the story leave, Is in himself as highly blest,

Pulling their neighbour by the Neeve, As he, whose lines and circles vię

While th' index of the finger Thews, With heav'n's direction of the sky.

There-- yonder's Horace there he goesting Howe'er the river rolls its tides,

This finger, I allow it true, The cork upon the surface rides.

Points at us modern poets too ; And on Ink's Ocean, lightly buoy'da

Bụt 'tis by way of wit and joke, The cork of vanity is Lloyd,

To laugh, or as the phrase is, Smoke. Let me too use the common claim

Yet there are those, who're fond of wit, And souse at once upon my name,

Although they never us'd it yet, Which some have done with greater stress,

Who wits and witlings entertain ; Who know me, and who love me left.

Of Taste, Virtu, and Judgment vain, Poets are very harmless things,

And dinner, grace, and grace-cup done, Unless you teaze one till it ftings;

Expect a wond'rous deal of fun : And when affronts are plainly meant,

“ Yes-He at bottom-don't you know himin? We're bound in honour to resent :

That's He that wrote the latt new poem. And what tribunal will deny

« His Humour's exquisitely high, An injur'd person to reply?

« You'll hear him open by and by" In these familiar emanations,

The man in print and conversation Which are list writing converfations

Have often very fraall relation ;

And he, whose humour hits the town,

Such as your titled folks would chule, When copied fairly, and set down,

And Lords and Ladyships might use, In public company may pass,

Which stile, whoever would succeed in, For little better than an ass.

Must have small wit, and much good breeding Perhaps the fault is on his fide,

If this is dialogue---ma foi, Springs it from modesty, or pride,

Sweet Sir, say I, pardonnez moi ! Those qualities asham'd to own,

As long as life and bufiners laft, For which he's happy to be known ;

The actors have their several caft, Or that his nature's strange and shy,

A walk where each his talent shows, And diffident, he knows not why;

Queens, Nurses, Tyrants, Lovers, Beaux; Or from a prudent kind of fear,

Suppose you've found a girl of merit, As knowing that the world's severe,

Wou'd thew your part in all its fpirit, He wou'd not suffer to escape

Take the whole meaning in the fcopo, Familiar wit in eafy shape :

Some little lively thing, like Pope, Left gaping fools, and vile repeaters,

You rob some others of a feather, Should catch her up, and spoil her features, They've worn for thirty years together. And, for the child's unlucky maim,

But grant the cast is as you like, The faultless parent come to Thame.

To actors which you think will Atrike, Well, but methinks I hear you say,

To-morrow then-(but as you know " Write then, my friend !"-Write what ? quite a I've ne'er a Comedy to Thew, Play.

Let me awhile in conversation, * The theatres are opent yet,

Make free with yours for application) " The market for all sterling wic ;

The arrow's flight can't be prevented " Try the strong efforts of your peti,

To-morrow then, will be presented « And draw the characters of men ;

The JEALOUS WIFE! To-morrow? Right do Or bid the bursting tear to flow,

How do you neep, my friend, to-night? « Obedient to the fabled woe ;

Have you no pit-pat hopes and fears, " With Tragedy's feverest art,

Roaft-beef, and catcalls in your ears? * Anatomize the human heart,

Mabb's wheels a-cross your temples creeps # And, that you may be understood,

You toss and tumble in your sleep, “ Bid nature speak, as nature should."

And cry aloud, with rage and spleen, That talent, George, though yet untried, " That fellow murders all my scene." Perhaps my genius has denied ;

To-morrow comes. I know your merita While you, my friend, are sure to please

And see the piece's fire and spirit ; With all the pow'rs of comic ease.

Yet friendship's zeal is ever hearty, Authors, like maids at fifteen years,

And dreads the efforts of a party. Are full of wishes, full of fears.

The coach below, the clock gone fired One might by pleasant thoughts be led,

Now to the theatre we drive : To lose a trilling maiden-head;

Peeping the curtain's eyelet through, But 'tis a terrible vexation

Behold the house in areadful view! To give up with it reputation.

Observe how close the critics fit, And be, who has with Plays to do

And not one bonnet in the pit. Has got the devil to go through.

With horror hear the galleries ring, Critics have reason for their rules,

Nosy! Black Joke! God save the King ! I dread the censure of your fools.

Sticks clatter, catcalls feream, Encore ! For tell me, and consult your pride,

Cocks crow, pit hifles, galleries roar 6 (Set Garrick for a while afide)

E'en cha' fome orænges is found
How cou'd you, George, with patience bear, This night to have a dreadful found:
The critic profing in the play'r ?

"Till, decent fables on his back, Some of that calling have I known,

(Your prologuizers all wear black) Who held no judgment like their own ,

The prologue comes ; and, if its mine, And yet their reasons fairly scan,

ita very good, and very fine : And separate the wheat and brang

if not, I take a pinch of snuff, You'd be amaz'd indeed to find,

And wonder where you got fuch Auff. What little wheat is left behind.

That done, a-gape the critics fit, For, after all their mighty rout,

Expectant of the comic wit. Of chatt'ring round and round about ;

The fidlers play again pell-mell: 'Tis but a kind of clock-wórk talking;

-But hift !-the prompter rings his bell. Like crossing on the stage, and walking.

-Down there! hats off the curtain draws The form of this tribunal part,

What follows is the juft applaufen
The play receiv'd, the parts all cast,
Each actor has his own objections,
Each character, new imperfections :
The man's is drawn too coarse and roughx
The lady's has not Smut enough.
It want's a touch of Cibber's case,
A higher kind of talk to please í

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And in a veft is she array'd,

Of many a dancing moon-beam made, TWO 0 DE S*.

Nor zoneless is her waist :

But fair and beautiful, I ween,
Pindar, Olymp. II.

As the ceftus-cinctur'd Queen,

with the Raincow's shadowy girdle brac'd, of € 1.

II. 2.

She bids pursue the fav'rite road
I. I.

Of lofty cloud-capt Ode.

Meantime each bard, with eager speed,
AUGHTER of Chaos and old Night,

Vaults on the Pegasean Steed :
Cimmerian Muse, all hail !

Yet not that Pegasus, of yore
That wrapt in never-twinkling gloom canst write, Which th' illustrious Pindas bore,
And shadowest meaning with thy dusky veil !

But one of nobler breed ; What Poet fings, and strikes the strings ?

High blood and youth his veins inspire :
It was the mighty Theban (poke;

From Tottipontimoy he came,
He from the ever-living Lyre

Who knows not, Tottipontimoy, thy name?
With magic hand elicits fire.

The bloody-shoulder'd Arab was his Sire ;

the din of Modern Rhimers bray ?

* His White-nose, He on fam'd Doncaforia's It was cool Mn, or warm G


plains Involv'd in tenföld smoke.

Relign'd his fatal breath :

In vain for life the struggling courser strains. 1. 2.

Ah! who can run the race with death? The shallow Fop in antic vest,

The tyrant's speed, or man or steed,

Strives all in vain to fly.
Tir'd of the beaten road,
Proud to be fingly drest,

He leads the chace, he wins the race,

We stumble, fall, and die.
Changes, with every changing moon, the mode.
Say, shall not then the heav'n-born Muses too

IT: 3:
Variety pursue ?
Shall not applauding critics hail the vogue ?

Third from Whitenose springs
Whether the Muse the stile of Cambria's sons,
Or the rude gabble of the Huns,

Pegasus with eagle wings :
Or the broader dialect

Light o'er the plain, as dancing cork,
Of Caledonia she effect,

With many a bound he beats the ground,

While all the Turf with acclamation rings : Ot take, Hibernia, thy itill ranker brogue ?

He won Northampton, Lincoln, Oxford, York :

He too Newmarket won:

There Granta's Son
On this terrestrial ball

Seiz'd on the Steed ;
The tyrant, Fashion, governs all.

And thence him led, (so fate decreed) She, fickle Goddess, whom, in days of yore, To where old Cam; renown'd in poet's song, The Ideot Moria, on the banks of Seine,

With his dark and inky waves, Unto an antic fool, hight Andrew, bore :

Either bank in filence laves,
Long she paid him with disdain,

Winding Now his sluggish streams along.
And long his pangs in silence he conceal'd :
At length, in happy hour, his love-lick pain

III 1.
On thy blest Calends, April, he reveal’d.
From their embraces, sprung,

What Itripling neat, of visage sweety
Ever changing, ever ranging,

In trimmest guise array'd, Fashion, Goddess ever young:

First the neighing Steed assay'di

His hand a taper switch adorns, his heel

Sparkles refulgent with elaftic steel :

The whiles he wins his whiffling way,
Perch'd on the dubious height, She love to rides

Prancing, ambling, round and round,
Upon a weather-cock, astride.
Each blast that blows, around the goes,

By hill, and dale, and mead, and greensward ga:

Till sated with the pleasing ride,
While nodding o'er her creft,
Emblem of her magic pow'r,

From the lofty Steed dismounting,
The light Cameleon stands confelt,

He lies along, enwrapt in conscious pride, Changing its hues a thousand times an hour.

By gurgling rill, or chrystal fountain. * I take the liberty of inserting the two following has else indulged himself in a very unwarrantable

* The Author is either mistaken in this place, or Odes, though I cannot, with strict propriety, print them as my own compofition. The truth is, they poetical licence. White-nose was not the Sire, but were written in concert with a friend; to whole a Son of the Godolphin Arabian. See my Calendar.

HEIER labours I am always happy to add my own: I mean the Author of the Jealous Wife.

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III. 2.



III. 3.

By help mechanic of Equestrian-Block,
Yet shall he mount, with classic housing's grac'd,

And, all unheedful of the Critick Mock,
Lo! next, a Bard, secure of praise,

Drive his light Courser o'er the bounds of Taste.

His self-complacent countenance displays.
His broad Mustachios, ting'd with golden die,
Flame like a meteor, to the troubled air :

Proud his demeanor, and his eagle eye,
o O'er-hung with lavish lid, yet Thone with glorious

The grizzle grace
Of bushy peruke shadow'd o'er his face.

In large wide boots, whose ponderous weight Τ Ο Ο L Ι Ι Ο
Would fink each wight of modern date,
He rides, well pleas'd : lo large a pair

Not Garagantua's self might wear :
Not He, of nature fierce and cruel,

Who, if we trust to ancient Ballad,

Who lov'st thy dwelling-place to hold,
Devour'd Three Pilgrims in a Sallad ;

Where scepter'd Pluto keeps his dreary sway,
Nor he of fame germane, hight Pantagruel. Whose sullen pride the shiv’ring ghosts obey !

Thou, who delightest still to dwell

By some hoar and moss-grown cell,

At whose dank foot Cocytus joys to roll, Accoutred thus, th' adventrous Youth

Or Styx' black itreams, which even Jove controul ! Seeks not the level lawn, or velvet mead,

Or if it suit thy better will
Fast by whose fide clear streams meandring creep ; To chuse the tinkling weeping rill,
But urges on amain the fiery Steed

Hard by whose fide the seeded poppy red
Up Snowdon's shaggy lide, or Cambrian rock un- Heaves high in air his sweetly curling head,

While, creeping in meanders Now,
Where the venerable herd

Lethe's drowsy water's flow,
Of Goats, with long and fapient beard, And hollow blasts, which never cease to sigh,
And wanton Kidlings their blithe revels keep. Hum to each care-ftruck mind their lulla-lulla-by!
Now up the mountain see him strain !

A prey no longer let me be
Now down the vale he's tost,

To that gossip MEMORY,
Now Aashes on the fight again,

Who waves her banners trim, and proudly flies
Now in the Palpable Obscure quite lott.

To spread abroad her bribble-brabble lies.

With thee, OBLIVION, let me go,

For MEMORY's a friend to woe;

With thee, FORGETFULNESS, fair silent Queen, Man's feeble race eternal dangers wait,

The folemn stole of grief is never seen.
With high or low, all, all, is woe,
Disease, mischance, pale fear, and dubious fate.

But o'er every peril bounding,
Ambition views not all the ills surrounding,

All, All is thine. Thy pow'rful sway
And, tiptoe on the mountains steep,

The throng'd poetic hosts obey :
Reflects not on the yawning deep.

Though in the van of MEM'R Y proud t’appear,

At thy command they darken in the rear.
IV. 2.

What though the modern Tragic strain

For nine whole days protract thy reign,
See, see, he foars ! with mighty wings outspread, Yet through the Nine, like whelps of currith kind,
And long resounding mane,

Scarcely it lives, weak, impotent, and blind.
The Courser quits the plain.

Sacred to thee the Crambo Rhime,
Aloft in air, fee, fee, him bear

Themotley forms of Pantomime :
The Bard, who throuds

For Thee from Eunuch's throat still loves to flow
His Lyrick Glory in the clouds,

The soothing sadness of his warbled woe:
Too fond to strike the stars with lofty head !

Each day to Thee falls Pamphlet clean :
He topples headlong from the giàdy heighty Each month a new-born Magazine:
Deep in the Cambrian Gulph immerg'd in endless Hear then, O GODDESS, hear thy vot’ry's pray'ı!

And, if Thou deign'st to take one moment's care,

Attend Thy Bard! who duly pays ;

The tribute of his votive lays ;
o Steed Divine ! what daring spirit
Rides thee now? though he inherit

* According to Lillæus, who bestows the ParenNor the pride, nor self-opinion,

tal Function on Oblivion. Which elate the mighty Pair,

Verba OBLIVISCENDI regunt GENITIVUM. Each of Taste the fav'rite minion,

Lib. xiii. Cap, 8.
Prancing through the desart air :

There is a fimilar passage in Bulbzus.
Vol. VIII.



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IV. 3:

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