Who, not self-taught and proudly wife,
Seeks more to comfort than advise,
Who lefs intent to shine than please,
Wears his own mirth with native ease;
And is from fenfe, from nature's plan,
The jovial gueft, the honest man ;
In short, whose picture, painted true,
In ev'ry point resembles you.
friend for once excufe
This off'ring of a lazy mufe,
Moft lazy,-left you think her not,
I'll draw her picture on the spot.
A perfect ease the dame enjoys;
Three chairs her indolence employs :
On one she squats her cushion'd bum,
Which wou'd not rife, tho' kings fhould come;
An arm lolls dangling o'er another,
A leg lies couchant on its brother.
To make her look fupremely wife,
At least like wisdom in disguise,
The weed, which first by Raleigh brought,
Gives thinking looks inftead of thought,
She smokes, and smokes; without all feeling,
Save as the eddies climb the cieling,
When pipe forfakes the vacant mouth,
A pot of beer prevents her drowth,
Which with potations pottle deep
Lulls the poor maudlin mufe to fleep.
Her books of which fh'as wond'rous ne
But neither pow'r nor will to read,
In fcatter'd tomes lie all around
Upon the loweft fhelf-the ground.
Such ease no doubt fuits eafy rhyme; Folks walk about who write SUBLIME, While RECITATION's pompous found Drawls words fonorous all around, And ACTION waves her hand and head, As those who bread and butter spread.
You bards who feel not fancy's deart Who ftrike the roof, and kick the earth Whose muse superlatively high Takes lodgings always near the sky; And like the lark with daring flight Still foars and fings beyond our fight; May trumpet forth your grand fublime, And fcorn our lazy lounging rhyme.
Yet tho' the lark in æther floats,
And trills no doubt diviner notes,
Carelefly perch'd on yonder spray,
The linnet fings a pretty lay.
What horrid, what tremendous fight Shakes all my fabric with affright! With ARGUS' hundred eyes he marks, With triple mouth the monster barks; And while he scatters flaming brands BRIAREUS lends him all his hands.
Hift! 'tis a CRITIC.-Yes-'tis he-
What wou'd your gracelefs form with me?
Is it t'upbraid me with the crime
Of spinning unlaborious rhyme,
Of ftringing various thoughts together
In verfe, or profe, or both, or neither?
A vein, which tho' it muft offend
You lofty firs who can't defcend,
To fame has often made its way
From BUTLER, PRIOR, SWIFT and GAY;
Is it for this your brow auftere
Frowns me to stone for very fear?
Hear my juft reafon firft, and then
Approve me right, or split my pen.
'Gainft genius which I most revere;
When Phoebus burfts with genuine fire,
The little ftars at once retire;
Who cares a farthing for those lays
Which you can neither blame, nor prai
I cannot match a CHURCHILL's fkill,
But may be LANGHORNE when I will.
Let the mere mimic, for each season bears Your mimic Bards as well as mimic play'ı Creep fervilely along, and with dull pains Lash his flow fteed, in whose enfeebled ve The cold blood lags, let him with fruitless By borrow'd plumes affume a borrow'd fan With studied forms th' incautious ear begu And ape the numbers of a CHURCHILL'S Slaves may fome fame from imitation hop Who'd be PAUL WHITEHEAD, tho' he hono If clinking couplets in one endless chime Be the fole beauty, and the praise of rhyn If found alone an easy triumph gains, While fancy bleeds, and sense is hung in
Ye happy triflers hail the rifing mode;
See, all Parnaffus is a turnpike road,
Where each may travel in the highway track
On true bred hunter, or on common hack.
For me, who labour with poetic fin,
Who often woo the mufe I cannot win,
Whom pleasure firft a willing poet made,
And folly spoilt by taking up the trade,
Pleas'd I behold fuperior genius fhine,
Nor ting'd with envy wish that genius mine.
To CHURCHILL's mufe can bow with decent awe,
Admire his mode, nor make that mode my law:
Both
may, perhaps, have various pow'rs to please ;
Be his the STRENGTH OF NUMBERS, mine the EASE.
Eafe that rejects not, but betrays no care:
Lefs of the coxcomb than the floven's air.
Your tafte, as mine, all metre muft offend,
When imitation is its only end.
I could perhaps that fervile task pursue,
And copy CHURCHILL as I'd copy you,
But that my flippant muse, too faucy grown,
Prefers that manner fhe can call her own.
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