To let no noble flave come near,
And fcare lord Fannies from his ear:
Then might a royal youth, and true,
Enjoy at least a friend or two;
A treasure, which, of royal kind,
Few but himself deferve to find;

Then Bounce ('tis all that Bounce can crave)
Shall wag her tail within the grave.

And though no doctors, Whig or Tory ones,
Except the fect of Pythagoreans,

Have immortality affign'd

Το any beast but Dryden's hind *:

Yet mafter Pope, whom Truth and Sense
Shall call their friend fome ages hence,
Though now on loftier themes he fings,
Than to bestow a word on kings,
Has fworn by Styx †, the poet's oath,
And dread of dogs and poets both,
Man and his works he 'll foon renounce,
And roar in numbers worthy Bounce.

"A milk-white hind, immortal and unchang'd." Hind and Panther, ver. 1. + Orig. Sticks; purpofely mif-fpelt, to make it "the

❝ dread of dogs."

EPISTLE

EPISTLE X.

TO THE

LEARNED INGENIOUS AUTHOR

O F

LICENTIA POETICA DISCUSSED,

OR THE

TRUE TEST OF POETRY.

Written in 1709.

THE vulgar notion of poetic fire

Is, that laborious Art can ne'er aspire,
Nor conftant ftudies the bright bays acquire;
And that high flights the unborn Bard receives,
And only Nature the due laurel gives:
But you, with innate fhining flames endow'd,
To wide Castalian fprings point out the God;

}

* Dr. William Coward, a phyfician of fome eminence. He was author of a great variety of treatifes on various fubjects, medical, poetical, and religious. The latter having been principally of a fceptical nature, he is generally ranked amongst the Deiftical writers. N.

Through

Through your Perspective we can plainly fee,
The new-discover'd road of Poetry

;

To steep Parnaffus you direct the way

So fmooth, that venturous travellers cannot stray,
But with unerring fteps rough ways disdain,
And, by you led, the beauteous fummit gain,
Where polish'd lays shall raise their growing fames,
And with their tuneful guide enrol their honour'd names.

EPISTLE XI.

DR.

GARTH ΤΟ M R. GAY.

WHEN

ANACREONTIC.

HEN Fame did o'er the fpacious plains
The lays the once had learn'd, repeat;

And liften'd to the tuneful ftrains,

And wonder'd who could fing so sweet : "Twas thus. The Graces held the lyre,

Th' harmonious frame the Mufes ftrung, The Loves and Smiles compos'd the choir;

And Gay tranfcrib'd what Phoebus fung.

EPISTLE

EPISTLE X.

TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND

WILLIAM LOWNDS, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED TREATISE IN FOLIO, CALLED THE LAND-TAX BILL.

WHEN

HEN Poets print their works, the fcribbling crew Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Christmas-pew: Can meagre poetry fuch fame deferve?

Can poetry, that only writes to starve ?
And fhall no laurel deck that famous head,
In which the Senate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires.
O had I Virgil's force, to fing the man,
Whofe learned lines can millions raise per ann.
Great Lownds's praise fhould fwell the trump of fame,
And rapes and wapentakes refound his name!

If the blind Poet gain'd a long renown

By finging every Grecian chief and town;
Sure Lownds's profe much greater fame requires,
Which fweetly counts five thoufand knights and
fquires,

Their feats, their cities, parifhes, and fhires.

}

Thy

Thy copious preamble so smoothly runs,

Taxes no more appear like legal duns;

Lords, Knights, and Squires, th' Affeffor's power obey,
We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.
Ah! why did Coningsby thy works defame!
That author's long harangue betrays his name.
After his fpeeches can his pen fucceed?

Though forc'd to hear, we 're not oblig'd to read.
Under what science fhall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not Poet born and bred.
Or doft thou boast th' Hiftorian's lasting pen,
Whose annals are the acts of worthy men?
No. Satire is thy talent; and each lafh
Makes the rich Mifer tremble o'er his cash.
What on the Drunkard can be more fevere,
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?

Ev'n Button's wits are nought, compar'd to thee, Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his tea; While thou through Britain's distant isle shalt spread, In every hundred and division read.

Criticks in Claffics oft' interpolate,

But every word of thine is fix'd as Fate.

Some works come forth at morn, but die at night,

In blazing fringes round a tallow-light.

Some may perhaps to a whole week extend,
Like Steele (when unaffifted by a friend):
But thou fhalt live a year, in fpite of Fate;
And where's your author boasts a longer date?
Poets of old had fuch a wondrous power,
That with their verfes they could raise a tower:

But