Should be the lamps for lover's ruin,
And light them to their own undoing;
While all the fnor about your breaft
Should leave them hopeless and distrest.
For those who rarely foar above
The art of coupling love and dove,
In their conceits and amorous fictions,
Are mighty fond of contradictions,
Above, in air; in earth, beneath;
And things that do, or do not breathe,
All have their parts, and separate place,
To paint the fair one's various grace.

Her cheek, her eye, her bofom fhow
The rofe, the lilly, diamond, fnow.
Jet, milk, and amber, vales and mountains,
Stars, rubies, funs, and moffy fountains,
The poet gives them all a fhare

In the defcription of his fair,

She burns, the chills, the pierces hearts

With locks, and bolts, and flames, and darts.
And could we truft th' extravagancy
Of every poet's youthful faney,
They'd make cach nymph they love fo well,
As cold as fnow, as hot as-

-O gentle lady, fpare your fright,
No horrid rhime fhall wound your fight.
I would not for the world be heard,
To utter fuch unfeemly word,
Which the politer parfon fears
To mention to politer ears.

But, could a female form be fhown,
(The thought, perhaps, is not my own)
Where every circumstance fhould meet
To make the poet's nymph compleåt
Form'd to his Fancy's utmost pitch,
She'd be as ugly as a witch.

Come then, O mufe, of trim conceit,
Mufe, always fine, but never neat,
Who to the dull unfated ear
Of French or Tuscan SONNETEER,
Tak'ft up the fame unvaried tone,
Like the Scotch bagpipe's favourite drone,
Squeezing out thoughts in dittie: quaint,
To poet's mistress, whore, or faint;
Whether thou dwell'ft on ev'ry grace,
Which lights the world from LAURA's face,
Or amorous praise expatiates wide

On beauties which the nymph muft hide;
For wit affected, loves to show
Her every charm from top to toe,
And wanton fancy oft pursues
Minute defcription from the mufe,
Come and pourtray, with pencil fine,
The poet's mortal nymph divine.

Her golden locks of claffic hair,
Are nets to catch the wanton air;
Her forehead ivory, and her eyes
Each a bright fun to light the fkies,
Orb'd in whofe centre, Capid aims
His darts protect us! tipt with flames z
While the fly god's unerring bow
Is the half circle of her brow.
Each lip a ruby, parting, fhews
The precious pearl in even rows,
And all the loves and graces fleek
Bathe in the dimples of her cheek.
Her breafts pure fnow, or white as milk,
Arc ivory apples, smooth as filk,

Or elfe, as fancy trips on fafter,
Fine marble hills or alabafter.

A figure made of wax wou'd pleafe
More than an aggregate of thefe,
Which though they are of precious worth,
And held in great esteem on earth,
What are they, rightly understood,
Compar'd to real flesh and blood?

And I, who hate to act by rules
Of whining, thiming, lowing fools,
Can never twift my mind about
To find fuch ftrange refemblance out,
And fimile that's only fit

To fhew my plenteous lack of wit.
Therefore, omitting flames and darts,
Wounds, fighs and tears, and bleeding hearts,
Obeying, what I here declare,
Makes half my happiness, the Fair,
The favourite fubject I pursue,
And write, as who would not, for you.
Perhaps my mufe, a common curfe
Errs in the manner of her verfe,
Which, flouching in the doggrel lay,
Goes tittup all her eafy way.
Yes-an Acrotic had been better,
Where each good natured prattling letter,
Though it conceal the writer's aim,
Tells all the world his lady's name,

But all Acroftics, it is faid,
Shew wond'rous pain of empty head,
Where wit is cramp'd in hard confines,
And fancy dare not jump the lines.

I love a fanciful diforder,
And straggling out of rule and order;
Impute not then to vacant head,
Or what I've writ, or what I've faid,
Which imputation can't be true,
Where head and heart's fo full of you.

Like TRISTRAM SHANDY, I Could write
From morn to noon, from noon to night,
Sometimes obfcure, and fometimes leaning,
A little fideways to a meaning,
And unfatigu'd myself, pursue
The civil mode of teazing you.
For as your folks who love the dwelling
On circumftance in ftory telling,
And to give each relation grace,
Describe the time, the folks, the place,
And are religiously exact

To point out each unmeaning fact,
Repeat their, wonders undefired,
Nor think one hearer can be tired;
So they who take a method worse,
And profe away, like me, in verfe,
Worry their mistress, friends or betters.
With fatire, fonnet, ode, or letters,
And think the knack of pleafing follows
Each jingling pupil of APOLLO's.
-Yet let it be a venial crime
That I addrefs you thus in rhime.
Nor think that I am Phabus'-bit
By the Tarantula of wit,

But as the meaneft critic knows
All females have a knack at profe,
And letters are the mode of writing
The ladies take the most delight in ;
Bold is the man, whofe faucy aim
Leads him to form a rival claim;

A double death the victim dies,
Wounded by wit as well as eyes.

-With mine difgrace a lady's profe,
And puta nettle next a rofe?
Who would, fo long as tafte prevails,
Compare St. James's with Verfailles?
The nightingale, as story goes,
Fam'd for the mufic of his woes,
In vain against the artist try'd,

But ftrain'd his tuneful throat-and died.
Perhaps I fought the rhiming way,
For reasons which have pow'rful sway.
The fwain, no doubt, with pleasure fues
'I he nymph he's fure will not refuse.
And more compaffion may be found
Amongst these goddeffes of found,
Than always happens to the share
Of the more cruel human fair;
Who love to fix their lover's pains,
Pleas'd with the rattling of their chains,
Rejoicing in their fervant's grief,
As 'twere a fin to give relief.
They twist each eafy fool about,
Nor let them in, nor let them out,
But keep them twirling on the fire
Of apprehenfion and defire,

As cock-chafers, with corking pin

The school-boy ftabs to make them fpin.

For 'tis a maxim in love's school,

To make a man of fenfe a fool;
I mean the man, who loves indeed,
And hopes and wishes to fucceed;
But from his fear and apprehenfion,
Which always mars his best intention,
Can ne'er addrefs with proper ease
The very perfon he would please.

Now Poets, when these nymphs refuse,
Strait go a courting to the mufe.
But ftill fome difference we find
'Twixt goddeffes and human kind;
The mufes' favours are ideal,

'The ladies' fcarce, but always real.
The poet can, with little pain,
Create a miftrefs in his brain,
Heap each attraction, every grace
That fhould adorn the mind or face,
On Delia, Phyllis, with a score
Of Phyliffes and Delias more.
Or as the whim of paffion burns,
Can court each frolic mufe by turns;
Nor fhall one word of blame be said,
Altho' he take them all to bed.
The mufe detefts coquettry's guilt,
Nor apes the manners of a jilt.

Jilt! O difhoneft hateful name,
Your fex's pride, your fex's fhame.
Which often bait their treacherous hook
With smile endearing, winning look,
And wind them in the eafy heart
Of man, with most ensnaring art,
Only to torture and betray

The wretch they mean to caft away.
No doubt 'tis charming pleasant angling
To fee the poor fond creatures dangling,
Who rush like gudgeons to the bait,
And gorge the mifchief they should hate.
Yet fure fuch cruelties deface
Your virtues of their fairest grace.
VOL. VIII.

And pity, which in woman's breaft,
Should fwim at top of all the reft,
Muft fuch infidious fport condemn,
Which play to you, is death to them.
So have I often read or heard,
Though both upon a trav'llers word,
(Authority may pass it down,

So, vide TRAVELS, by ED. BROWN)
At METZ, a dreadful engine ftands,
Form'd like a maid, with folded hands,
Which finely dreft, with primmeft grace,
Receives the culprit's first embrace;
But at the fecond (difmal wonder!)
Unfolds, clafps, cuts his heart afunder.
You'll fay, perhaps I love to rail,
We'll end the matter with a tale

A Robin once, who lov'd to stray,
And hop about from fpray to fpray,
Familiar as the folks were kind,
Nor thought of mischief in his mind,
Slight favours make the bold prefume,
Would Autter round the lady's room,
And carelefs often take his ftand
Upon the lovely Flavia's hand.
The nymph, 'tis said, his freedom fought,
In short, the trifling fool was caught;
And happy in the fair one's grace,
Would not accept an Eagle's place:
And while the nymph was kind as fair,
Wifh'd not to gain his native air,
But thought he bargain'd to his coft,
To gain the liberty he lost.

Till at the laft, a fop was feen,
A parrot, drefs'd in red and green,
Who could not boast one genuine note,
But chatter'd, fwore and ly'd-by rote.
"Nonfenfe and noife will oft prevail,
"When honour and affection fail."
The lady lik'd her foreign gueit,
For novelty will please the best;
And whether it is lace or fan,
Or filk, or china, bird or man,

None fure can think it wrong, or strange,
That ladies fhould admire a change.
The Parrot now came into play,
The Robin! he had had his day,
But could not brook the nymph's disdain,
So fled and ne'er came back again.

Precisely when your bones fhould ache,
And when grow found! by th' almanack.
For he knew ev'ry thing, d'ye fee,
By, what d'ye call't, astrology,
And fkill'd in all the starry system,
Foretold events, and often mist'em.
And then it griev'd me fore to look
Juft at the heel-piece of his book,
Where ftood a man, Lord blefs my heart!
(No doubt by matthew maticks art,)
Naked, expos'd to public view,

And darts tuck in him through and through.
I warrant him fome hardy fool,

Who fcorn'd to follow wisdom's rule,
And dar'd blafphemously defpife
Our doctor's knowledge in the skies.
Full dearly he abides his laugh,

I'm fure 'tis SWIFT, OF BICKERSTAFF.
Excufe this bit of a digreffion,
A cobler's is a learn'd profeffion.
Why may not I too couple rhimes?
My wit will not difgrace the times;
I too, forfooth, among the reit,
Claim one advantage, and the best,
I fcarce know writing, have no reading,
Nor any kind of scholar breeding;
And wanting that's the fole foundation
Of half your poets' reputation.
While genius, perfect at its birth,
Springs up, like mushrooms from the earth.

You know they send me to and fro
To carry meffages or fo;

And though I'm fomewhat old and crazy,
I'm ftill of fervice to the lazy,

For our good fquire has no great notion
Of much alacrity in motion,

And when there's miles betwixt you know
Would rather fend by half than go;
Then I'm difpatch'd to travel hard,
And bear myfelf by way of card.
I'm a two-legg'd excufe to fhow
Why other people cannot go;
And merit fure I muft affume,
For once I went in GARRICK's room.
In my old age, 'twere wond'rous hard
To come to town, as trav'lling card,
Then let the poft convey me there,
The clerk's direction tell him where,
For, though I ramble at this rate
He writes it all, and I dictate;
For I'm refolv'd-by help of neighbour,
(Who keeps a school, and goes to labour)
To tell you all things as they paft;
Coblers will go beyond their last,
And fo I'm told will authors too,
-But that's a point I leave to you;
Cobbling extends a thousand ways,
Some cobble shoes, fome cobble plays j
Some-but this jingle's vaftly clever,
It makes a body write for ever.
While with the motion of the pen,
METHOD рops in and out again,
So, as I faid, I thought it better,
To fet me down and think a letter,
And without any more ado,

Seal up my mind, and send it you.
You'll ask me, mafter, why I chufe
To plague your worship with my mase?

I'll tell you then-will truth offend ?
Though cobler, yet I love my friend.
Befides, I like you merry folks,

Who make their puns, and crack their jokes ;
Your jovial hearts are never wrong,

I love a ftory, or a fong;

But always feel most grievous qualms,

From WESLEY'S hymns, or WISDOM's palms*.
My father often told me, one day
Was for religion-that was Sunday,
When I fhould go to prayers twice,
And hear our parfon battle vice;
And drefs'd in all my finest cloaths,
Twang the pfalmoddy through my nose.
But betwixt churches, for relief,
Eat bak'd plumb-pudding, and roast-beef;
And chearful, without fin, regale
With good home-brew'd, and nappy ale,
But not one word of fafting greetings,
And dry religious finging meetings.
But here comes folks a-preaching to us
A faving doctrine to undo us,
Whofe notions fanciful and fcurvy,
Turn old religion topsy-turvy.

I'll give my pleafure up for no man

And an't I right now, mafter SHOW-MAN?
You feem'd to me a perfon civil,
Our parfon gives you to the devil;
And fays, as how, that after grace,
You laugh'd directly in his face;

Ay, laugh'd out-right (as I'm a finner)

I should have lik'd t' have been at dinner,
Not for the fake of mafter's fare,
But to have feen the doctor ftare,
Odzooks, I think, he's perfect mad,
Scar'd out of all the wits he had,

For wherefoe'er the doctor comes,

He pulls his wig, and bites his thumbs,

And mutters, in a broken rage,

The MINOR, GARRICK, FOOTE, the STAGE, (For I must blab it out-but hitt,

His reverence is a methodist)

And preaches like an errant fury,

'Gainft all your how folks about DRURY,
Says actors all are hellish imps,
And managers the devil's pimps.
He knows not what he fets about;
Puts on his furplice infide out,
Miftakes the leffons in the church,
Or leaves a collect in the lurch;
And t'other day-God help his head,
The gardener's wife being brought to bed,
When fent for to baptize the child
His wig awry, and staring wild,

He laid the prayer-book flat before him,

And read the burial fervice o'er him.

-The folks must wait without their shoes,
For I muft tell you all the news.

For we have had a deal to do,
Our fquire's become a show-man too!
And horfe and foot arrive in flocks
To fee his worship's famous rocks,
Whilft, he with humourous delight,
Walks all about and fhews the fight,

*Robert Wisdom was an early tranflator of the Pfalms. Wood fays, he was a good Latin and English poet of his time." He died 1568.

Points out the place, where trembling you
Had like t' have bid the world adieu;
It bears the fad remembrance ftill,
And people call it GARRICK'S Hill.
The goats their ufual distance keep,
We never have recourfe to fheep;
And the whole scene wants nothing now,
Except your ferry-boat and cow.
I had a great deal more to fay,
But I am fent exprefs away,

To fetch the fquire's three children down
To TISSINGTON from DERBY town;
And ALLEN fays he'll mend my rhime,
When e'er I write a fecond time.

THE

COBLER OF CRIPPLEGATE'S LETTER

U

то ROBERT LLOYD, A. M.

NUS'D to verfe, and tir'd, Heav'n knows,
Of drudging on in heavy profe,

Day after day, year after year,
Which I have fent the GAZETTEER;
Now, for the first time I effay
To write in your own eafy way.
And now, O LLOYD, I wish I had,
To go that road your ambling pad,
While you, with all a poet's pride,
On the great horse of verfe might ride.
You leave the road that's rough and stoney,
To pace and whistle with your poney;
Sad proof to us you're lazy grown,
And fear to gall your huckle bone.
For he who rides a nag so small,
Will foon we fear, ride none at all.

There are, and nought gives more offence,
Who have fome fav'rite excellence,
Which evermore they introduce,
And bring it into constant ufe.
Thus GARRICK ftill in ev'ry part
Has paufe, and attitude, and start:
The paufe, I will allow, is good,
And fo, perhaps, the attitude;
The ftart too's fine: but if not scarce,
The tragedy becomes a farce.

I have too, pardon me, fome quarrel,
With other branches of your laurel.
I hate the ftile, that ftill defends
Yourself, or praifes all your friends,
As if the club of wits was met
To make eulogiums on the Set;
Say, must the town for ever hear,
And no Reviewer dare to fneer,

Of THORNTON's humour, GARRICK'S nature,
And COLMAN's wit, and CHURCHILL's fatire;
CHURCHILL, who-let it not offend,
If I make free, though he's your friend,
And fure we cannot want excufe,
When CHURCHILL nam'd for fmart abuse-
CHURCHILL! who ever loves to raise
On flander's dung his mushroom bays:

The priest, I grant, has fomething clever,
A fomething that will last for ever:
Let him, in part, be made your pattern,
Whose mufe, now queen, and now a flattern,
Trick'd out in ROSCIAD rules the roaft,
Turns trapes and trollop in the GHOST,
By turns both tickles us, and warms,
And, drunk or fober, has her charms.
GARRICK, to whom with lath and plaister
You try to raise a fine pilatter,
And found on LEAR and MACBETH,
His monument e'en after death,
GARRICK's a dealer in grimaces,
A haberdasher of wry faces,
A hypocrite, in all his ftages,
Who laughs and cries for hire and wages
As undertakers' men draw grief
From onion in their handkerchief,
Like real mourners cry and fob,
And of their paffions make a job.

And COLMAN too, that little finner,
That effay-weaver, drama-fpinner,
Too much the comic Sock will ufe,
For 'tis the law muft find him Shoes.
And though he thinks on fame's wide ocean
He fwims, and has a pretty motion,
Inform him, LLOYD, for all his grin
That HARRY FIELDING holds his chin.

Now higher foar, my mufe, and higher,
TO BONNEL THORNTON, hight Efquire!
The only man to make us laugh,
A very PETER PARAGRAPH;
The grand conducter and adviser
In CHRONICLE, and ADVERTISER,
Who still delights to run his rig
On Citizen and Perrizig!

Good fenfe, I know, though dafh'd with oddity,
In THORNTON is no fcarce commodity :
Much learning too I can defcry,
Beneath his perriwig doth lie.

-I beg his pardon, I declare,
His grizzle's gone for greafy hair,
Which now the wag with ease can ferme,
With dirty ribband in a queue

But why neglect (his trade forfaking

For fcribbling, and for merry-making,)

With tye to overfhade that brain,

Which might have shewn in WARWICK-LANY? Why not, with spectacles on nofe,

In chariot lazily repofe,

A formal, pompous, deep phyfician,
HIMSELF A SIGN-POST EXHIBITION?

But hold, my Mufe! you run a-head:
And where's the clue that fhall unthread
The maze, wherein you are entangled ?
While out of tune the bells are jangled
Through rhimes rough road that ferve to deck
My jaded Pegafus his neck.

My mufe with LLOYD alone contends:
Why then fall foul upon his friends?
Unless to fhew like handy-dandy,

Or CHURCHILL'S GHOST, or TRISTRAM SHAN

DY.

Now here, now there, with quick progreffion,
How fmartly you can make digreffion:
Your rambling spirit now confine,
And fpeak to LLOYD in ev'ry line,
2 D 2

Tell me then, LLOYD, what is't you mean By cobbling up a MAGAZINE ? A MAGAZINE, a wretched Olio Purloin'd from quarto and from folio, From Pamphlet, News-paper, and Book; Which toft up by a monthly cook, Borrows fine shapes, and titles new, Of fricafee or rich ragout,

Which dunces drefs, as well as you.

Say, is't for you, your wit to coop,
And tumble through this narrow hoop?
The body thrives, and fo the mind,
When both are free and unconfin'd;
But harness'd in like hackney tit,
To run the monthly ftage of wit,
The racer tumbles in the fhaft,

And fhews he was not meant for draft.
Pot-bellied gluttons, flaves of taite,
Who bind in leathern belt their waist,
Who lick their lips at ham or haunch,
But hate to fee the ftrutting paunch,
Full often rue the pain that's felt
From circumfcription of the belt.
Thus women too we ideots call,

Who lace their shapes too close and small.
Tight stays, they find, oft end in humps,
And take, too late, alas! to jumps.
The chinese ladies cramp their feet,
Which feem, indeed, both small and neat,
While the dear creatures laugh and talk,
And can do every thing—but walk ;
Thus you, who trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe,"
And in the Ring are never feen,
Or Rotten-Row of Magazine,

Will cramp your mufe in four-foot verfe,
And find at last your ease your carse.
CLIO already humbly begs

You'd give her leave to ftretch her legs,
For though fometimes she takes a leap,
Yet quadrupeds can only creep.

While Namby-Pamby thus you fcribble,
Your manly genius a mere fribble,
Pinn'd down, and fickly, cannot vapour,
Nor dares to fpring, or cut a caper.

Roufe then, for fhame, your ancient spirit!
Write a great work! a work of merit!
The conduct of your friend examine,
And give a PROPHECY OF FAMINE;
Or like yourself, in days of yore,
Write ACTORS, as you did before :
Write what may pow'rful friends create you.
And make your prefent friends all hate you.
Learn not a fhuffling, fhambling, pace,
But go erect with manly grace;

For OVID fays, and pr'y thee heed it,
Os homini fublime dedit.

But if you still waste all your prime
In fpinning Lilliputian rhyme,
Too long your genius will lie fallow,

And ROBERT LLOYD be ROBERT SHALLOW.

BM,NG paper,

RING paper, Afh, and let me fend

How pure the paper looks and white!
What pity 'tis that folks will write,
And on the face of candour scrawl
With defperate ink, and heart of gall!
Yet thus it often fares with those
Who, gay and easy in their profe,
Incur ill-natures ugly crime,
And lay about 'em in their rhyme.

No man more generous, frank and kind,
Of more ingenuous focial mind,

Than CHURCHILL, yet though CHURCHILL b
I will pronounce him too severe,
For, whether fcribbled at or not,
He writes no name without a blot.

Yet let me urge one honest plea?
Say, is the Mufe in fault or He?
The man, whofe genius thirsts for praife,
Who boldly plucks, not waits the bays;
Who drives his rapid car along,
And feels the energy of fong;
Writes, from the impulse of the Mufe,
What fober reafon might refufe.

My Lord, who lives and writes at eafe,
(Sure to be pleas'd, as fure to please)
And draws from filver-stand his pen,
To fcribble fonnets now and then ;
Who writes not what he truly feels,
But rather what he flily steals,
And patches up in courtly phrafe,
The manly fenfe of better days;
Whofe dainty Muse is only kist;
But as his dainty lordship lift,
Who treats her like a Mistress ftill,
To turn her off and keep at will;
Knows not the labour, pains and ftrife,
Of him who takes the Mufe to Wife.
For then the poor good-natur'd man
Muft bear his burden as he can;
And if my lady prove a fhrew,
What would you have the husband do?

Say, should he thwart her inclination
To work his own, and her vexation?
Or giving madam all her rein,
Make marriage but a filken chain ?
Thus we, who lead poetic lives,
The hen-peck'd culls of vixen wives,
Receive their orders, and obey,

Like husbands in the common way:

And when we write with too much phlegm,

The fault is not in us, but them:
True fervants always at command,
We hold the pen; they guide the hand.

Why need I urge fo plain a fact

To you who catch me in the act?
And fee me, (ere I've faid my grace,
That is, put SIR in proper place,
Or with epistolary bow,

Have prefac'd, as I fcarce know how.)