Whofe latrant ftomachs oft molest
The deep-laid plans their dreams fuggeft;
Or fee fome poet penfive fit,
Fondly mistaking Spleen for Wit:
Who, though fhort-winded, ftill will aim
To found the epic trump of Fame;
Who ftill on Phoebus' fmiles will doat,
Nor learn conviction from his coat;
I blefs my ftars, never knew
Whimfies, which close purfu'd, undo,
And have from old experience been
Both parent and the child of Spleen.
Thefe fubjects of Apollo's ftate,
Who from falfe fire derive their fate,
With airy purchases undone
Of lands, which none lend money on,
Born dull, had follow'd thriving ways,
Nor loft one hour to gather bays.
Their fancies firft delirious grew,
And scenes ideal took for true.
Fine to the fight Parnaffus lies,
And with falfe profpects cheats their eyes;
The fabled gods the Poets fing,
A feafon of perpetual spring,
Brooks, flow'ry fields, and groves of trees,
Affording fweets and fimiles,
Gay dreams infpir'd in myrtle bow'rs,
And wreaths of undecaying flow'rs,
Apollo's harp with airs divine,
The facred mufic of the Nine,
Views of the temple rais'd to Fame,
And for a vacant niche proud aim,
Ravifh their fouls, and plainly fhew
What Fancy's sketching power can do.
They will attempt the mountain fteep,
Where on the top, like dreams in sleep,
The Mufes revelations fhew,
That find men crack'd, or make them so.
You, friend, like me, the trade of rhyme
Avoid, elab'rate wafte of time,
Nor are content to be undone,
To pass for Phoebus' crazy fon.
Poems, the hop-grounds of the brain,
Afford the most uncertain gain;
And lott'ries never tempt the wise
With blanks fo many to a prize.
I only tranfient vifits pay,
Meeting the Mufes in my way,
Scarce known to the faftidious dames,
Nor fkill'd to call them by their names.
Nor can their paffports in these days,
Your profit warrant, or your praise.
On Poems by their dictates writ,
Critics, as fworn appraisers, fit,
And mere upholst'rers in a trice
On gems and painting set a price.
Thefe tayl'ring artifts for our lays
Invent cramp'd rules, and with ftrait ftays
Striving free Nature's fhape to hit,
Emaciate fenfé, before they fit.
A common place, and many friends,
Can ferve the plagiary's ends.
Whofe eafy vamping talent lies,
First wit to pilfer, then disguise.
Thus fome devoid of art and skill
To fearch the mine on Pindus' hill,
Proud to afpire and workmen grow,
By genius doom'd to stay below,
For their own digging fhew the town
Wit's treasure brought by others down.
Some wanting, if they find a mine,
An artift's judgment to refine,
On fame precipitately fix'd,
The ore with bafer metals mix'd
Melt down, impatient of delay,
And call the vicious mass a play.
All these engage to serve their ends,
Á band felect of trufty friends,
Who, leffon'd right, extol the thing,
As Pfapho taught his birds to fing;
Pfapho was a Libyan, who defiring to be accounted a God, effected it by this invention: He took young birds and taught them to fing, Efapho is a great God. When they were perfect in their leffon, he let
Then to the ladies they submit,
Returning officers on wit:
A crowded house their prefence draws,
And on the beaus impofes laws,
A judgment in its favour ends,
When all the pannel are its friends:
Their natures merciful and mild
Have from mere pity fav'd the child ;
In bulrush ark the bantling found
Helpless, and ready to be drown'd,
They have preferv'd by kind support,
And brought the baby-mufe to court.
But there's a youth that you can name,
Who needs no leading ftrings to fame,
Whofe quick maturity of brain
The birth of Pallas may explain :
Dreaming of whofe depending fate,
I heard Melpomene debate,
This, this is he, that was foretold
Should emulate our Greeks of old.
Infpir'd by me with facred art,
He fings, and rules the varied heart;
If Jove's dread anger he rehearse,
We hear the thunder in his verfe;
them fly; and other birds learning the fame ditty, repeated it in the woods; on which his countrymen offered facrifice to him, and confidered him as a Deity.
g Mr. Glover, the excellent author of Leonidas, Boadicea, Medea, &c.
If he defcribes love turn'd to rage,
The furies riot in his page.
If he fair liberty and law
By ruffian pow'r expiring draw,
The keener paffions then engage
Aright, and fanctify their rage;
If he attempt difaftrous love,
We hear those plaints that wound the grove.
Within the kinder paffions glow,
And tears diftill'd from pity flow.
From the bright vifion I defcend,
And
my deferted theme attend.
Me never did ambition seize,
Strange fever most inflam'd by ease!
The active lunacy of pride,
That courts jilt Fortune for a bride,
This par'dife-tree, fo fair and high,
I view with no aspiring eye :
Like afpine shake the restless leaves,
And Sodom-fruit our pains deceives,
Whence frequent falls give no furprise,
But fits of Spleen, call'd growing wife.
Greatness in glitt'ring forms difplay'd
Affects weak eyes much us'd to shade,
And by its falfly-envy'd scene
Gives felf-debafing fits of Spleen.
We should be pleas'd that things are fo,
Who do for nothing fee the fhow,
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