Somewhat I would say, But fear; - let fear, for once, to truth give way.

But where's that Roman?

Truth lends the Stoick courage: when I look
On human acts, and read in Nature's book,
From the firft paftimes of our infant-age,
To elder cares, and man's feverer page;
When ftern as tutors, and as uncles hard,
We lash the pupil, and defraud the ward :
Then, then I fay, —or would fay, if I durst-
But thus provok'd, I must speak out, or burst.
Friend. Once more forbear.

Perfius. I cannot rule my spleen;
My fcorn rebels, and tickles me within.
First, to begin at home: our authors write
In lonely rooms, fecur'd from public fight;
Whether in profe, or verfe, 'tis all the fame:
The profe is fuftian, and the numbers lame.
All noife, and empty pomp, a storm of words,
Labouring with found, that little fenfe affords.
They comb, and then they order every hair:
A gown, or white, or fcour'd to whiteneis, wear:
A birth-day jewel bobbing at their ear.

Next, gargle well their throats, and thus prepar'd,
They mount, a God's name, to be feen and heard.
From their high fcaffold, with a trumpet cheek,
And ogling all their audience ere they speak.
The naufeous nobles, ev'n the chief of Rome,
With gaping mouths to thefe rehearsals come,
And pant with pleasure, when fome lufty line
The marrow pierces, and invades the chine.

X 4

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At open fulfome bawdry they rejoice,

And fimy jeft applaud with broken voice.
Bafe prostitute, thus doft thou gain thy bread?
Thus doft thou feed their ears, and thus art fed?
At his own filthy ftuff he grins and brays:
And gives the fign where he expects their praise.

Why have I learn'd, fay'ft thou, if, thus confin'd, I choke the noble vigour of my mind?

Know, my wild fig-tree, which in rocks is bred,
Will split the quarry, and fhoot out the head.
Fine fruits of learning! old ambitious fool,
Dar'ft thou apply that adage of the school:
As if 'tis nothing worth that lies conceal'd,
And "fcience is not fcience till reveal'd?"
Oh, but 'tis brave to be admir'd, to see

The crowd, with pointing fingers, cry, That's he :
'That's he whofe wondrous poem is become
A lecture for the noble youth of Rome!
Who, by their fathers, is at feafts renown'd;
And often quoted when the bowls go round.
Full gorg'd and flufh'd, they wantonly rehearse;
And add to wine the luxury of verse.
One, clad in purple, not to lose his time,
Eats, and recites fome lamentable rhyme :
Some fenfelefs Phillis, in a broken note,
Snuffling at nofe, and croaking in his throat :
Then graciously the mellow audience nod :
Is not th' immortal author made a God?
Are not his manes bleft, fuch praise to have?
Lies not the turf more lightly on his grave?

And

And rofes (while his loud applause they sing)
Stand ready from his fepulchre to spring?

All thefe, you cry, but light objections are;
Meer malice, and you drive the jest too far.
For does there breathe a man, who can reject
A general fame, and his own lines neglect ?
In cedar tablets worthy to appear,
That need not fish, or frankincenfe, to fear?

}

Thou, whom I make the adverse part, to bear, Be anfwer'd thus: If I by chance fucceed In what I write, (and that's a chance indeed) Know, I am not fo ftupid, or fo hard, Not to feel praife, or fame's deferv'd reward: But this I cannot grant, that thy applause Is my work's ultimate, or only cause. Prudence can ne'er propofe fo mean a prize; For mark what vanity within it lies. Like Labeo's Iliads, in whofe verfe is found Nothing but trifling care, and empty found: Such little elegies as nobles write, Who would be poets, in Apollo's fpight. Them and their woeful works the Mufe defies: Products of citron-beds, and golden canopies. To give thee all thy due, thou haft the heart To make a fupper, with a fine deffert; And to thy thread-bare friend, a caft old fuit impart. Thus brib'd, thou thus befpeak'ft him, Tell me

friend,

(For I love truth, nor can plain speech offend,)

}

What

What fays the world of me and of my Mufe?
The poor dare nothing tell but flattering news:
But shall I fpeak? Thy verse is wretched rhyme;
And all thy labours are but lofs of time.

Thy ftrutting belly fwells, thy paunch is high;
Thou writ'ft not, but thou piffeft poetry.

All authors to their own defects are blind;
Hadft thau but, Janus like, a face behind,
To fee the people, what fplay-mouths they make;
To mark their fingers, pointed at thy back:
Their tongues loll'd out, a foot beyond the pitch,
When moft a-thirst of an Apulian bitch:
But noble fcribblers are with flattery fed;

For none dare find their faults, who eat their bread.
To pass the poets of patrician blood,

What is 't the common reader takes for good?
The verfe in fashion is, when numbers flow,
Soft without fenfe, and without fpirit flow:
So fmooth and equal, that no fight can find
The rivet, where the polish'd piece was join'd.
So even all, with fuch a steady view,

As if he shut one eye to level true.
Whether the vulgar vice his fatire ftings,
The people's riots, or the rage of kings,
The gentle poet is alike in all;

His reader hopes to rife, and fears no fall.

Friend. Hourly we fee, some raw pin-feather'd thing Attempt to mount, and fights and heroes fing;

Who, for falfe quantities, was whipt at school

tt' other day, and breaking grammar-rule,

Whofe

Whose trivial art was never try'd above
The brave description of a native grove :
Who knows not how to praise the country store,
The feafts, the baskets, nor the fatted boar ;

Nor paint the flowery fields that paint themselves
before.

Where Romulus was bred, and Quintius born,
Whofe fhining plough-fhare was in furrows worn,
Met by his trembling wife, returning home,
And ruftically joy'd, as chief of Rome:
She wip'd the fweat from the dictator's brow;
And o'er his back his robe did rudely throw;
The lictors bore in ftate their lord's triumphant
plough.

Some love to hear the fuftian poet roar;
And fome on antiquated authors pore:
Rummage for fenfe; and think thofe only good
Who labour most, and leaft are understood.
When thou shalt see the blear-ey'd fathers teach
Their fons, this harth and mouldy fort of speech;
Or others, new affected ways to try,

Of wanton finoothnefs, female poetry;

One would enquire from whence this motly ftile
Did firft our Roman purity defile :

For our old dotards cannot keep their feat;
But leap and catch at all that's obfolete.

Others, by foolish oftentation-led,

When call'd before the bar, to fave their head,
Bring trifling tropes, instead of solid fenfe :
And mind their figures more than their defence.

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