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Critics indeed are valuable men,

But hyper-critics are as good agen.

a

Though Blackmore's works my foul with raptures fill,
With notes by Bentley they'd be better still.
The Boghoufe-Mifcellany's well defign'd,
To ease the body, and improve the mind.
Swift's whims and jokes for my refentment call,
For he displeases me that pleases all.
Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obfcure,

To him as nature, when he ceas'd to fee,
Milton's an universal blank to me.

Confirm'd and settled by the nation's voice,
Rhyme is the poet's pride, and people's choice.

Always upheld by national support,

Of market, university, and court:

Thomson, write blank; but know that for that reason,
These lines fhall live when thine are out of season.
Rhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays,
As London ladies owe their shape to stays.

Had Cibber's felf the Careless Hufband wrote,

He for the laurel ne'er had had my vote:

a Sir Richard Blackmore, author of King Arthur, Prince Arthur, and other Epic Poems.

An infamous publication, which appeared just before this Poem was printed.

But for his epilogues and other plays,
He thoroughly deserves the modern bays.
It pleases me, that Pope unlaurell'd goes,
While Cibber wears the bays for play-house profe;
So Britain's monarch once uncover'd fate,

с

While Bradshaw bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat.

Long live old Curli! he ne'er to publish fears,
The speeches, verfes, and laft wills of peers.
How oft has he a public fpirit shewn,

And pleas'd our ears, regardless of his own?
But to give merit due, though Curll's the fame,
Are not his brother book-fellers the fame ?
Can ftatutes keep the British prefs in awe,

While that fells beft, that's most against the law?
Lives of dead play'rs my leisure hours beguile,
And Seffions-papers tragedize my ftile.

'Tis charming reading in Ophelia's life d
So oft a mother, and not once a wife :
She could with juft propriety behave,

Alive with peers, with monarchs in her grave;
Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept,
By prebends bury'd, and by generals kept.

c Bradshaw prefided at the court wherein King Charles I. was tried. d Mrs. Anne Oldfield, the celebrated actress. She died 23 October 1730, and was buried in Weftminster Abbey on the 27th of the fame month; Dr. Barker, the fenior prebendary then refident, performing the ceremony.

T'improve in morals Mandevil I read,
And Tyndal's f fcruples are my fettled creed.
I travell'd early, and I foon faw through
Religion all, ere I was twenty-two.

Shame, pain, or poverty fhall I endure,
When ropes or opium can my eafe procure?
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay,
Self-murder is an honourable way.

As Pafaran directs I'd end my life,

And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife .

Burn

e Dr. Bernard Mandeville, author of The Fable of the Bees, &c. He died 21 January 1732-3.

f Dr. Matthew Tyndal, author of Christianity as old as the Creation. He died 16 Aug. 1733.

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g Author of a book called A Philofophical Difcourfe on Death; being a defence of fuicide. He was a nobleman of Piedmont, banished from his country for his impieties, and lived in the utmost misery, yet feared to practice his own precepts ; on which the following story used to be told :Amongst his pupils, to whom he read in moral philofophy, there was, it feems, a noted gamefter, who lodged under the fame roof with him. This ufeful citizen, after a run of ill luck, came one morning early into the philofopher's bed-chamber with two loaded piftols; and, as Englishmen do not understand raillery in a cafe of this nature, told the Piedmontese, on prefenting him with one of his piftols, that now was come the time to put his doctrine in practife that as to himfelf, having loft his laft fake, he was become an ufelefs member in fociety, and fo was refolved to quit his ftation; and that as to him, his guide, philofopher, and friend, furrounded with miseries, the out-caft of government, and the fport even of that chance which he adored, he doubtless would rejoice

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for

Burn but that Bible which the parfon quotes,
And men of spirit all fhall cut their throats.
But not to writings I confine my pen,
I have a tafte for buildings, mufic, men.
Young travell'd coxcombs mighty knowledge boast,
With fuperficial smattering at most.

Not fo my mind, unfatisfied with hints,

k

Knows more than Budgel writes, or Roberts prints.

I know the town, all houses I have seen,

From High-Park corner down to Bednal-Green.

for fuch an opportunity to bear him company. All this was faid and done with so much resolution and folemnity, that the Italian found himfelf under a neceffity to cry out murder; which brought in company to his relief. This unhappy man at last died a penitent.

Warburton's Notes on Pope.

h Though Pasaran wanted spirit to act in conformity to his own prin ciples, yet a book-binder and his wife fhewed more refolution. Being in volved in debt, they came to the horrid determination of deftroying their child, and then putting an end to their own exiftence. They left a paper behind them, justifying the action by some reasonings of the above author, and others of the fame kind. The names of this miferable pair were Richard and Bridget Smith, and the event happened in the year 1732.

1 Euftace Budgel, Efq; one of the writers in the Spectator, and a near relation to Mr. Addison. This gentleman having involved himfelf is difficulties, became guilty of fome acts which totally destroyed his reputation. In a fit of despair he put an end to his life, by throwing himfelf into the Thames, 4 May 1737.

k James Roberts, the publisher of a multitude of pamphlets at that period.

t

Sure wretched Wren was taught by bungling Jones,
To murder mortar, and disfigure ftones!
Who in Whitehall can fymmetry difcern?
I reckon Covent-Garden church a barn:
Nor hate I lefs thy vile cathedral, Paul !
The choir's too big, the cupola's too small :
Subftantial walls and heavy roofs I like,
'Tis Vanbrug's ftructures that my fancy strike:
Such noble ruins every pile would make,
I wish they'd tumble for the prospect's fake.
To lofty Chelsea, or to Greenwich dome,
Soldiers and failors all are welcom'd home.
Her poor to palaces Britannia brings,
St. James's hofpital may serve for kings.
Buildings fo happily I understand,
That for one house I'd mortgage all

my land.
Doric, Ionic, fhall not there be found,
But it shall coft me threescore thousand pound.
From out my honeft workmen, I'll felect
A Bricklay'r, and proclaim him architect;
First bid him build me a ftupendous dome,
Which having finish'd, we set out for Rome;
Take a week's view of Venice and the Brent,
Stare round, fee nothing, and come home content.
I'll have my Villa too, a sweet abode,
Its fituation shall be London road :

Pots o'er the door I'll place like Cits balconies,
Which Bentley calls the Gardens of Adonis.

Bentley's Milton, Book ix. ver. 439.

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