You fee me, as I faid before,
Run up and down a page or more,
Without one word of tribute due
To friendship's altar, and to you.
Accept, then, in or out of time,

My honeft thanks, though writ in rhyme.
And these once paid, (to obligations
Repeated thanks grow ftale vexations,
And hurt the liberal donor more,
Than all his lavish gifts before,)
I fkip about, as whim prevails,
Like your own frisky goats in WALES,
And follow where the Mufe fhall lead,
O'er hedge and ditch, o'er hill or mead.
Well might the Lordly writer praise
The first inventor of Ejays,

*

Where wanton fancy gaily rambles,
Walks, paces, gallops, trots, and ambles;
And all things may be sung or faid,
While drowsy METHOD's gone to bed,
And bleft the poet, or the rhymist,
(For furely none of the fublimeft)
Who prancing in his easy mode;
Down this epiftolary road,

First taught the Mufe to play the fool,
A truant from the pedant's fchool,
And skipping, like a tasteless dunce,
O'er all the UNITIES at once;
(For fo we keep but clink and rhyme,
A fig for ACTION, PLACE, and TIME.)
But critics, (who ftill judge by rules,
Tranfmitted down as guides to fools,
And howfoe'er they prate about 'em,
Drawn from wife folks who writ without 'em ;)
Will blame this frolic, wild excursion,
Which fancy takes for her diverfion,
As inconfiftent with the law,
Which keeps the fober Muse in awe,
Who dares not for her life difpenfe,
With fuch mechanic chains for fenfe.

Yet men are often apt to blame
Thofe errors they'd be proud to claim,
And if their skill, of pigmy fize,
To glorious darings cannot rise,
From critic fpleen and pedant phlegm,
Would make all genius creep with them.
Nay e'en profeffors of the art,
To prove their wit betray their heart,
And speak against themfelves, to show,
What they would hate the world fhou'd know.
As when the measur'd couplets curse,
The manacles of Gothic verse,
While the trim bard in easy strains,
Talks much of fetters, clogs, and chains;
He only aims that you should think,
How charmingly he makes them clink.
So have I feen in tragic stride,
The hero of the Mourning Bride,
Sullen and fulky tread the stage :
Till, fixt attention to engage,
He flings his fetter'd arms about,
That all may find ALPHONSO out.

Oft have I heard it said by thofe, Who moft fhou'd blush to be her foes, That rhyme's impertinent vexation, Shackles the brave imagination,

* Shaftsbury.

Which longs with eager zeal to try
Her trackless path above the sky,
But that the clog upon her feet,
Reftrains her flight, and damps her heat.
From BOILEAU down to his translators,
Dull paraphrafts, and imitators,

All rail at metre at the time
They write and owe their sense to rhyme.
Had HE fo maul'd his gentle fue,
But for that lucky word QUINEAUT ?
Or had his ftrokes been half fo fine,
Without that clofing name COTIN?
Yet dares He on this very theme,
His own APOLLO to blafpheme,
And talk of wars 'twixt rhyme and fenfe,
And murders which enfu'd from thence,
As if they both refolv'd to meet,
Like Theban fons, in mutual heat,
Forgetful of the ties of brother,
To maim and maffacre each other.

'Tis true, fometimes to coftive brains,
A couplet cofts exceeding pains;
But where the fancy waits the fkill
Of fluent easy dress at will,

The thoughts are oft, like colts which stray
From fertile meads, and lofe their way,
Clapt up and faften'd in the pound

Of meafur'd rhyme, and barren found.
-What are these jarring notes I hear,
Grating harfh difcord on my ear!

How fhrill, how coarse, th' unfettled tone,
Alternate 'twixt a fqueak and drone,
Worfe than the fcrannel pipe of straw,
Or mufic grinding on a saw!

Will none that horrid fiddle break?
-O fpare it for GIARDINI's fake.
'Tis His, and only errs by chance,
Play'd by the hand of ignorance,
From this allufion I infer,
"Tis not the art, but artists err,
And rhyme's a fiddle, fweet indeed,
When touch'd by those who well can lead,
Whofe varied notes harmonious flow,
In tones prolong'd from sweeping bow;
But harfh the founds to ear and mind,
From the poor fidler lame and blind,
Who begs in mufic at your door.
And thrums Jack Latin o'er and o'er.

Some MILTON-mad, (an affectation,
Glean'd up from college education)
Approve no verfe, but that which flows
In epithetic meafur'd profe,
With trim expreffions daily drest
Stol'n mifapply'd, and not confeit,
And call it writing in the stile
Of that great HOMER of our ifle.
Whilom, what time, eftfoons and erft,
(So profe is oftentimes beverft)
Sprinkled with quaint fantastic phrase,
Uncouth to ears of modern days,
Make up the metre, which they call

Blank, CLASSICK BLANK, their All in All.

Can only blank admit fublime?

Go read and measure DRYDEN's rhyme.
Admire the magic of his fong,
See how his numbers roll along,

With ease and strength and varied paufe,
Nor cramp'd by found, nor metre's laws.

Is harmony the gift of rhyme?

Read, if you can, your MILTON's chime; Where tafte, not wantonly fevere,

May find the measure, not the ear,

And BOILEAU leaves it as a rule
To all who enter PHOEBUS' fchool,
To make the metre ftrong and fine,
Poets write firft your fecond line.

And blank has MILTON's nobler voice,

I deem it as the fubjects lead,

That either measure will fucceed.

That rhyme will readily admit

Of fancy numbers, force and wit;

But though each couplet has its strength,
It palls in works of epic length.

For who can bear to read or hear,
Though not offenfive to the ear,

The mighty BLACKMORE gravely fing

Of ARTHUR PRINCE, and ARTHUR KING,
Heroic poems without number,

Long, lifeless, leaden, lulling lumber;
Nor pity fuch laborious toil,

And lofs of midnight time and oil?
Yet glibly runs each jingling line,
Smoother, perhaps, than yours or mine,
But still, (though peace be to the dead,)
The dull, dull poems weigh down lead.
So have I feen upon the road,
A waggon of a mountain's load,
Broad-wheel'd and drawn by horfes eight,
Pair'd like great folks who ftrut in state:
While the gay fteeds, as proud as strong,
Drag the flow tottering weight along,
Each as the steep afcent he climbs,
Moves to his bells, and walks in chimes.

The Mufes dwelt on OVID's tongue,
For OVID never faid, but fung,
And Porr (for POPE affects the fame)
In numbers lifp'd, for numbers came.
Thus, in hiftoric page I've read
Of fome queen's daughter, fairy-bred,
Who could not either cough or fpit,
Without fome precious flow of wit,
While her fair lips were as a fpout,
To tumble pearls and diamonds out.

Yet though dame nature may bestow
This nack of verfe, and jingling flow:
(And thousands have that impulfe felt,
With whom the Mufes never dwelt)
Though it may fave the lab'ring brain
From many a thought-perplexing pain,
And while the rhyme prefents itfelf,
Leaves BYSSHE untouch'd upon the shelf;
Yet more demand the critic ear,
Than the two catch-words in the rear,
Which stand like watchmen in the close,
To keep the verse from being prose,
But when reflection has refin'd
This boift'rous bias of the mind.
When harmony enriches fenfe,

And borrows ftronger charms from thence,
When genius fteers by judgment's laws
When proper cadence, varied pause

Shew nature's strength combin'd with art,
And through the ear poffefs the heart;
Then numbers come, and all before
Is bab, dab, fcab-mere rhymes-no more.
Some boaft, which none could e'er impart,
A fecret principle of art,

Which gives a melody to rhyme
Unknown to Bards of antient time..

In tuneful verfe, who thinks in profe ;
And all the mighty fecret here
Lies in the nicenefs of the ear.

E'en in this measure, when the mufe,
With genuine eafe, her way pursues,
Though the affect to hide her skill,
And walks the town in dishabille,
Something peculiar will be seen
Of air, or grace, in fhape or mien,
Which will, though carelefly display'd,
Diftinguish MADAM from her maid.

Here, by the way of critie fample,
I give the precept and example.
Four feet, you know, in ev'ry line
IS PRIOR'S measure, and is mine;
Yet Tafte wou'd ne'er forgive the crime
To talk of mine with PRIOR's rhyme.

Yet, take it on a Poet's word,
There are who foolishly have err'd,
And marr'd their proper reputation,
By fticking close to imitation.
A double rhyme is often fought

At ftrange expence of time and thought;
And though fometimes a lucky hit
May give a zeft to BUTLER's wit;
Whatever makes the measure halt
Is beauty feldom, oft a fault.
For when we see the wit and pains,
The twifting of the ftubborn brains,
To cramp the fense within the bound
Of fome queer double treble found:
Hard is the Mufes's travail, and 'tis plain
'Tis pinien'd fenfe, and EASE in PAIN;
'Tis like a foot that's wrapt about
With flannel in the racking gout.

But here, methinks, 'tis more than time
To wave both fimile and rhyme;
For while, as pen and Mufes please,
I talk fo much of eafe and ease,

Though the word's mention'd o'er and o'er,
I fcarce have thought of yours before.
'Tis true, when writing to one's friend
"Tis a rare fcience when to end,
As 'tis with wits a common fin
To want th' attention to begin.
So, Sir, (at laft indeed) adieu,
Believe me, as you'll find me, true;
And if henceforth, at any time,
APOLLO whispers you in rhyme,
Or Lady Fancy should difpofe
Your mind to fally out in profe,

I fhall receive, with hallow'd awe,
The Mufe's mail from FLEXNEY's draw.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

What precedents for fools to follow
Are BEN the DEVIL and APOLLO!
While the great gawky ADMIRATION,
Parent of ftupid imitation,
Intrinsic proper worth neglects,

F

A HAMPER OF WINE.

Decipit Exemplar vitiis imitabile.

OND of the loofe familiar vein,

HOR.

Which neither tires, nor cracks the brain, The Mufe is rather truant grown

To buckram works of higher tone;
And though perhaps her pow'rs of rhyme,
Might rife to fancies more fublime,
Prefers this eafy down-hill road,
To dangerous leaps at five-barr'd ODE,
Or starting in the Claffic race
Jack-booted for an Eric chace.

That Bard, as other Bards, divine,
Who was a facris to the Nine,
DAN PRIOR I mean, with natural ease,
(For what's not nature cannot please)
Would fometimes make his rhyming bow,
And greet his friend as I do now;
And howfo'er the critic train
May hold my judgment rather vain,
Allow me one refemblance true,
I have my friend, a SHEPHERD * too.

You know, dear Sir, the Mufes nine,
Though fober Maids are wooed in wine,
And therefore, as beyond a doubt,
You've found my dangling foible out,
Send me nectareous infpiration,
Though others read Intoxication.
For there are those who vainly use
This grand Elixir of the Mufe,
And fancy in their apish fit,

An idle trick of maudlin wit,
Their genius takes a daring flight,
"Bove PINDUS, or PLINLIMMON's height.
Whilst more of madman than of poet,
They're drunk indeed, and do not know it.
The Bard, whose charming measure flows
With all the native ease of profe,
Who, without flashy vain pretence,
Has beft adorn'd Eternal Senfe,
And, in his chearful moral page,
Speaks to mankind in every age;
Tells us, from folks whofe fituation
Makes them the mark of observation,
Example oft gives Folly rife,

And Imitation clings to Vice.

ENNIUS could never write, 'tis faid,
Without a bottle in his head;

And your own HORACE quaff'd his wine

In plenteous draughts at BACCHUS' fhrine 1
Nay, ADDISON would oft unbend,
T'indulge his genius with a friend;
(For fancy, which is often dry,
Muft wet her wings, or cannot fly)

The man, fecure in strength of Parts,
Has no recourfe to fhuffling Arts,
Seeks not his nature to disguise,
Nor heeds the people's tongues, or eyes,
His wit, his faults at once difplays,
Careless of envy, or of praise;
And foibles, which we often find
Juft on the furface of the mind,
Strike common eyes, which can't difcern
What to avoid, and what to learn.

Errors in wit confpicuous grow,
To ufe GAY's words, like fpecks in fnow;
Yet it were kind, at least, to make
Allowance for the merit's fake;
And when fuch beauties fill the eye,
To let the blemishes go by.
Plague on your philofophic fots!
I'll view the fun without its spots.

Wits are peculiar in their mode;
They cannot bear the hackney road
And will contract habitual ways,
Which fober people cannot praise,
And fools admire: Such fools I hate;
-Begone, ye flaves, who imitate.

Poor SPURIOUS! eager to destroy
And murder hours he can't enjoy,
The laft of witlings, next to dunce,
Would fain turn Genius all at once,
But that the wretch mistakes his aim,
And thinks a Libertine the fame.
Connected as the hand and glove,
Is Madam POETRY and LOVE;
Shall not He then poffefs his Muse,
And fetch CORINNA from the stews,
The burthen of his amorous verfe,
And charming melter of his purfe,
While happy REBUS tells the name
Of His and DRURY'S Common Flame?
How will the wretch at BACCHUS' fhrine,
Betray the cause of wit and wine,
And waste in bawdy, port, and pun,
In taste a very GOTH or HUN,
Thofe little hours, of value more
Than all the round of time before;

When fancy brightens with the flask,
And the heart fpeaks without a mask?

Muft THOU, whofe genius, dull and cool,

Is muddy as the stagnant pool;
Whofe torpid foul and fluggish brains,
Dullness pervades, and Wine difdains;
Muft Thou to nightly taverns run,
APOLLO's gueft, and JONSON's fon?
And in thy folly's beaftly fit,

Attempt the fallies of a wit?

Art thou the child of PHOEBUS' choir?
Think of the Adage

Afs and Lyre*.

If thou wouldst really fucceed,

Let DRYDEN lend thee SHEFFIELD's blows,

And be a mimic wit indeed,

Or like WILL. DAVENANT lofe

* Afinus ad Lyramı

O LUCIAN, Sire of antient wit,
Who wedding HUMOUR, didft beget
Thofe doctors in the laughing fchool,
Thofe Giant fons of RIDICULE,

SWIFT, RAB'LAIS, and that favourite Child,
Who, lefs excentrically wild,
Inverts the mifanthropic Plan,
And hating vices, hates not Man:
How do I love thy gibing vein!
Which glances at the mimic train
Of fots, who proud of modern beaux
Of birth-day fuits, and tinfel cloaths,
Affecting cynical grimace
With philofophic ftupid face,
In dirty hue, with naked feet,

In

rags and tatters, ftrole the street ;
OSTENSIVELY exceeding wife ;

But Knaves, and Fools, and walking Lies,
External Mimicry their plan,
The monkey's copy after Man.

Wits too poffefs this affectation, .
And live a life of imitation,
Are Slovens, Revellers and Brutes,
Laborious, abfent, prattlers, Mutes,
From fome example handed down
Of fome great Genius of Renown.

If ADDISON, from habit's trick,
Could bite his fingers to the quick,
Shall not I nibble from defign,
And be an ADDISON to mine?
If POPE moft feelingly complains
Of aching head, and throbbing pains,
My head and arm his pofture hit,
And I already ache for wit.

If CHURCHILL, following nature's call,
Has head that never aches at all,
With burning brow, and heavy eye,
I'll give my looks and pain the Lye.

If huge tall words of termination,
Which ask a Critic's explanation,
Come rolling out along with thought,
And feem to ftand juft where they ought;
If language more in grammar drest,
With greater emphasis expreft,
Unitudied, unaffected flows,

In fome great Wit's converfing profe:
If from the tongue the period round
Fall into ftile, and fwell the found,
'Tis nature which herself displays,

And JOHNSON fpeaks a JOHNSON's phrafe.
But can you hear, without a fmile,
The formal coxcomb ape his ftyle,
Who, most dogmatically wife,
Attempts to cenfure, and defpife,
Affecting what he cannot reach,
A trim propriety of speech?

What though his pompous Language wear
The grand decifive folemn Air,
Where quaint ANTITHESIS prevails,
And fentences are weighed in scales,
Can you bow down with reverend awe
Before this puppet king of ftraw?
Or hufh'd in mute contention fit,
To hear this CRITIC, POET, WIT,

The late inimitable HENRY FIELDING, Efq.

PHILOSOPHER, all, all at once,

And to compleat them all this-DUNCE?
-All this you'll fay is mighty fine,
But what has this to do with Wine?

Have patience and the Mufe fhall tell
What you my friend, know full as well,
Vices in Poets, Wits and Kings,
Are catching, imitable things;
And frailties ftanding out to view,
Become the objects fools purfue.
Thus have I pictures often seen,
Where features neither speak nor mean,
Yet fpite of all, the Face will ftrike,
And mads us that it fhould be like,
When all the near resemblance grows,
From fcratch or pimple on the Nose.

To Poets then (I mean not here
The fcribbling Drudge, or fcribbling Peer,
Nor those who have the monthly fit,
The Lunatics of modern Wit)
To POETS Wine is inspiration,
Blockheads get drunk in imitation.

As different Liquors different ways
Affect the body, fometimes raise
The fancy to an Eagle's flight,
And make the heart feel wond'rous light;
At other times the circling mug,
Like LETHE's draught, or opiate drug,
Will ftrike the fenfes on a heap,

When Folks talk wife, who talk asleep;

A whimfical imagination,

Might from a whimsical relation,
How every Author writes and thinks
Analagous to what he drinks,
While quaint Conjecture's lucky hit,
Finds out his bev'rage in his Wit.

Ye goodly dray-nymph Muses, hail !
MUM, PORTER, STINGO, MILD and STALE,
And chiefly thou of boafted fame,
Of ROMAN and IMPERIAL name;
O Purl! all hail! thy vot'ry steals,
His ftockings dangling at his heels,
To where fome pendant head invites
The Bard to fet his own to rights,
Who feeks thy influence divine,
And pours libations on thy fhrine,
In wormwood draughts of inspiration,

To whet his foul for defamation.

Hail too, your Domes! whofe Mafter's skill
Takes up illuftrious folks at will,
And careless or of place or name,
Beheads and hangs to public fame

Fine garter'd Knights, blue, ted, or green,

Lords, Earls and Dukes, nay King, or Queen,

And fometimes pairs them both together,

To dangle to the wind and weather;
Or claps fome mighty General there,
Who has not any head to spare.
Or if it more his fancy fuit,
Pourtrays or fish, or bird, or brute.
And luies the gaping, thirsty gueft,
To SCOTT's entire, or TRUEMAN's best.
Ye chequer'd Domes thrice hail! for hence
The fire of Wit, the froth of Senfe,
Here gentle Puns, ambiguous Joke,
Burft forth oracular in smoke,
And infpiration pottle deep

Forgets her fons, and falls afleep.

Mence iffue Treatifes and Rhymes,
The Wit and Wonder of the Times,
Hence Scandal, Piracies and Lies,
Defenfive Pamphlets on EXCISE,
The murd'rous Articles of News,
And pert THEATRICAL REVIEWS.
Hither, as to their Urns, repair,
Bard, Publisher, and minor Play'r,
And o'er the Porter's foaming head
Their venom'd malice nightly fhed,
And aim their batteries of dirt
At Genius, which they cannot hurt.

Smack not their works, if verfe or profe
Offend your eye, or ear, or nofe,
So frothy, vapid, ftale, hum-drum,

Of STINGO, PORTER, PURL and MUM?
And when the mufe politely jokes,
Cannot you find the Lady smokes?
And spite of all her infpiration,
Betrays her alehouse education?

Alas! how very few are found,

Whofe ftyle taftes neat and full and found!
In WILMOT's loose ungovern'd vein
There is, I grant, much burnt CHAMPAGNE,
And DORSET's lines all palates hit,
The very BURGUNDY of wit.
But when, obedient to the mode
Of panegyric, courtly ode,

The bard beftrides his annual hack,

In vain I tafte, and fip and fmack,
I find no flavour of the SACK.

But while I ramble and refine

On flavour, Style, and Wit and Wine,
Your Claret, which I would not waste,
Recalls me to my proper taste;
So ending, as 'tis more than time,
At once my Letter, glafs and rhyme,

I take this bumper off to you,

Tis SHEPHERD's health-dear friend, adieu.

}

THE CANDLE AND SNUFFERS.

N

A FAB L É.

O author ever fpar'd a brother:
Wits are game cocks to one another."

But no antipathy so strong,

Which acts fo fiercely, lafts fo long
As that which rages in the breast

Of critic, and of quit profeft:
When, eager for fome bold emprize,
WIT, Titan-like, affects the fkies,
When, full of energy divine,
The mighty dupe of all the nine,
Bids his kite foar on paper wing,

The critic comes, and cuts the string;

Hence dire contention often grows
'Twixt man of verfe, and man of profe;
While profe-man deems the verfe-man fool,
And measures wit by line and rule,
And, as he lops off fancy's limb,
Turns executioner of whim;

VOL. VII.

While genius, which too oft difdains
To bear e'en honourable chains;
(Such as a fheriff's self might wear
Or grace the wifdom of a may'r)
Turns rebel to dame REASON's throne
And holds no judgment like his own.

Yet while they fpatter mutual dirt,
In idle threats that cannot hurt,
Methinks they waste a deal of time,
Both fool in profe, and fool in rhyme
And when the angry bard exclaims,
And calls a thou fand paltry names,
He doth his critic mighty wrong,
And hurts the dignity of fong.
The prefatory matter past
The tale, or ftory, comes at laft.

A candle ftuck in flaring state
Within the nozzle of French plate,
Tow'ring aloft with fmoaky light,
The fnuff and flame of won'drous height,
(For, virgin yet of amputation,
No force had check'd its inclination)
Sullen addrefs'd with confcious pride,
The Dormant fnuffers at his fide.
"Mean vulgar tools, whofe envious aim
"Strikes at the vitals of my flame,
"Your rude affaults fhall hurt no more,
"See how my beams triumphant foar !
"See how I gayly blaze alone
"With ftrength, with luftre all my own.
"Luftre, good fir!" the fnuffers cried,
"Alas! how ignorant is pride!

Thy light which wavers round the room, Shews as the counterfeit of gloom, "Thy fnuff which idly tow'rs fo high "Will wafte thy effence by and by, "Which, as I prize thy luftre dear "I fain would lop to make thee clear. "Boaft not, old friend, thy random rays, "Thy wafting strength, and quiv'ring blaze, You fhine but as a beggar's link, "To burn away, and die in ftink, "No merit waits unfteady light, "You must burn true as well as bright." Poets like candles all are puffers, And critics are the candle fnuffers.