« EelmineJätka »
Bears such a name, I can't tell how
To tell him where I live, I vow.
-Mercy! what's all this noise and Air ?
Pray is the King a coming, fir ?
Nodon't you hear the people shout ? Tis Mr. Pitt, just going out.
MRS. BROWN. Aye, there he goes, pray heav'n bless him ! Well may the people all caress him. -Lord, how my husband us'd to fit, And drink success to honeft Pitt, And happy o'er his evening cheer, Cry, you shall pledge this toast my dear.
Filthy, as ever eyes beheld,
With naked breasts, and faces swellid ?
What could the faucy maker mean,
To put such things to fright the QUEIN ?
Oh! they are Gods, Ma'm, which you see.
Of the Marine Society,
Tritons, which in the ocean dwell,
And only rise to blow their shell.
Gods, d'ye call those filthy men?
Why don't they go to sea again?
Pray, tell me, fir, you understand,
What do these Tritons do on land ?
Hit--filence-don't you hear the drumming ? Now, ladies, now, the King's a coming. There, don't you see the guards approach ?
MRS. BROWN Which is the king ?
Which is the coach?
Which is the noble EARL OF BUTE,
Geud-faith, I'll gi him a salute.
For he's the Laird of atu our clan, .
Troth he's a bonny muckle man.
Here comes the Coach, so very flow
As if it ne'er was made to go,
In all the gingerbread of state,
And staggering under its own weight.
MR S. Sco T.
Upon my word, it's monstrous fine !
Would half the gold upon't were mine!
How gaudy all the gilding thews !
It put's orie's eyes out as it goes.
With a rich glare of various hues,
With shining yellows, scarlets, blues !
It must have coft a heavy price ;
'Tis like a mountain drawn by mice.
So painted, gilded, and so large,
Bless me! 'cis like my lord mayor's barge.
And so it is look how it reels!
'Tis nothing else - barge on wheels.
M A N.
Large ! it can't pass St. James's gate,
So big the coach, the arch To ftrait,
It might be made to rumble through
And pass as other coaches do.
Could they a body-coachman get
So most preposterously fit,
Who'd undertake (and no rare thing)
Without a head to drive the king.
M Rs. Scot.
Lard! what are those two ugly things
There with their hands upon the springs,
M & s. BROWN.
And what are they? those hindmost things,
Men, filh and birds, with flesh, scales, wings ?
Oh, they are Gods too, like the others,
All of one family and brothers,
Creatures, which seldom come a-shore,
Nor seen about the King before.
For Show, they wear the yellow Hue,
Their proper colour is True-blue.
MR s. SCOT
Lord bless us ! what's this noise about?
Lord, what a tumult and a rout!
How the folks holla, hifs, and hoot!
Well-Heav'n preserve the Earl or BUTI!
I cannot itay, indeed, not I,
If there's a riot I shall die.
Let's make for any house we can.
Dorgive us shelter, honest man.
MR s. BROWN.
I wonder 'd where you was, my dear,
I thought I should have died with fear.
This noife and racketing and hurry
Has put my nerves in such a furry !
I could not think where you was got,
I thought I'd lost you, Mrs. Scot;
Where's Mrs. Tape, and Mr. Grin ?
Lard, I'm so glad we're all got in.
TO U say, “ it hurts you to the soul
To brook confinement or controul."
And yet will voluntary run
To that confinement you would shun,
Content to drudge along the track,
With bells and harness on your back.
Alas! what genius can admit
A monthly tax on spendthrift wit,
Which often Alings whole stores away,
And in the morning when I ftir, And oft has not a doit to pay !
Pop comes a Devil, " Copy fir." Give us a work, indeed-of length
I cannot ftrive with daring flight Something which speaks poetic strength;
To reach the bold Parnaffian HEIGHT; Is Nuggith fancy at a stand ?
But at it's foot, content to itray, No scheme of consequence in hand ? |
in easy unambitious way, 1, nor your plan, nor book condemn,
Pick up those flowers the muses fend, But why your name. and why A. M!
To make a nosegay for my friend.
In short, I lay no idle claim
To genius strong, and noisy fame.
Yes it ftands forth to public view
But with a hope and with to please,
Within, without, on white, on blue,
I write, as I would live, with cafe.
In proper, tall, gigantic Letters,
Not dash'd-emvowell'd-like my better
FK I L N D
And though it starts me in the face,
Reflects no shame, hirsts no disgrace.
But you must have a fund, a mine,
While those unlaboured triffes pleafe,
Pruse, poems, letters,
Familiar chains are worn with ease.
Behold! to yours and my surprize,
These trifies to a VOLUME rife.
Thus will you see me, as I go,
And here, my friend, I reft secure ;
Still gath'ring bulk like balls of snow,
He can't lose much, who's always poor. Steal by degrees upon your het
And if, as now, through numbers five, And grow a giant from an ell.
This work with pleasure kept alive The current ftudies of the day,
Can Atill its currency afford, Can rarely reach beyond a PLar:
Nor fear the breaking of its hoard, APAMPHLIT may deserve a look,
Can pay you, as at sundry times, But Heav'n defend os from a Book!
For jelf per Mag, two thousand Rhimeso A LIBEL flie on Scandal's wings,
From whence should apprehension grow, But works of length are heavy things,
That self thould fail, with richer Co? -Not one in twenty will succeed
No dcer of a monthly grubs Consider, ír, huii low can read.
Myself alone a learned club,
I ask my readers to no treat
Of scientifick ha/h'd-up meat,
I mean a work of merit
Nor seek to please theatrick friends,
With scraps of plays, and odds and ends.-
Your method, fir, is plain enough;
And all the world has read your Purs* A man of Taste MUST buy.
Th'allufion's neat, expresion clean,
About your travelling Machine,
But yet it is a Magazine.
And half a dozen more my friend,
Whom your good Taste shall recommend.
Why let it be, and wherefore shame?
Experience will by facts prevail,
As JULIET says, what's in a name? When argument and reason fail ;
Besides it is the way of trade, The NUPTIALI now
Through which all science is convey'd,
Thus knowledge parcels out her shares;
The Court has hers, the LAWYERS theirs.
Something to SCHOLARS sure is due,
Whose muptials, fit ? Why not one MAGAZINI for You?
A Poet's did that poem fir?
That's an Herculean cask, my friend, No fixt-tho' thousand readers pass,
You toil and labour-to offend. It still looks through its pane of glass,
Part of your scheme free translation, And semi indignant to exclain
TO SCHOLARS is a profanation; Parson ye Sons of Tasti, for thants !
What! break up Latin ! pull down Greek ! While duly each revolving moon,
(Peace to the soul of fir Jorn CXIIXI!+) Which often comes, God knows too Coor,
And shall the gen'rous liquor run,
Continual plagues my soul molest,
Broach'd from the rich FALERNIAN tun?
And Magazines disturb my reft,
While scarce a night I Real to bed,
See the Purr.
Without a couplet in my heada
+ The fish restorer of Greck learning in England.
Will you pour out to English swine,
Naat as imported, old GRILK wine ;
Alas! such beverage only fits
Collegiate taftes, and classic wits.
A U IHO R.
I seek not, with satyrick Aroke,
To ftrip the pedant of his cloak;
Nolet him cull and spout quotations,
And call the jabber, demonstrations,
Be his the great concern to Thew,
If Roman gowns were tied or no *;
Whether the Grecians took a Nice
Four times a-day, or only twice,
Still let him work about his hole,
Poor, busy, blind, laborious mole;
Still let him puzzle, read, explain,
Oppugn, remark, and read again.
Such, though they waste the midnight oil
In dull, minute, perplexing toil,
Not undertanding, do no good,
Nor can do harm, not understood.
By scholars, apprehend me right,
I mean the learned, and polite,
Whose knowledge unaffected Aows,
And fits as easy as their cloaths ;
Who care not though an ac or sed
Misplac'd, endanger Priscian's head;
Nor think his wit a grain the worse,
Who cannot frame a Larin verfe,
Os give the Roman proper word
To things the Romans never heard.
'Tis true, except among the Great,
Letters are rather out of date,
And quacking genius more discerning,
Scoffs at your regulars in learning.
PEDANTS, indeed, are learning's curse,
But IGNORANCE is something worse :
All are not bleft with reputation,
Built on the WANT of EDUCATION,
And soms, to letters duly bred,
Mayn't write the worse, because they've read.
Though books had better be unknown,
Than not one thought appear our own;
As some can never speak themselves,
But through the authors on their shelves,
Whose writing smacks too much of reading.
As affectation spoils good breeding,
True ; but that fault is seldom known,
Save in your bookish college drone.
Who, constant (as I've heard them (ay)
Study their fourteen hours a-day,
And squatting close, with dull attention,
Read themselves out of apprehension ;
Who scarce can warn their hands or face,
For fear of losing time, or place,
And give one hour to meat and drink,
Byt never half a one to THINK,
So have I known, in that rare place,
Where Classics always breed disgrace,
A wight, upon discoveries hot,
As whether flames have heat or not,
Study himself, poor sceptic dunce,
Into the very fire at once,
And clear the philosophic doubt,
By búrning all ideas out.
With such, eternal books, successive
Dead to no sciences progreffive,
While each dull fit of Audy past,
Just like a wedge drives out the last,
From these I ground no expectation
Of genuine wii, or free translation;
But you mittake me, friend. Suppose,
(TranNations are but modern cloaths)
I dress my boy~(for instance sake
Maintain these children which I make)
I give him coat and brceches
But not a bib and apron too!
You would not let your child be feen,
But dreft confitent, neat, and clean.
AU I XO
So would I cioath a free translation,
Or as Pope calls it, imitation ;
Not pull down authors from my shelf,
To spoil their wit, and plague myself,
My learning Audious to display,
And lose their spirit by the way.
Your HORACE NOWe'en borrow thence
His easy wit, his manly sense,
But let the Moralist convey
Things in the manners of to-day,
Rather than that old garb affume,
Which only suits a man at Rome.
FA UTHOR. Originals will always please, And copies too, if done with ease. Would not old PLAUTUS wish to wear, Turn'd English hoft, an Englik air, If THORNTON, rich in native wit, Would make the modes and diction fit ? Or, as I know you hate to roam, To fetch an inftance nearer home; Though in an idiom most unlike, A fimilarity must strike, Where both of Gimple nature fond, In art and genius correspond; And native both (allow the phrase Which no one English word conveys) Wrapt up their stories neat and clean, Easy as
А отно. Lord! I have seen a thousand such, Who read, or seem to read, too much.
FRII N D.
Denis's you mean The very man not more translation, But LA FONTAINE by transmigration.
• See SIGONIUS. and MANUTIUS.
Avтнов. Authors, as DRYDEN'S maxim runs Have what he calls poetic sons, Thus MILTON, more correctly wild, Was richer Spenser's lawful child : And CHURCHILL, got on all the nine, Is DRYDEN's ir in ev'ry line. 'Thus Denis proves his parents plain, The child of EASE, and LA FONTAINI.
His muse, indeed, the work secures.
And asks our praise as much as yours ;
For, if delighted, readers too
May pay their thanks, as well as you.
But you, my friend (fo folks complain)
For ever in this easy vein,
This prose in verse, this measur'd talk,
This pace, that's neither trot nor walk,
Aim at no flights, nor strive to give
A real poem fit to live.
(To critics no offence, I hope)
Prior fhall live as long as Popi,
Each in his manner sure to please,
While both have itrength, and both have ease ;
Yet though their various beauties strike,
Their ease, their trength is not alike.
Both with confummate horseman's skill,
Ride as they list, about the hill ;
But take, peculiar in their mode,
Their favourite horse, and favourite road.
For me, once fond of author-fame,
Now forc'd to bear its weight and shame,
I have no time to run a race,
A traveller's my only pace.
They, whom their steeds unjaded bear
Around Hydepark, to take the air,
May frisk and prance, and ride their fill,
all paces which they will ;
We, hackney tits nay, never smile,
Who trot our stage of thirty mile,
Must travel in a constant plan,
And run our journey, as we can.
A critic says, upon whose neeve
Some pin more faith than you'll believe,
That writings which as easy please,
Are not the writings done with ease.
From whence the inference is plain,
Your friend MAT PRIOR wrote with pain.
His keen reflection only hits
Your rhiming fops and pedling wits.
As some take fitness for a grace,
And walk a dancing-master's pace,'
And others, for familiar air
Mistake the Nouching of a bear;
So fome will finically trim,
And dress their lady-muse too prim,
Others, mere Novens in their pen
(The mob of Lords and Gentlemen)
Fancy they write with ease and pleasure,
By rambling out of rhime and measure.
And, on your critic's judgment, these
Write easily, and not with Ease.
There are, indeed, whose with pursues,
And inclination courts the muse ;
Who, happy in a partial fame,
A while possess a poet's name,
But read their works, examine fais,
-Shew me invention, fancy there,
Taste I allow; but is the flow
Of genius in them? Surely, no.
'Tis labour from the classic brain.
Read your own ADDISON'S CAMPAIGN.
E'en he, nay, think me not severe,
A critic fine, of Larin ear,
Who toff d his claffic thoughts around
With elegance on Roman ground,
Just fimmering with the muse's flame
Woos but a cool and sober dame;
And all his English rhimes express
But beggar-thoughts in royal dress.
In verse his genius seldom glows,
A Poet only in his proje,
Which rolls luxuriant, rich, and chaste,
Improv'd by Fancy, Wit, and Taste.
I talk you for yourself, my friend,
A subject you can ne'er defend,
And you cajole me all the while
With differtations upon ftile.
Leave others wits and works alone,
And think a little of your own,
For FAMX, when all is said and done,
Though a coy mistress, may be won ;
And half the thought, and pains, and time
You cake to jingle easy rhime,
Would make an ODĚ, would make a PLAY,
Done into English, MALLOCH's way,
--Stretch out your more Heroic feet,
And write an EL EGY complete.
Or, not a more laborious talk,
Could you not pen a Claffic MASQUE ?
With will at large, and unclogg'd wings,
I durst not foar to such high things.
For I, who have more phlegm thane fire,
Must understand, or not admire,
But when I read with admiration,
Perhaps it write in IMITATION.
But business of this monthly kind,
Need that alone engross your mind.
Affiftance must pour in a-pace,
New passengers will take a place,
Аутнов. With pain perhaps he might correct, With care fupply cach loose defect, Yet lure, if rhime, which seems to flow Whether its master will or no, If humour, not by study fought, But rising from immediate thought, Are proofs of ease, what hardy name Shall e'er dispute a PRIOR's claim !
But still your critic's observation Strikes at no Porr's reputation,
- You'd think, to hear what Critics say,
Their labour was no more than play :
And that, but such a paltry station
Reflects disgrace on education,
(As if we could at once forfake
What education helps to make)
Each reader has superior skill,
And can write better when he will.
In short, howe'er you toil and drudge,
The world, the mighty world, is judge,
And nice and fanciful opinion
Sways all the world with ftrange dominion;
Opinion ! which on crutches walks,
And sounds the words another talks.
Bring me eleven Critics grown,
Ten have no judgment of their own:
But, like the Cyclops watch the nod
Of some informing master god :
Or as, when near his latest breath,
The patient fain would juggle death,
When Doctors fit in CONSULTATION
(Which means no more than converfation,
A kind of comfortable chat
'Mongst focial friends, on This and That,
As whether stocks get up or down,
And ţittle-tattle of the town;
Books, pictures, politics, and news,
Who lies with whom, and who got whose)
Opinions never disagree,
One doctor writes, all take the fee.
But eminence offends at once
The owlith eye of critic dunce,
DULLNESS alarm'd, collects her Force,
And FOLLY screams till she is hoarse.
Then far abroad the LIBEL Aies
From all th' artillery of lies,
MALICE, delighted, flaps her wing,
And EPIGRAM prepares her iting.
Around the frequent pellets whistle
From SATIRE, ODE, and pert EPISTLE;
While every blockhead strives to throw
His share of vengeance on his foe :
As if it were a Shrove-tide game,
And cocks and poets were the same.
Thus should a wooden collar deck
Some woe-full 'squire's embarrass'd neck,
When high above the croud he stands
With equi-distant fprawling hands,
And without hat, politely bare,
Pops out his head to take the air ;
The mob his kind acceptance begs
Of dirt, and stones, and addle-eggs.
O GENIUS! though thy noble skill
Can guide thy Pegasus at will?
Fleet let him bear thee as the wind
DULLNESS mounts up and clings behind,
In vain you spur, and whip, and smack,
You cannot shake her from your back.
Ill nature springs as merit grows, Close as the thorn is to the rose. Could HERCULANEUM's friendly earth Give MÆVIUS' works a fecond birth, MALEVOLENCE, with lifted eyes, Would fanctify the noble prize. While modern critics should behold Their near relation to the old, And wond'ring gape at one another, To see the likeness of a brother.
'ELL Shall I with you joy of fame,
That loudly echoes CHURCHILL's name,
And sets you on the Muses throne,
Which right of conquest made your own ?
Or shali I (knowing how unfit
The world esteems a man of wit,
That wherefoever he appears,
They wonder if the knave has ears)
Address with joy and lamentation,
CONDOLENCE and CONGRATULATION,
As colleges, who duly bring
Their mess of verse to every king,
Tou economical in taste,
Their sorrow or their joy to waite :
Mix both together, fweet and sow'r;
And bind the thorn up with the flow'r ?
Sometimes 'tis Elegy, or Oje.
Epifle now's your only mode.
Whether that style more glibly hits, :
The fancies of our rambling wits,
Who wince and kick at all oppression,
But love to ftraggle in digression ;
Or, that by writing to the GREAT
In letters, honours, or estate,
We lip more easy into fame,
By clinging to another's name,
And with their strength our weakness yoke,
Asivy climbs about an oak;
As TUFT-HUNTERS will buzz and purr
About a FELLOW-COMMONER,
Or Crows will wing a higher flight,
When sailing round the floating kite.
Whate'er the motive, 'tis the mode,
And I will travel in the road.
The fashionable track pursue,
And write my fimple thoughts to You,
Just as they rise from head to heart,
Not marshall'd by the herald Art.
By vanity or pleasure led,
From thirft of fame, or want of bread,
Shall any start up Pons of rhime
PATRITIC, EASY, or SUBLIMES