n Parliamenteering is a fort of itch, That will too oft unwary knights bewitch. Two good eftates fir Harry Clodpole spent ; Sate thrice, but spoke not once, in parliament; Two good estates are gone-Who'll take his word ? Oh! fhould his uncle die, he'd spend a third; He'd buy a house his happiness to crown, Within a mile of fome good borough-town; Tag, rag, and bobtail to fir Harry's run, Men that have votes, and women that have none; Sons, daughters, grandfons, with his honour dine; He keeps a publick-house without a fign. Coblers and fmiths extol th' enfuing choice, And drunken taylors boast their right of voice, Dearly the free-born neighbourhood is bought, They never leave him while he's worth a groat: So leeches stick, nor quit the bleeding wound, Till off they drop with skinfuls to the ground.
Ut mala quem fcabies aut morbus regius urguet,
dicam, Siculique Poëta
Narrabo interitum
Nec femel hoc fecit, nec fi retractus erit, jam
Fiet homo, & ponet famofæ mortis amorem.
Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus.
Quem vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque legendo,
Non miffura cutem, nifi plena cruoris, birudo.
Of Mr. POPE's on that Subject.
Hoe'er he be that to a Tafte afpires,
Let him read this, and be what he defires.
In men and manners vers'd from life I write,
Not what was once, but what is now polite.
Those who of courtly France have made the tour,
Can scarce our English aukwardness endure.
But honeft men who never were abroad,
Like England only, and its Tafte applaud.
Strife ftill fubfifts, which yields the better goût;
Books or the world, the many or the few.
True Tafte to me is by this touchstone known,
That's always best that's nearest to my own.
To fhew that my pretenfions are not vain,
My father was a play'r in Drury-lane.
Pears and pistachio-nuts my mother fold,
He a dramatick poet, fhe a fcold.
His tragic Muse could counteffes affright,
His wit in boxes was my lord's delight.
No mercenary priest e'er join'd their hands,
Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetick bands.
Laws my Pindarick parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got.
My infant tears a fort of measure kept,
I fquall'd in diftichs, and in triplets wept.
No youth did I in education wafte,
Happy in an hereditary Tafte.
Writing ne'er cramp'd the finews of my thumb,
Nor barbarous birch e'er brush'd my tender bum.
My guts ne'er fuffer'd from a college cook,
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book.
Grammar in vain the fons of Prifcian teach,
Good parts are better than eight parts of speech:
Since thefe declin'd, thofe undeclin'd they call,
I thank my ftars, that I declin'd them all.
To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence,
I truft to mother wit and father fenfe.
Nature's my guide, all fciences I fcorn,
Pains I abhor, I was a poet born.
Yet is my goût for criticifm fuch,
I've got fome French, and know a little Dutch.
Huge commentators grace my learned shelves,
Notes upon books out,do the books themselves.
Criticks indeed are valuable men,
But hyper-criticks are as good agen.
Tho' Blackmore's works my foul with raptures fill,
With notes by Bentley they'd be better ftill.`
The Boghoufe-Mifcellany's well defign'd.
To ease the body, and improve the mind.
Swift's whims and jokes for my refentment call,
For he displeases me that pleases all.
Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure.
To him as nature, when he ceas'd to fee,
Milton's an universal blank to me.
Confirm'd and fettled by the nation's voice,
Rhyme is the poet's pride, and people's choice.
Always upheld by national support,
Of market, univerfity, and court:
Thomson, write blank; but know that for that reason,
These lines fhall live when thine are out of season.
Rhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays,
As London ladies owe their shape to stays.
Had Cibber's felf the Careless Husband wrote,
He for the laurel ne'er had had my vote :
But for his epilogues and other plays,
He thoroughly deserves the modern bays.
It pleases me, that Pope unlaurell'd goes,
While Cibber wears the bays for play-house prose :
So Britain's monarch once uncover'd fate,
While Bradshaw bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat.
Long live old Curl! he ne'er to publish fears
The speeches, verfes, and last will of peers.
How oft has he a publick spirit shewn,
And pleas'd our ears, regardless of his own?
But to give merit due, though Curl's the fame,
Are not his brother book-fellers the fame ?
Can ftatutes keep the British press in awe,
While that fells beft, that's most against the law?
Lives of dead play'rs my leisure hours beguile,
And Seffions-papers tragedize my stile.
'Tis charming reading in Ophelia's life,
So oft a mother, and not once a wife:
She could with just propriety behave,
Alive with peers, with monarchs in her grave:
Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept,
By prebends bury'd, and by generals kept.
T'improve in morals Mandevil I read,
And Tyndal's fcruples are my settled creed.
I travell'd early, and I foon faw through
Religion all, ere I was twenty-two,
Shame, pain, or poverty fhall I endure,
When ropes or opium can my ease procure?
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay,
Self-murder is an honourable way.
As Pafaran directs I'd end my life,
And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife.
Burn but that Bible which the parfon quotes,
And men of fpirit all shall cut their throats.
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