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Dreamt not of danger; glad was he
To fell his flock, and put to fea :
The confequence has sor told,
He lost his venture, fheep and gold.
So fares it with us fons of rhyme,
From doggrel wit, to wit fublime;
On ink's calm ocean all feems clear,
No fands affright, no rocks appear;
No lightnings blaft, no thunders roar,
No furges lash the peaceful fhore ;
Till, all too vent'rous from the land,
The tempefts dafh us on the ftrand :
Then the low pirate boards the deck,
And fons of theft enjoy the wreck.

The harlot mufe fo pafling gay,
Bewitches only to betray;
Though for a while, with eafy air,
She smooths the rugged brow of care,
And laps the mind in flow'ry dreams,
With fancy's tranfitory gleams.
Fond of the nothings the bestows,
We wake at laft to real woes.

Through ev'ry age, in ev'ry place,
Confider well the poet's cafe ;
By turns protected and carefs'd,
Defam'd, dependent, and diftrefs'd;
The joke of wits, the bane of flaves,
The curfe of fools, the butt of knaves;
Too proud to stoop for fervile ends,
To lacquey rogues, or flatter friends;
With prodigality to give,

Too careless of the means to live
The bubble fame intent to gain,
And yet too lazy to maintain;
He quits the world he never priz'd,
Pitied by few, by more defpis'd;
And loft to friends, opprefs'd by foes,
Sinks to the nothing whence he rose.

O glorious trade, for wit's a trade,
Where men are ruin'd more than made.
Let crazy LEE, neglected GAY,
The shabby OTWAY, DRYDEN grey,
Thofe tuneful fervants of the nine,
(Not that I blend their name with mine)
Repeat their lives, their works, their fame,
And teach the world fome ufeful thame.
At first the Poet idly ftrays

Along the greenfward path of praife,
Till on his journies up and down,

To fee, and to be feen, in town,

What with ill-natur'd flings and rubs

Prom flippant bucks, and hackney ferubs,

'Tis the difpenfes all the graces
Of profits, penfions, honours, places
And in her light capricious fits
Makes wits of fools, and fools of wits
Gives vices, folly, dullness birth,
Nay itamps the currency on worth;
'Tis the that lends the mufe a fpur,
And even Kiffing goes by Her.

Far in the fea a temple ftands
Built by dame ERROR'S hafty hands,
Where in her dome of lucid shells
The vifionary goddefs dwells,
Here o'er her fubject fons of earth
Regardless or of place, or worth,
She rules triumphant; and fupplies
The gaping world with hopes and lies,
Her throne, which weak and tott'ring feems,
Is built upon the wings of dreams;
The fickle winds her altars bear 1
Which quiver to the shifting air;
Hither hath REASON feldom brought
The child of VIRTUE or of THOUGHT,
And JUSTICE with her equal face,
Finds this, alas! no throne of Grace.
CAPRICE, OPINION, FASHION wait,
The porters at the temple's gate,
And as the fond adorers prefs
Pronounce fantastic happiness ;

While FAVOUR with a SYREN's fmile,
Which might ULYSSES' felf beguile,
Prefents the fparkling bright libation,
The Nectar of intoxication;

And fummoning her ev'ry grace

Of winning charms, and chearful face,
Smiles away Reafon from his throne,
And makes his votaries her own:
Inftant refounds the voice of fame;
Caught with the whistlings of their name,
The fools grow frantic, in their pride
Contemning all the world befide:
Pleas'd with the gewgaw toys of pow'r,
The noify pageant of an hour,

Struts forth the ftatesman, haughty, vain,
Amidt a fupple fervile train,

With fhrug, grimace, nod, wink, and share,
So proud, he almost treads in air;
While levee-fools, who fue for place,
Crouch for employment from his Grace,
And e'en good Bifhops, taught to trim,
Forfake their God to bow to him.
The Poet in that happy hour,
Imagination in his pow'r,

His toils through duft, through dirt, through gravel, Walks all abroad, and unconfin'd,

Take off his appetite for travel.

Tranfient is fame's immediate breath,
Though it blows ftronger after death;
Own then, with MARTIAL, after fate
If glory comes, fhe comes too late.
For who'd his time and labour give
For praife, by which he cannot live?

But in APOLLO's court of fame
(In this all courts are much the fame)
By FAVOUR folks muft make their way,
FAVOUR, which lafts, perhaps, a day,
And when you've twirl'd yourself about
To wriggle in, you're wriggled out.
"Tis from the funfhine of her eyes
Pach courtly infect lives or dies 5

Enjoys the liberty of mind:

Dupe to the fmoke of flimfy praife,
He vomits forth fonorous lays;,
And, in his fine poetic rage,
Planning, poor foul, a deathlefs page,
Indulges pride's fantastic whim,

And all the WORLD must wake to иIM,
A while from fear, from envy free,
He fleep on a pacific fea;
Lethargic ERROR for a while
Deceives him with her fpecious smile,
And flatt'ring dreams delufive shed

Gay gilded vifions round his head.

When, fwift as thought, the goddess lewa Shifts the light gale; and tempefts rudes

Such as the northern fkies deform,
When fell DESTRUCTION guides the ftorm,
Tranfport him to fome dreary ifle
Where FAVOUR never deign'd to smile.
Where waking, helplefs, all alone,
'Midft craggy steeps and rocks unknown ;
Sad fcenes of woe his pride confound,
And DESOLATION ftalks around.
Where the dull months no pleasures bring,
And years roll round without a spring;
Where He all hopeless, loft, undone,
Sees chearless days that know no fun;
Where jibing SCORN her throne maintains,
Midt mildews, blights, and blasts, and rains,
Let others, with fubmiffive knee,
Capricious goddefs! bow to Thee;
Let them with fixt inceffant aim
Court fickle favour, faithlefs fame;
Let vanity's faftidious slave

Lofe the kind moments nature gave,
In invocations to the fhrine

Of Phoebus and the fabled Nine,
An Author to his lateft days,
From hunger, or from thirst of praise,
Let him through every subject roam
To bring the ufeful morfel home;
Write upon LIBERTY oppreft,
On happiness, when most diftreft,
Turn bookfeller's obfequious tool,
A monkey's cat, a mere fool's fool;
Let him, unhallow'd wretch! profane
The mufe's dignity for gain,

Yield to the dunce his fenfe contemns,
Cringe to the knave his heart condemns,
And, at a blockhead's bidding, force
Reluctant genius from his courfe;
Write ode, epiftle, effay, libel,
Make notes, or steal them, for the bible;
Or let him, more judicial, fit,
The dull Lord Chief, on culprit wit,
With rancour read, with paffion blame,
Talk high, yet fear to put his name,
And from the dark, but ufeful shade,
(Fit place for murd'rous ambufcade,)
Weak monthly shafts at merit hurl,
The GILDON of fome modern CURL.
For me, by adverse fortune plac'd
Far from the colleges of tafte,

I jostle no poetic name ;
I envy none their proper fame ;
And if fometimes an eafy vein,
With no defign, and little pain,
Form'd into verfe, hath pleas'd a while,
And caught the reader's tranfient smile,
My mufe hath anfwer'd all her ends,
Pleafing herself, while pleas'd her friends;
But, fond of liberty, difdains

To bear restraint, or clink her chains ;
Nor would, to gain a Monarch's FAVOUR,
Let dulnefs, or her fons, enflave her *.

*These two laft lines were added by Mr. Kenrick; so whom the piece was originally addressed.

THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION

TH

A TALE.

HE very fillieft things in life
Create the most material strife
What fcarce will fuffer a debate,
Will oft produce the bittereft hate.
It is, you fay; I fay 'tis not-
Why you grow warm--and you are hot.
Thus each alike with paffion glows,
And words come first, and, after, blows,
Friend JERKIN had an income clear,
Some fifteen pounds, or more, a year,
And rented, on the farming plan,
Grounds at much greater fums per ann.
A man of confequence, no doubt,
'Mongft all his neighbours round about;
He was of frank and open mind,
Too honeft to be much refin'd,
Would fmoke his pipe, and tell his tale,
Sing a good fong, and drink his ale.

His wife was of another mould;
Her age was neither young nor old;
Her features strong, but fomewhat plain ;
Her air not bad, but rather vain ;
Her temper neither new nor strange,
A woman's, very apt to change;
What the most hated was conviction,
What the most lov'd, flat CONTRADICTION,
A charming housewife ne'ertheless;
-Tell me a thing fhe could not drefs,
Soups, hashes, pickles, puddings, pies,
Nought came amifs-she was so wife.
For fhe, bred twenty miles from town,
Had brought a world of breeding down,
And Cumberland had feldom seen
A farmer's wife with fuch a mein
She could not bear the found of Dame;
-No-Miftrefs JERKIN was her name.
She could harangue with wond'rous grace
On
gowns sand mobs, and caps and lace;
But though the ne'er adorn'd his brows,
She had a vaft contempt for spouse,
As being one who took no pride
And was a deal too countrified.
Such were our couple, man and wife;
Such were their means and ways of life.
Once on a time, the feafon fair
For exercife and chearful air,
It happen'd in his morning's roam,
He kill'd his birds and brought them home.

Here, CICELY, take away my gun-→→
How shall we have these ftarlings done?
Done! what my love? Your wits are wild
Starlings, my dear; they're thrushes child,
Nay now but look, confider, wife,
They're ftarlings-No-upon my life:
Sure I can judge as well as you,
I know a thrush and starling too.
Who was it fhot them, you or I?

They're ftarlings-thrushes-zounds you lie.
Pray, Sir, take back your dirty word,
Ifcorn your language as your bird

It ought to make a husband blush,
To treat a wife fo 'bout a thrush.
Thrush, Cicely!-Yes-a ftarling-No,
The lie again, and then a blow.
Blows carry strong and quick conviction,
And mar the pow'rs of contradiction.

Peace foon enfued, and all was well :
It were imprudence to rebel,
Or keep the ball up of debate
Against these arguments of weight.

A year roll'd on in perfect ease,
'Twas as you like, and what you please,
'Till in its courfe and order due,
Came March the twentieth, fifty-two.
Quoth Cicely, this is charming life,
No tumults now, no blows, no ftrife.
What fools we were this day last year!
Lord, how you beat me then, my dear!
-Sure it was idie and abfurd
To wrangle fo about a bird;
A bird not worth a fingle rush--

A ftarling-no, my love, a thrush,
That I'll maintain-that I'll deny.

-You're wrong, good husband-wife, you lie,
Again the self fame wrangle rofe,

Again the lye, again the blows.
Thus every year (true man and wife)
Enfues the fame domeftic ftrife.
Thus every year their quarrel ends,
They argue, fight, and bufs, and friends;
"Tis ftarling, thrush, and thrush and starling;
You dog, you b-; my dear, my darling.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO ****

W

HAT, three months gone, and never fend
A fingle letter to a friend?

In that time, fure, we might have known
Whether you fat or lean was grown ;
Whether your hoft was short or tall,
Had manners goad, or none at all;
Whether the neighb'ring fquire you found
Asmere a brute as fox or hound;
Or if the parfon of the place
(With all due rev'rence to his grace)
Took much more pains himself to keep,
Than to inftruct and feed his fheep;
At what hour of the day you dine;
Whether you drink beer, punch, or wine;
Whether you hunt, or fhoot, or ride;
Or, by fome muddy ditch's fide,
Which you, in vifionary dream,
Call bubbling rill, or purling stream,
Sigh for fome aukward country lafs,
Who muft of confequence furpafs
All that is beautiful and bright,
As much as day furpaffes night;
Whether the people eat and drink,
Or ever talk, or ever think;
If, to the honour of their parts,

The men have heads, the women hearts ?

If the moon rifes and goes down,
And changes as fhe does in tewn;
If you've returns of night and day,
And feafons varying roll away;
Whether your mind exalted wooes
Th' embraces of a serious mufe;
Or if you write, as I do now,

The L-d knows what, the L-d knows how.
These, and a thousand things like these,
The friendly heart are fure to please.

Now will my friend turn up his eyes,
And look fuperlatively wife;
Wonder what all this stuff's about,
And how the plague I found him out!
When he had taken fo much pains,
In order to regale his brains
With privacy and country air,
To go, no foul alive knew where !
Befides, 'tis folly to fuppofe
That any perfon breathing goes
On fuch a scheme, with a detign
To write or read fuch ftuff as mine,
And idly wafte his precious time
In all th' impertinence of rhyme.
My good, wife, venerable fir!
Why about nonfense all this ftir!
Is it, that you would stand alone,
And read no nonfenfe but your own;
Though you're (to tell you, by and bye)
Not half fo great a fool as I ;

Or is it that you make pretence,

Being a fool, to have fome sense ?

And would you really have my mufe
Employ yourfelf in writing news,
And most unconfcionably teize her
With rhyming to Warfaw and Wefer;
Or tofs up a poetic olio,

Merely to bring in Marshal Broglio?
Should I recite what now is doing,
Or what for future times is brewing,
Or triumph that the poor French fee all
Their hopes defeated at Montreal,
Or fhould I your attention carry
To Fred'rick, Ferdinand, or Harry,
Of flying Ruffian, daftard Swede,
And baffled Auftria let you read;
Or gravely tell with what defign
The youthful Henry pafs'd the Rhine ?
Or fhould I shake my empty head,
And tell you that the king is dead,
Obferve what changes will enfue,
What will be what, and who'll be who,
Or leaving thefe things to my betters,
Before you fet the fate of letters!
Or fhould I tell domestic jars,

How author against author wars,
How both with mutual envy rankling,

Fr-k-n damns M―rp-y, M-rp-y Fr-k-n?
Or will it more your mind engage

To talk of actors and the stage,

To tell, if any words could tell,

What GARRICK acts ftill, and how well,

That SHERIDAN with all his care
Will always be a labour'd play'r,
And that his acting at the best
Is all but art, and art confeft;

.

That BRIDE, if reafon may presume
To judge by things paft, things to come,
In future times will tread the stage,
Equally form'd for love and rage,
Whilft POPE for comic humour fam'd,
Shall live when CLIVE no more is nam'd.
Your wisdom I fuppofe can't bear
About dull pantomime to hear;
Nor would you have a single word
Of Harlequin, and wooden fword,

Of dumb fhew, fools tricks, and wry faces,
And wit which lies all in grimaces,
Nor fhould I any thing advance
Of new invented comic dance.

Callous, perhaps, to things like thefe,
Would it your worship better please,
That I, more loaden than the camels,
Should crawl in philofophic trammels?
Should I attack the ftars, and stray
In triumph o'er the milky way,
And like the TITANS try to move
From feat of empire royal JovE,
Then fpread my terrors all around,
And his Satellites confound,
Teach the war far and wide to rage,
And ev'ry far by turns engage?
The danger we should share between us,
You fight with MARS and I with VENUS.
Or fhould I rather, if I cou'd,
Taik of words little understood,
Centric, excentric, epicycle,
Fine words the vulgar ears to tickle!
A vacuum, plenum, gravitation,
And other words of like relation,
Which may agree with ftudious men,
But hurt my teeth, and gag my pen;
Things of fuch grave and ferious kind
Puzzle my head and plague my mind;
Befides in writing to a friend
A man may any nonfenfe fend,
And the chief merit's to impart,
The honeft feelings of his heart.

CHARITY. A FRAGMENT.

INSCRIBED To THE REV. MR.

W

RANBURY.

ORTH is excis'd, and Virtue pays
A heavy Tax for
barren praife.

A friend to univerfal Man,

Is univerfal good your plan?

Gon may perhaps your project bless
But man fhall ftrive to thwart fuccefs.

Though the grand scheme thy thoughts pursue,
Befpeak a noble generous view,
Where CHARITY o'er all prefides,

And SENSE approves what VIRTUE guides,

Yet wars and tumults will commence,
For Rogues hate virtue, Blockheads fenfe.
Believe me, Oppofition grows

Not always from our real foes,
But (where it feldom ever ends)
From our more dangerous feeming friends.

I hate not foes, for they declare,
'Tis War for War, and dare who dare;
But your fly, fneaking, worming owls,
Whom FRIENDSHIP fcorns and FEAR Controuls,
Who praife, fupport, and help by halves,
Like Heifers, neither Bulls, nor Calves;
Who, in Hypocrify's disguise,
Are truly as the Serpent wife,
But cannot ALL the precept love,
And be as harmless as the Dove.
Who hold each charitable meeting,
To mean no more than good found eating,
While each becomes a hearty fellow
According as he waxes mellow,
And kindly helps the main defign,
By drinking its fuccefs in wine;
And when his feet and fenfes reel,
Totters with correspondent zeal ;
Nay, would appear a patron wife,
But that his wifdom's in disguise,

And would harangue, but that his mouth,
Which ever hates the fin of drought,
Catching the full perpetual glass,
Cannot afford a word to pass.

Such, who like true Churchwardens eat,
Because the Parish pays the treat,
And of their bellyful fecure,
O'erfee, or over-look the poor;

Who would no doubt be wond'rous juft,
And faithful Guardians of their truft,
But think the deed might run more clever
To them and to their Heirs for ever,
That Charity, too apt to roam,
Might end, where fhe begins, at home;
Who make all public good a trade,
Benevolence a mere parade,
And Charity a cloak for fin,

To keep it fnug and warm within;
Who flatter, only to betray,

Who promife much and never pay,
Who wind themselves about your heart

With hypocritic, knavish art,

Tell you what wond'rous things they're doing,
And undermine you to your ruin;
Such, or of low or high eftate,
To fpeak the honeft truth, I hate :
I view their tricks with indignation,
And loath each fulfom proteftation,
As I would loath a whore's embrace,

Who fmiles, and fmirks, and ftrokes my face,
And all fo tender, fond, and kind,

As free of body, as of mind,
Affects the foftnefs of the Dove,

And p-xes me to fhew her Love.

The Maiden wither'd, wrinkled, pale,
Whofe charms, tho' ftrong, are rather stale,
Will ufe that weapon call'd a tongue,
To wound the beauteous and the young.
The-What, DELIA handfome!-well!-I own
I'm either blind or stupid grown.

* Mifs Bride an Actress then of Drury-Lane
atre, who foon after quitted the Stage. See her cha-The girl is well enough to pass,
racter in the Rofcjad.

A rofy, fimple, ruftic tafs,

-But there's no meaning in her face,
And then her air, fo void of grace!
And all the world, with half an eye,
May fee her shape grows quite awry.
-Ifpeak not from an ill defign,
For the's a favourite of mine,

-Though I could wish that he would wear
A more referv'd becoming air;
Not that I hear of indifcretions,

Such folks, you know, make no confeffions,
Though the WORLD fays, that Parfon there,
That fmock-fac`d Man with darkish hair,
He who wrote verfes on her bird,
The fimpleft things I ever heard,
Makes frequent vifits there of late,
And is become exceeding great ;
This I myself aver is true,
I faw him lead her to his pew.
Thus fcandal, like a falfe quotation,
Mifreprefents in defamation;
And where the haply cannot fpy
A loop whereon to hang alye,
Turns every action wrong fide out
To bring her paultry tale about.

Thus Excellence of every kind,
Whether of body or of mind,
Is but a mark fet upon high,
For knaves to guide their arrows by,
A mere Scotch Poft for public itch,
Where Hog, or Man, may fcrub his breech.

But thanks to nature, which ordains
A just reward for all our pains,
And makes us ftem, with fecret pride,
Hoarfe DISAPPOINTMENT's rugged tide,
And like a lordly fhip, which braves
The roar of winds, and rush of Waves,
Weather all ftorms, which jealous Hate
Or frantic Malice may create.

Tis CONSCIENCE, a reward alone,
CONSCIENCE, who plac'd on Virtue's throne,
Eyes raging men, or raging feas,
Undaunted, firm, with heart at eafe.

From her dark Cave, though ENVY rise
With hollow cheeks, and jaundic'd eyes,
Though HATRED league with FOLLY vain,
And SPLEEN and RANCOUR join the train;
Shall VIRTUE fhrink, abafh'd, afraid,
And tremble at an idle fhade?
Fear works upon the Fool, or Knave,
An honeft man is always brave.
While OPPOSITION's fruitless aim
Is as the bellows to the flame,
And, like a Pagan perfecution,
Enforces FAITH and RESOLUTI
Though prejudice in narrow
The mental eye of reafon blinds,
Though WIT, which not e'en friends will spare,
Affect the fneering, laughing air,

Though DULLNESS, in her monkish gown,
Display the WISDOM of a frown,

Yet TRUTH will force herself, in spite
Of all their efforts, into light.

See Bigot Monks in Spain prevail,
See GALILAO dragg'd to gaol:
Hear the grave Doctors of the fchools,
The Golgotha of learned Fools,
As damnable and impious brand
That art they cannot underfand,

And out of zeal pervert the Bible,
As if it were a standing Libel,
On every good and useful plan
That rifes in the brain of man.

O BIGOTRY! whose frantic rage
Has blotted half the claffic page,
And in Religion's drunken fit,
Murder'd the Greek ar.d Roman wit ;
Who zealous for that Faith's encrease,
Whole ways are righteousness and peace,
With rods and whips, and fword, and axe,
With prifons, tortures, flames and racks,
With perfecution's fiery goad,

Enforcing fome new-fangl'd mode,

Wouldft pluck down REASON from her throne
To raife fome phantom of thy own ;
Alas! the fury undiscerning,

Which blafts, and ftunts, and hews up Learning,
Like an ill-judging zealous friend,
Blafphemes that Wisdom you defend.

Go, kick the prostituted whores,
The nine ftale virgins out of doors;
For let the Abbefs beat her drum,
Eleven thoufand troops fhall come;
All female forms, and virgins true,
As ever Saint or Poet knew.
And glorious be the honour'd name
Of WINIFREDE, of SAINTED fame,
Who to the Church like light'ning sped,
And ran three miles without her head;
(Well might the modeft Lady run,
Since 'twas to keep her maiden one)
And when before the congregation
The Prince fell dead for reparation,
Secure of Life as well as Honour,
Ran back with both her heads upon her
No matter of what shape or fize,
Gulp down the Legendary Lies,
Believe, what neither God ordains,
Nor Chrift allows, nor fenfe maintains ;
Make Saint of Pope, or Saint of Thief,
Believe almost in unbelief;
Yet with thy folemn priestly air,
By book and bell, and candle fwear,
That God has made his own elect
But from your ftem and favourite fect;
That He who made the world, has bleft
One part alone, to damn the rest,
As if th' Allmerciful and juft,
Who form'd us of one common duft,
Had render'd up his own decree,
And lent his attributes to thee.

Thus his own eyes the Bigot blinds,
To fhut out light from human minds,
And the clear truth (an emanation
From the great Author of creation,
A beam tranfmitted from on high,
To bring us nearer to the sky,
While ev'ry path by science trod
Leads us with wonder up to God,)
Is doom'd by Ignorance to make
Atonement at the Martyr's take;
Though, like pure gold, th' illuftrious dame
Comes forth the brighter from the flame.
No perfecution will avail ;

No inquifition racks, nor gaol;

When Learning's more enlight'ned ray

Shall drive thefe fickly fogs away

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