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But with us rhiming moderns here,

- But you've enough, nor want my preaching Critics are not the only fear ;

And I was never form'd for teaching. The poet's bark meets sharper shocks

Male prudes we know, (thofe driv'ling things) From other sands, and other rocks.

Will have their gibes, and taunts, and flings. Not fuch alone who understand,

How will the fober Cit abuse, Wholc book and memory are at hand,

The Callies of the Culprit muse; Who fcientisic skill profess,

To her and Poet shut the door And are great adepts more or les ;

And whip the beggar, with his whore ! (Whether diftinguish'd by degree,

POET - Fool ! a WRITCH! a KNAVE! They write A. M. or sign M. D.

A mere mechanic dirty Nave ! Or make advances somewhat higher

What is his verse, but cooping sense And take a new degree of 'SQUIRL.)

Within an arbitrary fence ? Who read your authors, Greek and Latin,

At best, but ringing that in rhime, And bring your strange quotations pat in,

Which prose would say in half the time? Asif each sentence grew more terse

Measure and numbers ! what are those From odds and ends, and scraps of verse ;

But artificial chains or profe? Wbu with true poetry dispense,

Which mechanism quaintly joins So social sound juits simple senses

In parallels of see-faw lines.
And load one Letter with the labours,

And when the frisky wanton writes
Which should be shar'd among its neighbours. In Pindar's (what d'ye call 'em)-flights
Who know that thought produces pain,

Th' uneven measure, thort and tall,
And deep reflection mads the brain,

Now rhiming twice, now not at all, And therefore, wife and prudent grown.

In curves and angles twirls about, Have no ideas of their own.

Like Chinese railing, in and out. But if the man of Nature fpeak,

Thus when you've labour'd hours on hours, Advance their Bayonets of Greek,

Cull'd all the /weets, culld all the flerur's, And keep plain sense at such a distance,

The churl, whose dull imagination She cannot give a friend affistance.

Is dead to every fine sensation, Not thefe alone in judgment rife,

Too gross to relish nature's bloom, And fhont at genius as it flies,

Or talte her fimple rich perfume, But thofe who cannot spell will TALK,

Shall cast them by as useless stuff, As women'fcold, who cannot walk.

And fly with keenness to his-snuff. Your man of habit, who's wound up

Look round the world, not one in ten, To eat and drink, and dine and sup,

Thinks Poets good, or honest men. But has not either will or pow's

'Tis true their conduct, not o'er nice, To break out of his formal hour;

Sits often loose to easy vice. Who lives by rule, and ne'er outgoes it ;

Perhaps their Temperance will not pass Moves like a clock, and hardly knows it ;

The due rotation of the glass ; Who is a kind of breathing being,

And gravity denies 'em pow'r Which has but half the pow'r of seeing;

T' unpeg their hats at such an hour. Who stands for ever on the brink,

Some vices muft to all appear Yet dare not plunge enough to think,

As conftitutional as FLAR ; Nor has one reason to supply

And every Moralift will find Wherefore he does a thing, or why,

A ruling paffion in the mind: But what he does proceeds so right,

Which, though pent up and barricado' You'd think him always guided by't ;

Like winds, where Æolus bravado 'd; Joins poetry and vice together

Like them, will (ally from their den, Like fun and rain in April weather,

And raise a tempest now and then ; Holds sake and wit as things the same,

Unhinge dame PRUDENCZ from her plan, And all the difference but a NAME.

And ruffle all the world of man. A Rake! Alas! how many wear

Can authors then exemption draw The brow of mirth, with heart of care !

From nature's, or the common law The desperate wretch reflection flies,

They err alike with all mankind, And shuns the way where madness lies,

Yet not the same indulgence find. Dreads each increasing pang of grief,

Their lives are more confpicuous growly And runs to FOLLY for relief,

More talk'd of, pointed at, and thewn, There, 'midst the momentary joys

Till every error seems to rise Of giddy mirth and frantic noise,

To Sins of most gigantic lize. FORGETFULNESS, her eldest born,

Thus fares it still, however hard, Smooths the World's hate, and blockhead's scarn, With every wit, and ev'ry bard. Then PLEASURE wins upon the mind,

His publick writings, private life, Ye CARE&, go whistle to the wind ;

Nay more, his miftress, or his wife, Then welcome frolic, welcome whim!

And ev'ry social, dear connection, The world is all alike to him.

Mult bear a critical dissection ; Distress is all in apprehension;


friends connive, and rivals hato, It cafes when 'tis past prevention :

Scoundrels traduce, and blockheads bate. And happiness then presses near,

Perhaps you'll readily admit When nor a hope's left, nor a fear

There's danger from the trading witz


And dunce and fool, and such as those,
Must be of course the poer's foes :
But sure no fober man alive,
Can think that friends would e'er connive.

From just remarks on earliest time,
In the first infancy of rhime,
It may be fairly understood
There were two seats-the Bad, the Good.
Both fell together by the ears,
And both beat up for volunteers.
By interest, or by birth allied,
Numbers flock'd in on either side.
Wit to his weapons ran at once,
While all the cry was “ down with Dunce !”
Onward he led his social bands,
The common cause had join'd their hands.
Yet even while their zeal they show,
And war against the gen'ral foe,
Howe'er their rage fam'd fierce and cruel,
They stop it all to fight a duel.
And each cool wit would meet his brother,
To pink and tilt at one another.

Jealous of every puff of fame.
The idle whift'iing of a name,
The property of half a line,
Whether a comma's your's or mine,
Shall make a Bard a Bard engage,
And shake the friendship of an age.
But diffident and modest wit
Is always ready to submit ;
Fearful of press and publication,
Consults a brother's obfervation,
Talks of the maggot in his brains,
As hardly worth the critic pains ;
" If ought disgusts the sense or ear,
“ You cannot, fir, be too severe.
“ Expunge, correct, do what you will,
" I leave it to superior skill ;
" Exert the office of a friend,
" You may oblige but can't offend."

This Bard too has his private clán,
Where He's the great, the only man.
Here, while the bottle and the bowl
Promote the joyous flow of soul,
(And sense of mind, no doubt, grows Atronger
When failing legs can stand no longer)
Emphatic judgment takes the chair,
And damns about her with an air.
Then each, self-puff'd, and hero grown,
Able to cope with hosts alone,
Drawcanfir like, his murders blends,
Firft Nays his foes, and then his friends.

While your good word, or conversation,
Can lend á brother reputation ;
While verse of preface quaintly penn'd,
Can raise the consequence of friend,
How viffible the kind affection !
How close the partial fond connection !
Then He is quick, and I'm discerning,
And I have wit, and He has learning,
My judgment's strong, and His is chafe;
And BOTH-ay BOTK, are men of tafte.
Should you nor steal nor borrow aid,
And set up for yourself in trade,
Resolvid imprudently to show
That 'tis not always Wit and Co.
Feelings, before unknown, arise,
And Genius looks with jealous eyes,

Though thousands 'may arrive at fame,
Yet never take one path the same,
An Authors vanity or pride
Can't bear a neighbour by his fide,
Although he but delighted goes
Along the track which nature shows,
Nor ever madly runs aftray,
To cross his brother in his way.
And some there are, whose narrow minds,
Center'd in self, self always blinds,
Who, at a friend's re-echoed praise,
Which their own voice confpir'd to raise,
Shall be more deep and inly hurt,
Than from a foe's insulting dirt.

And some, too timid to reveal
That glow of heart, and forward zeal,

Which words are scanty to express, But friends must feel from friends' success, When full of hopes and fears, the Muse, Which every breath of praise pursues, Wou'd open to their free embrace, Meet her with such a blasting face, That all the brave imagination, Which seeks the sun of approbation, No more its early blossoms tries, But curls its tender leaves, and dies.

Is there a man whose genius strong, Rolls like a rapid Atream along, Whose Muse, long hid in chcarful night, Pours on us like a flood of light, Whose acting comprehensive mind Walks fancy's region's, unconfin'd; Whom, nor the surly fense of pride, Nor affection, warps aside ; Who drags no author from his shelf, To talk on with an eye to self ; Careless alike, in conversation, Of censure, or of approbation ; Who freely thinks, and freely speaks, And meets the Wit he never seeks; Whose reason calm, and judgment cool, Can pity, but noctuate a fool; Who can a hearty praise bestow, If merit sparkles in a foe;

Who bold and open, firm and true, Flatters no friends-yet loves them too : CHURCHILL will be the last to know His is the portrait, I would show.

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The Dialogues of famous dead *,

Though the fun in its glories decreaft,
You know how much they're bought and read. Of his beams in the evening is thorny
Suppole again we raise their ghosts,

Yet he rises with joy from the eaft,
And make them chat through us two ports, And repairs them again in the morn.
A thing's half finith'd well begun,
So take the authors as they run.

But what can youth's sunshine recall,
The list of names is mighty fine,

Or the blossoms of beauty restore? You look down this, and I that line.

When its leaves are beginning to fall, "Here's Pape and Swirt, and STILLE and GAY, It dies, and is heard of so more. And CONGREVE, in the modern way. “ Whilft you have those, I cannot speak, The spring-time of love then employ, “ But found moft wonderful in Greek.

'Tis a lesson that's easy to learn, -A Dialogue I should adore it,

For Cupid's a vagrant, a boy, “ With such a show of names before it."

And his seasons will never return. “ Modern, your judgment wanders wide," The antient Rubric trait reply'd.

It grieves me much, indeed, to find We never can be of a mind, Before one door, and in one ftreet, " Neither ourselves nor thoughts can meet, A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO J. B. ESI " And we, as brother oft with brother, Are at a distance from each other. Suppose among the letter'd dead,

HALL I, from worldly friends estrang'd, “ Some author should erect his head,

Embitter'd much, but nothing chang'd “ And starting from his Rubric, pop

In that affection firm and true, “ Directly into Davies' shop,

Which Gratitude excites to You ; “ Turn o'er the leaves, and look about

Shall I indulge the Muse, or ftifle « To find his own opinions out ;

This meditation of a trife? D'ye think one author out of ten

But you, perhaps, will kindly take " Would know his sentiments again?

The trifle for the Giver's sake, Thinking, your authors differ less in,

Who only pays his grateful Mite, " Than in their manner of expressing.

The just acknowledgment of Right, « 'Tis file which makes the writer known,

As to the Landlord duly sent “ The mark he sets upon his own.

A pepper-corn shall pass for rent. " Let CONGRIVE speak as CONGREVE writ, Yet Trifes often shew the Man, And keep the ball'up of his wit ;

More than his settled Life and Plan : « Let Swift be Swirt, nor e'er demean

There are the starts of inclination; « The sense and humour of the Dean.

Those the mere gloss of EDUCATION, “ E'en let the antients reit in peace,

Which has a wond'rous knack at turning “ Nor bring good folks from Rome or Greece A Blockhead to a man of Learning ; " To give a cause for past transactions,

And, by the help of form and place, They never dreamt of in their tions.

The child of Sin to babe of Grace. “ I can't help quibbling, brother port,

Not that it alters Nature quite, « 'Twere better we should lay the ghost,

And sets perverted Reason right, But 'twere a task of real merit

But, like Hypocrisy, conceals « Could we contrive to raise their Spirit.

The very passions which the feels ; “ Peace, brother, peace, though what you say, And claps a Vizor on his face, so I own has reason in his way,

To hide us from the World's disgrace, « On Dialogues to bear so hard,

Which, as the first Appearance ftrikess “ Is playing with a dangerous card ;

Approves of all things, or disikes. « Writers of rank are sacred things,

Like the fond fool with eager glee, “ And crush like arbitrary kings.

Who fold his all, and put to fea, “ Perhaps your sentiment is right,

Lur'd by the calm which seemed to sleep !! Heav'n grant we may not suffer by't.

On the smooth surface of the Deep; "* For should friend DAVIES Overhear,

Nor dreamt its waves could proudly risey • He'll publith ours another year."

And toss up mountains at the skies.

APPEARANCE is the only thing,
* By Lord Lyttleton,

A King's a Wretch, a Wretch a King,
Undress them bothYou King, suppose
For once you wear the beggar's cloaths ;
Cloaths that will take in every air ;

-Bless me! they fit you to a hair.
S O N. G. Now you, Sir Vagrant, quickly don

The robes his Majesty had on.
HOUGH winter its defolare train

And now, D WORLD, so wond'rous wile,
Of frost and of tempeft may bring,

Who fee with such discerning eyes,
Yet Flora Ateps forward again,

Put observation to the Stretch, And nature rejoices in Spring.

Come which is King, and which is Wretch?



To cheat this World, the hardest talk
Is to be constant to our Mask.
Externals make direct impressions
And marks are worn by all Professions.

What need to dwell on topics ftale ?
Of Parsons drunk with wine or ale ?
Of Lawyers, who with face of brass,
For lea-ned Rhetoriciars pass ?
Of Scientific Doctors big,
Hid in the pent-house of their wig ?
Whose conversation hardly goes
Beyond half words, and hums ! and Oh's!
Of Scholars, of superior Taste,
Who cork ig up for fear of waste,
Nor bring one bottle from their shelves,
But keep it always for themselves ?

Wretches like these, my Soul disdains,
And doubts their hearts as well as brains.
Suppose a Neighbour should desire
To light a candle at your fire,
Would it deprive your fame of Light,
Because another profits by't?

But youth must often pay its court,
To these great Scholars, by report,
Who live on hoarded reputation,
Which dares no risque of Conversation,
And boast within a store of Knowledge,
Sufficient, bless us ! for a College,
But take a prudent care, no doubt,
That not a grain shall ftraggle out ;
And are of wit too nice and fine,
To throw their pearl and gold to Swine ;
And therefore, to prevent deceit.
Think every Man a Hog they meet.

These may perhaps as Scholars shine,
Who hang themselves out for a Sign.
What fignifies a Lion's skin,
If it conceals an Ass within ?
If thou’rt a Lion, prithee roar ;
If Ass-bray once, and stalk no more ;
In words as well as Looks be wise,
Silence is folly in Disguise ;
With so much wisdom bottled up,
Uncork and give your friends a fup.

What need your nothings thus to save ?
Why place the Dial in the Grave?
A fig for Wit and Reputation,
Which sneaks from all Communication.
So in the post-vag, cheek by jole,
Letters will go from pole to pole,
Which may contain a wond'rous deal ;
But then they travel under seal,
And though they bear your wit about,
Yet who shall ever find it out,
Till trusty Wax foregoes its use,
And sets imprison'd meaning loose ?

Yet idle folly often deems
What Man must be from what he seems;
As if, to look a dwelling o'er,
You'd go no farther than the Door.

Mark yon round Parson, fat and neck,
Who preaches only once a Week,
Whom Claret, Sloth, and Ven'son join
To make an orthodox Divine ;
Whose Holiness receives its beauty
From income large, and little Duty ;
Who loves the Pipe, the Glass, the Smock,
And keepsa Curate for his Flock.


The world, obsequious to his nod,
Shall hail this oily man of God,
While the pior priest, with half a score
Of prattling infants at his Door,
Whore fober withes ne'er regale
Beyond the homelyjug of Ale,
Is hardly deem'd companion fit
For man of Wealth, or man of Wit,,
Though learn'd perhaps and wise as He
Who signs with staring S. T. P.
And full of facerdotal Pride,
Lays God and Duty both aside.

“ This Curate, say you, learn'd and wife! “Why does not then this Curate rise ?"

This Curate then, at forty-thee,
(Years which become a Curacy)
At no great mart of Letters bred,
Had ftrange odd notions in his head,
That Parts, and Books, and Applicatiwny
Furnish'd all means of Education ;
And that a pulpiteer should know
More than his gaping flock below ;
That Learning was not got with pain,
To be forgotten all again ;
That Latin words, and rumbling Greek,
However charming sounds to speak,
Aptor unapt in each Quotation,
Were insults on a Congregation,
Who could not understand one word
Of all the learned stuff they heard ;
That something more than preaching fine,
Should go to make a sound divine ;
That Church and Pray'r, and holy Sunday,
Were no excuse for finful Monday ;
That pious doctrine, pious Life,
Should both make one, as Man and Wife.

Thinking in this uncommon Mode,
So out of all the priestly road,
What man alive can e'er suppose,
Who marks the way PREFERMENT goes,
That the should ever find her way
To this poor Curate's house of clay?

Such was the Priest, so strangely wise !
He could not bow-How should He rise ?
Learned He was, and deeply read ;
-But what of that? --not duly bred.
For he had fuck'd no grammar rules
From Royal founts, or Public schools,
Nor gain'd a single Corn of Knowledge
From chat vaft Granary--a College.
A Granary, which food supplies
To vermin of uncommon Size.

Aye, now indeed the Matter's clear,
There is a mighty error here.
A public school's the place alone,
Where Talents may be duly known.
It has, no doubt, its imperfections,
But then, such Friendships ! such connections !
The Parent, who has form’d his Plan,
And in his Child consider'd Man,
What is his grand and golden Rule ?
Make your connections, Child, at School.
“ Mix'with your Equals, fly inferiors,
" But follow closely your Superias;

On them your ev'ry Hope depends, " Be prudent, Tom, get ufeful Friends ; 66 And therefore like a spider wait, 66 And spin your Web about the great.

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Lord's Genius wants supplies, Why-You must make his Exercise. ". Let the young Marquis take your Place, ". And bear a whipping for his Grace. " Suppose (such Things may happen once) " The Nobles wits, and You the Dunce, " Improve the means of Education; "And learn commodious Adulation, "Your Master scarcely holds it fin, " He chucks his Lordship on the Chin, " And would not for the World rebuke, " Beyond a pat, the school-boy Duke. « The Pastor there, ofbowliat's the Place ? " With smiles eternal in his Face, “ With dimpling cheek, and snowy hand, * That Thames the whiteness of his band ; " Wbrie mincing Dialect abounds " In Hums and Hahs, and half form'd sounds ; " Whore Elocution, fine and chaste, “ Lays his commands with judgment vaift; " And left the Company should hear, “ Whispers his Nothings in your Ear ; • Think you 'twas Zeal, or Virtue's Care “ That placed the fmiirking Doctor there? « Nom'twas Connections form’d at School " With fome rich Wit, or noble Fool, " Obsequious Flattery, and Attendance, " A wilful, useful, base dependance; “ A supple bowing of the Knees « To any human God you please. 66 (For true good-breeding's so polite, « 'Twould call the very Devil white) " 'Twas watching others' shifting Will, " And veering to and fro with skill : “ These were the meanis that made him rire, " Mind your conneftions, and be wise."

Methinks I hear son Tom reply, I'll be a Bishop by and by.

Connections at a public School
Will often serve a wealthy Fool,
By lending him a letter'd Knave

To bring him Credit, or to save;
And Knavery gets a profit real,
By giving parts and worth ideal.
The child that marks this Navish Plants
Will make his Fortune when a Man.
While honest Wit's ingenious Merit
Enjoys his pittance, and his fpirit.

The Strength of public Education
Is quick’ning Parts by EMULATION ;
And Emulation will create
In narrow minds a jealous state,
Which stifled for a course of Years,
From want of Skill or mutual Fears,
Breaks out in manhood with a zeal,
Which none but rival Wits can feel.
For when good people Wits commence,
They lole all other kind of sense ;
(The maxim makes you smile, I see,
Retort it when you please on me ;)
One writer always hates another,
As Emperors would kill a brother,
Or Empress Queen to rule alone,
Pluck down a Husband from the throne.

When tir'd of Friendship and alliance,
Each side fprings forward to defiance,
Inveterate Hate and Resolution,
Faggot and Fire and Persecution,

Is all their aim, and all their Cry,

Though neither fide can tell you why.
To it they run like valiant Men,
And Nash about them with their Pen.

What Inkihed springs from Altercation !
What lorzings off of Reputation !
You might as soon hush itormy Weatherg
And bring the North and South together,
As reconcile your letter'diues,
Who come to all things buc diy blows.

Your desperate lovers wan and pale,
As needy culprits in a jail,
Who muse and doat, and pine, and dic,
Scorch'd by the light’ning of an eye,
(For ladies' eyes, with fatal froke,
Will blast the veriet heart of oak)
Will wrangle, bicker, and complain,
Merely to make it up again.
Though fwain look glum, and miss look fiery,
'Tis nothing but amantium iræ,

And all the progress purely this
A frown, a pout, a tear, a kiss.
Thus love and quarrels (April weather)
Like vinegar and oil together,
Join in an easy mingled strife,
To make the sallad up of life.
Love settles beit from altercation,
As liquors after fermentation.

In a Itage-coach, with lumber cramm'd,
Between two bulky bodies jamm'd,
Did you ne'er writhe yourself about,
To find the seat and cushion out?
How disagreeably you lit,
With bamawiy, and place unfit,
Till some kind jolt o'er ill-pav'd down,
Shall wedge you close, and nail you down;
So fares it with your fondling dolts,
And all love's quarrels are but jolts.

When tiffs arise, and words of itrife
Turn one to two in man and wife,
(For that's á matrimonial course
Which yoke-mates must go through perforeen
And ev'ry married man is certain
T'attend the lecture callid the curtain)
Though not another word is said,
When once the couple are in bed :
There things their proper channel keep,
(They make it up, and go to deep)
These fallings in and fallings out,
Sometimes with cause, but most without,
Are but the common modes of Atrife,
Which oil the springs of married life,
Where sameness would create the spleen,
For ever stupidly serene.

Observe yon downy bed to make it,
You tofs the feathers ap and thake it.
So fondness springs from words and scuffling,
As beds lie smoothest after shuming.

But authors' wranglings will create
The very quintessence of hate;
Peace is a fruitless vain endeavour,
Sworn foes for once, they're foes for ever.

-Oh ! had it pleas'd my wiser betters
That I had never tasted letters,
Then ne Parnaffian maggots bred,
Like fancies in a madman's head,
No graspings at an idle name,
No childish hope of future fame;

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