Through your Perspective we can plainly fee,
The new-difcover'd road of Poetry 4

To fleep Parnaffus you direct the way

So fmooth, that venturous travellers cannot flray,
But with unerring fteps rough ways diddamn,
And, by you led, the beauteous fummut gain,
Where polifh'd lays thall raife their growing fames,
And with their tunetul guide entoltheit honour'd names.

EPISTLE

XI.

DR. GARTH TO MR. GAY.

ANACREONTIC.

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

And liften'd to the tuneful trains,

And wonder'd who could fing fo fweet! "Twas thus. The Graces held the lyre,

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

And Gay tranferib'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.

WILE
HEN Poets print their works, the fcribbling crew

Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Chriftmas-pew

Can meagre poetry fuch fame deferve?

Can poetry, that only writes to flarve ?
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 praife 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
Iquines,

Their fears, their cities, parishes, and thires.

VOL. I.

P

Thy

Thy copious preamble fo fmoothly 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 shall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not Poet born and bred.
Or doft thou boaft th' Hiftorian's lafting pen,
Whose annals are the acts of worthy men?
No. Satire is thy talent; and each lash
Makes the rich Mifer tremble o'er his cafh.
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 ifle fhalt fpread, In every hundred and divifion 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 shalt 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

"But in thy prose a greater force is found;
What Poet ever rais'd ten thousand pound?
Cadmus, by fowing dragons' teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vaft army from the poisonous feed.
Thy labours, Lownds, can greater wonders do;
Thou raifeft armies, and canft pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen; thy annals cease;
Why need we armies when the land's in peace?
Soldiers are perfect devils in their way;

When once they're rais'd, they're curfed hard to lay.

E PIST LE XI.

TO A YOUNG LADY. WITH SOME LAMPREYS.

WITH lovers 'twas of old the fashion

By prefents to convey their paffion;

No matter what the gift they fent,

The lady faw that love was meant.
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,

Took the boar's head her Hero gave her ;
Nor could the briftly thing affront her;
'Twas a fit present from a hunter.
When fquires fend woodcocks to the dame,
It ferves to fhew their abfent flame.

Some by a fnip of woven hair,

In pofied lockets, bribe the fair.
How many mercenary matches

Have fprung from diamond-rings and watches !
But hold-a ring, a watch, a locket,

Would drain at once a Poet's pocket;

He fhould fend fongs that coft him nought,

Nor ev'n be prodigal of thought.

Why then fend Lampreys ? Fye, for shame! "Twill fet a virgin's blood on flame.

This to fifteen a proper gift!

It might lend fixty-five a lift.

I know your maiden aunt will scold,
And think my present somewhat bold.

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