For Time fhall with his ready pencil ftand;
Retouch your figures with his ripening hand;
Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint;
Add every grace, which Time alone can grant;
To future ages fhall your fame convey,
And give more beauties than he takes away.
A familiar Epistle to Mr. JULIAN, Secretary of the Mufes.
THOU common fhore of this poetic town,
Where all the excrements of wit are thrown,
For fonnet, fatyr, bawdry, blafphemy,
Are emptied, and difburden'd all in thee
The choleric wight untruffing all in rage
Finds thee, and lays his load upon thy page:
Thou Julian, or thou wife Vefpafian rather,
Doft from this dung thy well-pickt guineas gather,
All mischief 's thine, tranfcribing thou wilt stoop,
From lofty Middlefex to lowly Scroop.
What times are thefe, when in the hero's room,
Bow-bending Cupid doth with ballads come,
And little Afton offers to the bum?
Can two fuch pigmies fuch a weight fupport,
Two fuch Tom-Thumbs of fatire in a court?
Poor George grows old, his Mufe worn out of fashion,
Hoarfely he fung Ephelia's lamentation.
Lefs art thou help'd by Dryden's bed-rid age,
That drone has loft his fting upon the stage:
Refolve me, poor apoftate, this my doubt,
What hope haft thou to rub this winter out?
Know, and be thankful then, for Providence
By me hath fent thee this intelligence.
A knight there is, if thou canft gain his grace,
Known by the name of the Hard-favour'd Face,
For prowess of the pen renown'd is he,
From Don Quixote defcended lineally;
And, though like him unfortunate he prove,
Undaunted in attempts of wit and love.
Of his unfinish'd face, what fhall I fay?
But that 'twas made of Adam's own red clay,
That much, much ochre was on it bestow'd,
God's image 'tis not, but fome Indian god
Our Christian earth can no resemblance bring
But ware of Portugal for fuch a thing;
Such carbuncles his fiery face confefs,
As no Hungarian water can redress.
A face which thould he fee (but heaven was kind,
And, to indulge his felf, Love made him blind.)
He durft not fir abroad for fear to meet
Curfes of teeming women in the street:
The be could happen from this hideous fight,
Is that they should miscarry with the fright-
Heaven guard then from the likeness of the knight
Such is our charming Strephon's outward man,
His inward parts let thofe difclofe who can :
One while he honoureth Birtha with his flame,
And now he chants no lefs Lovifa's name;
For when his paffion hath been bubbling long,
The fcum at laft boils up into a fong;
And fure no mortal creature at one time,
Was e'er fo far o'ergone with love and rhyme.
To his dear self of poetry he talks,
His hands and feet are scanning as he walks ;
His writhing looks his pangs of wit accuse,
The airy fymptoms of a breeding Mufe,
And all to gain the great Lovifa's grace,
But never pen did pimp for fuch a face;
There's not a nymph in city, town, or court,
But Strephon's billet-doux has been their sport.
Still he loves on, yet ftill he 's fure to mifs,
As they who wash an Æthiop's face, or his.
What fate unhappy Strephon does attend?
Never to get a mistress, nor a friend.
Strephon alike both wits and fools deteft,
'Cause he's like Æsop's batt, half bird, half beast;
For fools to poetry have no pretence,
And common wit fuppofes common sense,
Not quite fo low as fool, nor quite a-top,
He hangs between them both, and is a fop.
His morals like his wit are motley too,
He keeps from arrant knave with much ado.
But vanity and lying fo prevail,
That one grain more of each would turn the scale:
He would be more a villain had he time,
But he's fo wholly taken up with rhyme,
That he mistakes his talent; all his care
Is to be thought a poet fine and fair.
Small-beer and gruel are his meat and drink,
The diet he prescribes himself to think;
Rhyme next his heart he takes at the morn peep,
Some love-epiftles at the hour of fleep ;
So betwixt elegy and ode we fee
Strephon is in a course of poetry :
This is the man ordain'd to do thee good,
The pelican to feed thee with his blood;
Thy wit, thy poet, nay thy friend, for he
Is fit to be a friend to none but thee.
Make fure of him and of his Mufe betimes,
For all his ftudy is hung round with rhymes.
Laugh at him, juftle him, yet still he writes,
In rhyme he challenges, in rhyme he fights;
Charg'd with the laft, and baseft infamy,
His bufinefs is to think what rhymes to lye;
Which found, in fury he retorts again,
Strephon's a very dragon at his pen ;
His brother murder'd, and his mother whor'd,
His mistress loft, and yet his pen 's his fword.
To the Memory of Mr. OLD HAM.
AREWELL, too little and too lately known,
Whom I began to think, and call my own:
For fure our fouls were near allied, and thine
Caft in the same poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did ftrike,
And knaves and fools we both adhorr'd alike.
To the fame goal did both our ftudies drive;
The laft fet out, the fooneft did arrive.
Thus Nifus fell upon the flippery place,
Whilft his young friend perform'd, and won the race.
O early ripe to thy abundant store.
What could advancing age have added more ?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the fmoothness of thy native tongue.
But fatire needs not thofe, and wit will fhine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betray'd.
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