Muft feel thy eloquence and fire,
Approve thy fchemes, thy wit admire,
Thee with immortal honours crown,
Whilft, Patriot-like, thou 'lt strut and frown.
What though by enemies 'tis faid,
The laurel, which adorns thy head,
Muft one day come in competition
By virtue of fome fly petition :
Yet mum for that; hope ftill the best,
Nor let fuch cares disturb thy reft.
Methinks I hear thee loud as trumpet,
As bagpipe shrill, or oyster-ftrumpet;
Methinks I fee thee, spruce and fine,
With coat embroider'd richly shine,
And dazzle all the idol-faces
As through the ball thy worship paces;
(Though this I speak but at a venture,
Suppofing thou hast tick with Hunter)
Methinks I fee a black-guard rout
Attend thy coach, and hear them shout
In approbation of thy tongue,
Which (in their style) is purely hung,
Now! now you carry all before you!
Nor dares one Jacobite or Tory
Pretend to anfwer one fyl-lable,
Except the matchlefs hero Abel *.
What though her highness and her spoufe
In Antwerp † keep a frugal house,
+ Where the duke of Marlborough then refided. Yet,
Yet, not forgetful of a friend,
They 'll foon enable thee to spend,
If to Macartney* thou wilt toaft,
And to his pious patron's ghost.
Now manfully thou 'lt run a tilt
"On popes, for all the blood they 've spilt,
"For maffacres, and racks, and flames,
" For lands enrich'd by crimson streams,
" For inquifitions taught by Spain,
"Of which the Christian world complain."
Dick, we agree-all's true thou 'it faid,
As that my Muse is yet a maid.
But, if I may with freedom talk,
All this is foreign to thy walk:
Thy genius has perhaps a knack
At trudging in a beaten track,
But is for ftate-affairs as fit
As mine for politicks and wit.
Then let us both in time grow wife,
Nor higher than our talents rife;
To fome fnug cellar let 's repair
From duns and debts, and drown our care;
Now quaff of honeft ale a quart,
Now venture at a pint of port,
With which inspir'd, we 'll club each night
Some tender fonnet to indite,
And with Tom D'Urfey, Philips, Dennis,
Immortalize our Dolls and Jenney's.
* General Macartney, who killed duke Hamilton.
HORACE,
HORACE, BOOK I. EP. V.
JOHN DENNIS the sheltering Poet's INVITATION to RICHARD STEELE, the secluded Party-writer, and Member; to come and live with him in THE MINT; 1714*.
Fit to be bound up with THE CRISIS.
IF thou canft lay afide a spendthrift's air,
And condescend to feed on homely fare,
Such as we Minters, with ragouts unstor'd,
Will, in defiance of the law, afford:
Quit thy patrols with Toby's Christmas-box,
And come to me at The Two Fighting Cocks;
Since printing by subscription now is grown
The ftalest, idleft cheat about the town;
And ev'n Charles Gildon, who, a Papift bred,
Has an alarm against that worship spread,
Is practifing those beaten paths of cruising,
And for new levies on Proposals musing.
'Tis true, that Bloomsbury Square 's a noble place:
But what are lofty buildings in thy cafe?
What's a fine house embellish'd to profufion,
Where shoulder-dabbers are in execution?
Or whence its timorous tenant feldom fallies,
But apprehenfive of infulting bailiffs ?
* This and the preceding poem are printed from
copies in the Lambeth Library, K. 1. 2. 29, 30. 4to.
This once be mindful of a friend's advice,
And ceafe to be improvidently nice;
Exchange the prospects that delude thy fight,
From Highgate's steep afcent and Hampstead's height,
With verdant scenes, that, from St. George's field,
More durable and fafe enjoyments yield.
Here I, ev'n I, that ne'er till now could find
Eafe to my troubled and fufpicious mind,
But ever was with jealoufies possess'd,
Am in a state of indolence and reft;
Fearful no more of Frenchmen in difguise,
Nor looking upon strangers as on spies,
But quite divested of my former spleen,
Am unprovok'd without, and calm within :
And here I'll wait thy coming, till the fun
Shall its diurnal course completely run.
Think not that thou of sturdy butt shalt fail,
My landlord's cellar's stock'd with beer and ale,
With every fort of malt that is in use,
And every county's generous produce.
The ready (for here Christian faith is fick,
Which makes us seldom trespass upon tick)
Instantly brings the choicest liquors out,
Whether we ask for home-brew'd or for ftout,
For mead or cyder, or, with dainties fed,
Ring for a flask or two of white or red,
Such as the drawer will not fail to swear
Was drunk by Pilkington when third time mayor.
That name, methinks, so popularly known
For oppofition to the church and crown,
Might make the Lufitanian grape to pass,
And almost give a fanction to the glafs;
Especially with thee, whose hafty zeal
Against the late rejected commerce-bill
Made thee rise up, like an audacious elf,
To do the speaker honour, not thyself.
But, if thou foar'st above the common prices, By virtue of fubfcription to thy Crifis, And nothing can go down with thee, but wines Prefs'd from Burgundian and Campanian vines, Bid them be brought; for, though I hate the French, I love their liquors, as thou lov'st a wench; Elfe thou must humble thy expenfive taste, And, with us, hold contentment for a feaft. The fire's already lighted; and the maid Has a clean cloth upon the table laid, Who never on a Saturday had ftruck, But for thy entertainment, up a buck. Think of this act of grace, which by your leave Sufan would not have done on Easter Eve, Had the not been inform'd over and over, 'Twas for th' ingenious Author of The Lover. Ceafe therefore to beguile thyself with hopes, Which is no more than making fandy ropes, And quit the vain purfuit of loud applause, That must bewilder thee in faction's caufe. Pry'thee what is 't to thee who guides the ftate? Why Dunkirk's demolition is so late? Or why her majesty thinks fit to ceafe The din of war, and hush the world to peace?
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