INCE now, all scruple's caft away,
Your works are rifing into day,
Forgive, though I prefume to fend
This honeft counfel of a friend.

Let not your verfe, as verfe now goes,
Be a ftrange kind of meafur'd profe;
Nor let your profe, which fure is worse,
Want nought but measure to be verse.
Write from your own imagination,
Nor curb your Muse by imitation;
For copies fhew, howe'er exprett,
A barren genius at the best.
-But Imitation's all the mode-
Yet where one hits, ten mifs the road.

The mimic bard with pleasure fees
Mat. Prior's unaffected eafe :
Affumes his ftyle, affects a story,
Sets every circumftance before ye,
The day, the hour, the name, the dwelling.
And mars a curious tale in telling:
Obferves how eafy Prior flows,
Then runs his numbers down to profe,
Others have fought the filthy ftews
To find a dirty flip-fhod Muse.
Their groping genius, while it rakes
The bogs, the common-few'rs, aud jakes,
Ordure and filth in rhyme exposes,
Difguftful to our eyes and nofes;
With many a dash-that must offend us,
And much

The ftiff expreffion, phrafes ftrange,
The Epithet's preposterous change.
Forc'd numbers, rough and unpolite,
Such as the judging ear affright,
Stop in mid verfe. Ye mimics vile!
Is't thus ye copy Milton's ftyle?
His faults religioufly you trace,
But borrow not a fingle grace.

How few, (fay, whence can it proceed?)
Who copy Milton, e'er fucceed!
But all their labours are in vain :
And wherefore fo? the reason's plain.
Take it for granted, 'tis by thofe
Milton's the model mostly chose,

Who can't write verfe, and won't write profe.
Others, who aim at fancy, chufe
To woo the gentle Spencer's Mufe,
This poet fixes for his theme
An allegory, or a dream;
Fiction and truth together joins

Through a long wafte of flimfy lines;
Fondly believes his fancy glows,
And image upon image grows;

Thinks his strong Mufe takes wond'rous flights,
Whene'er the fings of peerless wights,

Of dens, of palfreys, fpells and knights:
Till allegory, Spencer's veil

T' inftruct 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--
Thefe catch the cadence of his rhymes,
And borne from earth by Pope's strong wings,
Their Mufe afpires, 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 ftrangers to his manly fenfe.

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

}

* Ifaac Hawkins Brown, Efq. author of a piece called the Pipe of Tobacco, a moft excellent imitati on of fix different authors.

Where thought appears in difhabille,
And fancy does just what she will,
The foureft critic would excufe
The vagrant fallies of the Mufe!

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

WRITTEN JANUARY 1, 1761,

PROM TISSINGTON IN DERBYSHIRE.

RIENDSHIP with molt is dead and cool,
A dull, inactive, ftagnant pool;
Yours like the lively current flows,
And thares the pleasure it beftows.
If there is ought, whofe lenient pow's
Can foothe affliction's painful hour,
Sweeten the bitter cup of care,
And fnatch the wretched from despair,
Superior to the sense of woes,
From friendship's fource the balfam flows.
Rich then am I, poffeft of thine,
Who know that happy balsam mine.

In youth, from nature's genuine heat,
The fouls congenial fpring to meet,
And emulation's infant ftrife,
Cements the man in future life.
Oft too the mind well-pleas'd furveys
Its progrefs from its childish days;
Sees how the current upwards ran,
And reads the child o'er in the map.
For men, in reafon's fober eyes,
Are children, but of larger fize,
Have ftill their idle hopes and fears,
And Hobby-Horfe of riper years.
Whether a bleffing, or a curfe,
My rattle is the love of verfe.
Some fancied parts, and emulation
Which still afpires to reputation,
Bade infant fancy plume her flight,
And held the laurel full to fight.
For vanity, the poet's fin,
Had ta'en poffeffion all within
And he whofe brain is verfe poffef
Is in himself as highly bleft,
As he, whofe lines and circles vie
With heav'n's direction of the fky.
Howe'er the river rolls its tides,
The cork upon the furface rides.
And on Ink's Ocean, lightly buoy'da
The cork of vanity is Lloyd.
Let me too ufe the common claim
And foufe at once upon my name,

Which fome have done with greater ftrefs,
Who know me, and who love me less.
Poets are very harmless things,
Unless you teaze one till it ftings;
And when affronts are plainly meant,
We're bound in honour to refent:
And what tribunal will deny
An injur'd perfon to reply?

In these familiar emanations,
Which are but writing converfations

Has ftill attended our careffing,
As many children round her fees
As maggots in a Cheshire cheese,
Which I maintain at vaft expence,
Of pen and paper, time and sense:
And furely 'twas no fmall mifcarriage
When first I enter'd into marriage.
The poet's title which I bear,
With fome ftrange caftles in the air,
Was all my portion with the fair.
However narrowly I look,
In Phœbus's valorem book,
I cannot from enquiry find
Poets had much to leave behind.
They had a coyphold estate

In lands which they themselves create,
A foolish title to a fountain,

A right of common in a mountain,
And yet they liv'd amongst the great,
More than their brethren do of late;
Invited out at feafts to dine,

Eat as they pleas'd, and drank their wine';
Nor is it any where set down
They tipt the fervants half a crown,
But pafs'd amid the waiting throng
And pay'd the porter with a fongi
As once, a wag, in modern days,
When all are in thefe bribing ways,
His fhillings to difpenfe unable,
Scrap'd half the fruit from off the table
And walking gravely through the croud,
Which ftood obfequiously, and bow'd,
To keep the fashion up of tipping,
Dropt in each hand a golden pippin.
But there's a difference indeed
"Twixt ancient bards and modern breed.
Though poet known, in Roman dayı,
Fearless he walk'd the public ways,
Nor ever knew that facred name
Contemptuous fmile, or painful fhame
While with a foolish face of praife,
The folks would ftop to gape and gaze,
And half untold the ftory leave,
Pulling their neighbour by the fleeve,
While th' index of the finger fhews,
There- yonder's Horaçe there he goes,
This finger, I allow it true,
Points at us modern poets too;
But 'tis by way of wit and joke,
To laugh, or as the phrafe is, Smoke..

Yet there are thofe, who're fond of wit,
Although they never us'd it yet,
Who wits and witlings entertain ;
Of Tafte, Virtu, and Judgment vain,
And dinner, grace, and grace-cup done,
Expect a wond'rous deal of fun :

"Yes He at bottom-don't you know him?
That's He that wrote the lant new poem.
"His Humour's exquifitely high,
"You'll hear him open by and by."

The man in print and converfation Have often very fruall relation;

And he, whofe humour hits the town,
When copied fairly, and fet down,
In public company may pass,
For little better than an afs.
Perhaps the fault is on his fide,
Springs it from modefty, or pride,
Thofe qualities afham'd to own,
For which he's happy to be known
Or that his nature's strange and fhy,
And diffident, he knows not why;
Or from a prudent kind of fear,
As knowing that the world's fevere,
He wou'd not fuffer to escape
Familiar wit in eafy shape:

Left gaping fools, and vile repeaters,
Should catch her up, and spoil her features,
And, for the child's unlucky maim,
The faultlefs parent come to thame.

Well, but methinks I hear you say,

Write then, my friend!"Write what?
Play.

The theatres are open yet,
"The market for all fterling wit;
"Try the ftrong efforts of your peti,
"And draw the characters of men;

Or bid the bursting tear to flow, "Obedient to the fabled woe; "With Tragedy's feverest art, Anatomize the human heart,

And, that you may be understood,
Bid nature fpeak, as nature fhou'd."
That talent, George, though yet untried,
Perhaps my genius has denied;
While you, my friend, are fure to please
With all the pow'rs of comic ease.

Authors, like maids at fifteen years,
Are full of withes, full of fears.
One might by pleasant thoughts be led,
To lofe a trifling maiden-head;
But 'tis a terrible vexation
To give up with it reputation.
And he, who has with Plays to dø,
Has got the devil to go through.
Critics have reafon for their rules,
I dread the cenfure of your fools.
For tell me, and confult your pride,
(Set Garrick for a while afide)

How cou'd you, George, with patience bear,
The critic profing in the play'r?

Some of that calling have I known,

Who held no judgment like their own

And yet theirreasons fairly scan,

And feparate the wheat and bran

You'd be amaz'd indeed to find,
What little wheat is left behind.
For, after all their mighty rout,
Of chatt'ring round and round about;
'Tis but a kind of clock-work talking,
Like croffing on the stage, and walking.

The form of this tribunal paft,
The play receiv'd, the parts all caft,
Each actor has his own objections,
Each character, new imperfections :
The man's is drawn too coarfe and rough,
The lady's has not smut enough.
It want's a touch of Cibber's cafe,

A higher kind of talk to please i

Such as your titled folks would chufe,
And Lords and Ladyships might use,
Which ftile, whoever would fucceed in,
Must have fmall wit, and much good breeding?
If this is dialogue-ma foi,
Sweet Sir, fay I, pardonnez moi !

As long as life and bufinefs laft,
The actors have their several caft,
A walk where each his talent fhews,

Queens, Nurfes, Tyrants, Lovers, Beaux
Suppofe you've found a girl of merit,
Wou'd fhew your part in all its spirit,
Take the whole meaning in the fcope
Some little lively thing, like Pope,
You rob fome others of a feather,
They've worn for thirty years together.

But grant the caft is as you like,
To actors which you think will ftrike,
To-morrow then-(but as you know
I've ne'er a Comedy to fhew,

Let me awhile in converfation,
Make free with yours for application}
The arrow's flight can't be prevented
To-morrow then, will be prefented

The JEALOUS WIFE! To-morrow? Right,
How do you fleep, my friend, to-night?
Have you no pit-pat hopes and fears,
Roaft-beef, and catcalls in your ears?
Mabb's wheels a-crofs your temples creeps
You tofs and tumble in your sleep,
And cry aloud, with rage and fpleen,
"That fellow murders all my scene."
To-morrow comes. I know your merit
And fee the piece's fire and fpirit;
Yet friendship's zeal is ever hearty,
And dreads the efforts of a party.

The coach below, the clock gone five
Now to the theatre we drive:
Peeping the curtain's eyelet through,
Behold the houfe in dreadful view!
Obferve how close the critics fit,
And not one bonnet in the pit.
With horror hear the galleries ring,
Nofy! Black Joke! God fave the King !
Sticks clatter, catcalls feream, Encore!
Cocks crow, pit hiffes, galleries roar
E'en cha' fome oranges is found
This night to have a dreadful found
"Till, decent fables on his back,
(Your prologuizers all wear black)
The prologue comes; and, if its mine,
Its very good, and very fine :

If not, I take a pinch of fnuff,
And wonder where you got fuch stuff.
That done, a-gape the critics fit,
Expectant of the comic wit.
The fidlers play again pell-mell:
-But hift-the prompter rings his bell.
-Down there! hats off-the curtain draws!
What follows is the just applaufe

Perch'd on the dubious height, She love to rides
Upon a weather-cock, aftride.

Each blaft that blows, around fhe goes,
While nodding o'er her creft,

Emblem of her magic pow'r,
The light Cameleon ftands confeft,
Changing its hues a thousand times an hour.

* I take the liberty of inferting the two following Odes, though I cannot, with ftrict propriety, print them as my own compofition. The truth is, they were written in concert with a friend; to whofe labours I am always happy to add my own: I mean the Author of the Jealous Wife.

And in a veft is the array'd,

Of many a dancing moon-beam made,
Nor zoneless is her waift:

But fair and beautiful, I ween,

As the ceftus-cinctur'd Queen,

Is with the Rainbow's fhadowy girdle brac'd,

II: 2.

She bids pursue the fav'rite road
Of lofty cloud-capt Ode.

Meantime each bard, with eager speed,

Vaults on the Pegafean Steed:
Yet not that Pegafus, of yore
Which th' illuftrious Pindar bore,
But one of nobler breed;

High blood and youth his veins infpire:
From Tottipontimoy he came,

Who knows not, Tottipontimoy, thy name?
The bloody-fhoulder'd Arab was his Sire ;

* His White-nofe, He on fam'd Doncaftria's plains

Refign'd his fatal breath:

In vain for life the ftruggling courfer ftrains.
Ah! who can run the race with death?
The tyrant's fpeed, or man or steed,
Strives all in vain to fly.

He leads the chace, he wins the race
We ftumble, fall, and die.

Accoutred thus, th' adventrous Youth
Seeks not the level lawn, or velvet mead,

Fast by whose fide clear streams meandring creep;
But urges on amain the fiery Steed

ARENT OF EASE! OBLIVION old, Who lov't thy dwelling-place to hold, Where fcepter'd Pluto keeps his dreary fway, Whofe fullen pride the shiv'ring ghosts obey! Thou, who delighteft ftill to dwell By fome hoar and mofs-grown cell, At whofe dank foot Cocytus joys to roll, Or Styx' black streams, which even Jove controul! Or if it fuit thy better will

To chufe the tinkling weeping rill, Hard by whofe fide the feeded poppy red

couth:

While, creeping in meanders flow,

Lethe's drowsy water's flow,

And hollow blafts, which never ceafe to figh,
Hum to each care-ftruck mind their lulla-lulla-by!
A prey no longer let me be

To that goffip MEMORY,

Who waves her banners trim, and proudly flies
To fpread abroad her bribble-brabble lies.
With thee, OBLIVION, let me go,
For MEMORY's a friend to woe;
With thee, FORGETFULNESS, fair filent Queen,
The folemn ftole of grief is never seen.

II.

All, All is thine. Thy pow'rful sway
The throng'd poetic hosts obey:
Though in the van of MEM'RY proud t'appear,
At thy command they darken in the rear.

What though the modern Tragic strain
For nine whole days protract thy reign,
Yet through the Nine, like whelps of currith kind,
Scarcely it lives, weak, impotent, and blind.

Sacred to thee the Crambo Rhime,
The motley forms of Pantomime:

For Thee from Eunuch's throat ftill loves to flow
The foothing fadness of his warbled woe:

Each day to Thee falls Pamphlet clean:

Each month a new-born Magazine:
Hear then, O GODDESS, hear thy vot'ry's pray'ı!
And, if Thou deign'ft to take one moment's care,
Attend Thy Bard! who duly pays;
The tribute of his votive lays;

* According to Lillæus, who beftows the Parental Function on Oblivion.

Verba OBLIVISCENDI regunt GENITIVUM.
Lib. xiii. Cap, 8.

There is a fimilar paffage in Bufbæus.
Z