Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy
For popish fimiles beyond sea;

As folks from mud-wall'd tenement
Bring landlords pepper-corn for rent ;
Prefent a turkey, or a hen,

To thofe might better fpare them ten;
Ev'n fo, with all fubmiffion, I
(For first men inftance, then apply)
Send you each year a homely letter,
Who may return me much a better.

Then take it, Sir, as it was writ,
To pay refpect, and not fhew wit:
Nor look afkew at what it faith;
'There's no petition in it-'faith.

Here fome would fcratch their heads, and try What they should write, and how, and why; But I conceive, fuch folks are quite in Mistakes, in theory of writing.

If once for principle 'tis laid,

That thought is trouble to the head;

I argue thus: the world agrees,

That he writes well, who writes with eafe:

Then he, by fequel logical,

Writes beft, who never thinks at all.

Verse comes from heaven, like inward light ; Mere human pains can ne'er come by 't; The god, not we, the poem makes; We only tell folks what he speaks. Hence, when anatomifts difcourfe, How like brutes' organs are to ours;

They grant, if higher powers think fit,
A bear might foon be made a wit;
And that, for any thing in nature,

Pigs might fqueak love-odes, dogs bark fatyr.
Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal;
But 'twas the god, mean while, that spoke all.
Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing,
With prompting prieft behind the hanging:
The wooden head refolv'd the question;
While you and Pettis help'd the jest on.

Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius,
Are against gods, you know; and teach us,
The gods make not the poet; but
The thefis, vice-versa put,

Should Hebrew-wife be understood;
And means, the poet makes the god.
Ægyptian gardeners thus are faid to
Have fet the leeks they after pray'd to;
And Romish bakers praise the deity
They chipp'd while yet in its paneity.
That when you poets fwear and cry,
The god infpires; I rave, I die;
If inward wind does truly fwell
"T must be the colick in your belly:
That writing is but just like dice,
And lucky mains make people wise :
That jumbled words, if fortune throw 'em,
Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem ;
Or make a speech, correct and witty,
As you know who-at the committee.

ye,

So atoms dancing round the center,
They urge, made all things at a venture.
But, granting matters should be spoke
By method, rather than by luck;
This may confine their younger styles,
Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's ;
But never could be meant to tye
Authentic wits, like you and I :
For as young children, who are tried in
Go-carts, to keep their fteps from fliding;
When members knit, and legs grow ftronger,
Make ufe of fuch machine no longer;

But leap pro libitu, and fcout

On horfe call'd hobby, or without;
So when at school we firft declaim,
Old Busby walks us in a theme,
Whofe props fupport our infant vein,
And help the rickets in the brain :
But, when our fouls their force dilate,
And thoughts grow up to wit's estate ;
In verfe or profe, we write or chat,
Not fix-pence matter upon what.

'Tis not how well an author fays; But 'tis how much, that gathers praise. Tonfon, who is himself a wit,

Counts writers' merits by the fheet.

Thus, each fhould down with all he thinks,
As boys eat bread, to fill up chinks.

Kind Sir, I fhould be glad to see you ;
I hope y' are well; fo God be wi' you ;

Was

Was all I thought at firft to write;
But things fince then are alter'd quite ;
Fancies flow in, and Mufe flies high:
So God knows when my clack will lie:
I muft, Sir, prattle on, as afore,
And beg your pardon yet this half-hour.

So at pure barn of loud Non-con,
Where with my granam I have gone,
When Lobb had fifted all his text,
And I well hop'd the pudding next;
"Now to apply," has plagu'd me more,
Than all his villain cant before.

For your religion, firft, of her
Your friends do favoury things aver:
They fay, she's honeft, as your claret,
Not four'd with cant, nor ftumm'd with merit;
Your chamber is the fole retreat

Of chaplains every Sunday night:
Of grace, no doubt, a certain fign,
When lay-man herds with man divine;
For if their fame be juftly great,
Who would no popish nuncio treat;
That his is greater, we must grant,
Who will treat nuncio's proteftant.
One fingle pofitive weighs more,
You know, than negatives a score.
In politicks, I hear, you're ftanch,
Directly bent against the French;
Deny to have your free-born toe
Dragoon'd into a wooden shoe :

Are in no plots; but fairly drive at
The public welfare, in your private ;
And will for England's glory try
Turks, Jews, and Jefuits, to defy,
And keep your places till you die.

For me, whom wandering fortune threw
From what I lov'd, the town and you:
Let me just tell you how my time is
Paft in a country life.-Imprimis,
As foon as Phoebus' rays inspect us,
First, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast;
So on, till forefaid god does set,
I fometimes ftudy, fometimes eat.
Thus, of your heroes and brave boys,
With whom old Homer makes fuch noife,
The greatest actions I can find,

Are, that they did their work, and din'd.
The books, of which I'm chiefly fond,

Are fuch as you have whilom conn'd;
That treat of China's civil law,
And fubjects' right in Golconda;
Of highway-elephants at Ceylan,

That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland;
Of apes that ftorm, or keep a town,

As well almoft as Count Lauzun;
Of unicorns and alligators,

Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, fatyrs,
And twenty other stranger matters;

}

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Which, though they 're things I 've no concern in, Make all our grooms admire my learning.

Criticks