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Which evermore they introduce,
And bring it into constant use.
Thus GARRICK still in ev'ry part
Has pause, and attitude, and start:
The pause, I will allow, is good,
And so, perhaps, the attitude ;
The start too's fine: but if not scarce,
The tragedy becomes a farce.
I have too, pardon me, some quarrel,
With other branches of your laurel.
I hate the stile, that still defends
Yourself, or praises all your friends,
As if the club of wits was met
To make eulogiums on the Set;
Say, must the town for ever hear,
And no Reviewer dare to fneer,
Of THORNTON's humour, GARRICK's nature,
And COLMAN's wit, and CHURCHILL's satire ?
CHURCHILL, who- let it not offend,
If I make free, tho' he's your friend,
And sure we cannot want excuse,
When CHURCHILL's nam'd, for smart abuse-
CHURCHILI! who ever loves to raise
On sander's dung his mushroom bays :
The priest, I grant, has something clever,
A something that will last for ever.
Let him, in part, be made your pattern,
Whose mufe, now queen, and now a flattern,
Trick'd out in Rosciap rules the roast,
Turns trapes and trollop in the Ghost,
By turns both tickles us, and warms,
And, drunk or sober, has her charms.
GARRICK, to whom with lath and plaister
You try to raise a fine pilaster,
And found on Lear and MACBETH,
His monument e'en after death,
GARRICK's a dealer in grimaces,
A haberdasher of wry faces,
A hypocrite, in all his stages,
Who laughs and cries for hire and wages ;
As undertakers' men draw grief
From onion in their handkerchief,
Like real mourners cry and fob,
And of their passions make a job.
And COLMAN too, that little finner,
That essay-weaver, drama-spinner,
Too much the comic Sock will use,
For 'tis the law muft find him Shoes.
And tho he thinks on fame's wide ocean
He swims, and has a pretty motion,
Inform him, LLOYD, for all his grin
That HARRY FIELDING holds his chin.
Now higher foar, my muse, and higher,
To Bonnel THORNTON, hight Esquire !
The only man to make us laugh,
A very Peter PARAGRAPH;
The grand conducter and adviser
In CHRONICLE, and ADVERTISER,
Who still delights to run his rig
On Citizen and Periwig!
Good sense, I know, tho' dash'd with oddity,
In THORNTON is no scarce commodity :
Much learning too I can descry,
Beneath bis periwig doth lie.
I beg his pardon, I declare,
His grizzle's gone for greasy hair,
Which now the
with ease can scrue,
With dirty ribband in a queue
But why neglect (his trade forsaking
For scribbling, and for merry-making,)
With tye to overshade that brain,
Which might have shone in WARWICK-LANE?
Why not, with spectacles on nose,
In chariot lazily repose,
A formal, pompous, deep physician,
HIMSELF A SIGN-POST EXHIBITION ?
But hold, my Muse! you run a-head: And where's the clue that shall unthread The maze, wherein you are entangled ? While out of tune the bells are jangled Thro' rhimes rough road that serve to deck My jaded Pegasus his neck. My muse with LLOYD alone contends : Why then fall foul upon his friends? Unless to shew, like handy-dandy, OrCHURCHILL's Ghost, or TRISTRAM SHANDY, Now here, now there, with quick progression, How smartly you can make digression : Your rambling spirit now confine, And speak to LLOYD in ev'ry line,
Tell me then, LLOYD, what is't you mean
By cobbling up a Magazine ?
A MAGAZINE, a wretched Olio
Purloin'd from quarto and from folio,
From Pamphlet, News-paper, and Book ;
Which tost up by a monthly cook,
Borrows fine shapes, and titles new,
Of fricasee and rich ragoût,
Which dunces dress, as well as you.
Say, is’t for you, your wit to coop,
And tumble thro' this narrow hoop ?
The body thrives, and so the mind,
When both are free and unconfin’d;
But harness'd in like hackney tit,
To run the monthly stage of wit,
The racer stumbles in the shaft,
And shews he was not meant for draft.
Pot-bellied gluttons, slaves of taste,
Who bind in leathern belt their waift,
Who lick their lips at ham or haunch,
But hate to see the strutting paunch,
Full often rue the pain that's felt
From circumscription of the belt.
Thus women too we ideots call,
Who lace their shapes too close and small,
Tight stays, they find, oft end in humps,
And take, too late, alas ! to jumps.
The Chinese ladies cramp their feet,
Which seem, indeed, both small and neat,
While the dear creatures laugh and talk,
And can do ev'ry thing -- but walk;