Round as a globe, and liquor'd ev'ry chink,
Goodly and great he fails behind his link.
With all this bulk there's nothing lost in Og,
For ev'ry inch, that is not fool, is rogue;
A monftrous mafs of foul corrupted matter,
As all the devils had spew'd to make the batter.
When wine has given him courage to blafpheme,
He curfes God; but God before curft him :
And if man could have reafon, none has more,
That made his paunch fo rich, and him fo poor.
With wealth he was not trusted, for Heav'n knew,
What 'twas of old to pamper up a Jew;

To what would he on quail and pheasant fwell,
That ev'n on tripe and carrion could rebel?

But though heav'n made him poor, (with rev'rence fpeaking)

He never was a poet of God's making.

The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull,
With this prophetic bleffing------Be thou dull;
Drink, fwear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight
Fit for thy bulk; do any thing but write :
Thou art of lafting make, like thoughtless men;
Aftrong nativity, but for the pen.

Eat opium, mingle arfenic in thy drink,
Still thou may'ft live, avoiding pen and ink.
I fee, I fee, 'tis counfel giv'n in vain,

For treafon botch'd in rhime will be thy bane:
Rhime is the rock, on which thou art to wreck
'Tis fatal to thy fame and to thy neck.
Why should thy metre good King David blast ?
A pfalm of his will furely be thy last.

Dar'st thou prefume in verfe to meet thy foes,
Thou, whom the penny pamphlet foil'd in profe?
Doeg, whom God for mankind's mirth has made,
O'ertops thy talent in thy very trade :
Doeg to thee, thy paintings are fo coarse,
A poet is, though he's the poet's horse.
A double noofe thou on thy neck doft pull,
For writing treason, and for writing dull.
To die for faction is a common evil;

But to be hang'd for nonfenfe is the devil.
Hadft thou the glories of thy king expreft,
Thy praifes had been fatires at the best;
But thou in clumfy verfe, unlick'd, unpointed,
Haft fhamefully defy'd the Lord's anointed.
I will not rake the dunghill of thy crimes;
For who would read thy life, that reads thy rhimes?
But of King David's foes be this the doom;
May all be like the young man Abfalom;
And for my foes, may this their blessing be,
To talk like Doeg, and to write like thee.

THE

MED A L.

A

SATIRE

AGAINST

SEDIT I O N.

Per Graium populos, mediaeque per Elidis urbem, Ibat ovans, Divumque fibi pofcebat honores.

VIRG.

EPISTLE

TO THЕ

WHIG S.

F

OR to whom can I dedicate this poem, with fo much justice, as to you? 'Tis the reprefentation of your own hero; 'tis the picture drawn at length, which you admire and prize fo much in little. None of your ornaments are wanting; neither the landfkip of the Tower, nor the Rifing Sun; nor the Anno Domini of your new fovereign's coronation. This must needs be a grateful undertaking to your whole party; efpecially to thofe who have not been fo happy as to purchase the original. I hear the graver has made a good market of it: All his kings are bought up already; or the value of the remainder fo inhanced, that many a poor Polander, who would be glad to worship the image, is not able to go to the coft of him; but must be content to fee him here. I must confefs, I am no great artist; but fign-poft-painting will ferve the turn to remember a friend by; especially when better is not to be had. Yet for your confort the lineaments are true; and though he fat not five times to me, as he did to B. yet I have confulted hiftory; as the Italian painters do, when they would draw a Nero or a Caligula;