Take it for granted, 'tis by thofe
Milton's the model moftly chofe,
Who can't write verse, and won't write profe.
Others, who aim at fancy, chuse
To woo the gentle Spenfer's Mufe.
This poet fixes for his theme
An allegory, or a dream;
Fiction and truth together joins
Through a long wafte of flimfy lines;
Fondly believes his fancy glows,
And image upon image grows;
Thinks his ftrong Mufe takes wond'rous flights,
Whene'er the fings of peerlefs wights,
Of dens, of palfreys, fpells and knights:
'Till allegory, Spenfer's veil
T' inftruct and please in moral tale,
With him's no veil the truth to shroud,
But one impenetrable cloud.
Others, more daring, fix their hope
On rivaling the fame of Pope.
Satyr's the word against the times-
These catch the cadence of his rhymes,
And borne from earth by Pope's frong wings,
Their Muse aspires, and boldly flings
Her dirt up in the face of kings.
In these the spleen of Pope we find
But where the greatness of his mind?
His numbers are their whole
pretence,
Mere strangers to his manly sense.
Some few, the fav'rites of the Mufe,
Whom with her kindeft eye fhe views
Round whom Apollo's brighteft rays
Shine forth with undiminish'd blaze;
Some few, my friend, have fweetly trod
In Imitation's dang'rous road.
Long as Tobacco's mild perfume
Shall scent each happy curate's room,
Oft as in elbow-chair he smokes,
And quaffs his ale, and cracks his jokes,
So long, O Brown, fhall laft thy praise,
Crown'd with Tobacco-leaf for bays;
And whofoe'er thy verfe fhall fee,
Shall fill another Pipe to thee.
**Ifaac Hawkins Brown, Efq. author of a piece called the Pipe of Tobacco, a moft excellent imitation of fix different authors.
FROM TISSINGTON IN DERBYSHIRE.
RIENDSHIP with moft is dead and cool,
A dull, inactive, stagnant pool;
Yours like the lively current flows,
And shares the pleasure it beftows.
If there is ought, whofe lenient pow'r
Can foothe affliction's painful hour,
Sweeten the bitter cup of care,
And fnatch the wretched from despair,
Superior to the fenfe of woes,
From friendship's fource the balfam flows,
Rich then am I, poffeft of thine,
Who know that happy balfam mine.
In youth, from nature's genuine heat,
The fouls congenial spring to meet,
And emulation's infant ftrife,
Cements the man in future life.
Oft too the mind well-pleas'd furveys
Its progrefs from its childish days;
Sees how the current upwards ran,
And reads the child o'er in the man.
For men, in reason's fober eyes,
Are children, but of larger fize,
Have ftill their idle hopes and fears,
And Hobby-Horse of riper years.
Whether a bleffing, or a curse,
My rattle is the love of verse.
Some fancied parts, and emulation,
Which still aspires to reputation,
Bade infant fancy plume her flight,
And held the laurel full to fight.
For vanity, the poet's fin,
Had ta'en poffeffion all within :
And he whose brain is verfe-poffeft,
Is in himself as highly bleft,
As he, whose lines and circles vie
With heav'n's direction of the sky.
Howe'er the river rolls its tides,
the furface rides.
And on Ink's Ocean, lightly buoy'd,
The cork of vanity is Lloyd.
Let me too use the common claim
And foufe at once upon my name,
Which fome have done with greater ftrefs,
Who know me, and who love me lefs.
Poets are very harmless things,
Unless you teaze one till it ftings;
And when affronts are plainly meant,
We're bound in honour to refent :
And what tribunal will deny
An injur'd perfon to reply?
In these familiar emanations,
Which are but writing converfations,
Where thought appears in dishabille,
And fancy does juft what she will,
'The foureft critic would excufe
The vagrant fallies of the Mufe:
Which lady, for Apollo's bleffing,
Has ftill attended our careffing,
many children round her fees
As maggots in a Cheshire cheese,
Which I maintain at vaft expence,
Of pen and paper, time and fenfe :
And furely 'twas no fmall mifcarriage
When first I enter'd into marriage.
The poet's title which I bear,
With some strange castles in the air,
Was all my portion with the fair.
However narrowly I look,
In Phoebus's valorem book,
I cannot from enquiry find
Poets had much to leave behind.
They had a copyhold eftate
In lands which they themselves create,
A foolish title to a fountain,
A right of common in a mountain,
And yet they liv'd amongst the great,
More than their brethren do of late;
Invited out at feafts to dine,
Eat as they pleas'd, and drank their wine;
Nor is it any where set down
They tipt the fervants half a crown,
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