They croud about preferment's gate,
And prefs you down with all their weight.
For, as of old mathematicians

Were by the vulgar thought magicians;
So academick dull ale-drinkers

Pronounce all men of wit free-thinkers.

Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends, Difdains to ferve ignoble ends. Obferve what loads of ftupid rhymes Opprefs us in corrupted times: What pamphlets in a court's defence Shew reafon, grammar, truth, or fenfe? For, though the mufe delights in fiction, She ne'er inspires against conviction. Then keep your virtue ftill unmixt, And let not faction come betwixt : By party steps no grandeur climb at, Though it would make you England's pri

mate:

Firft learn the fcience to be dull,
You then may foon your confcience lull;
If not, however feated high,

Your genius in your face will fly.

When Jove was from his teeming head Of wit's fair goddess brought to bed, There follow'd at his lying in For after-birth a Sooterkins

Which, as the nurse purfu'd to kill,
Attain'd by flight the mufes hill;
There in the foil began to root,
And litter'd at Parnaffus' foot.
From hence the critick vermin fprung
With harpy claws and pois'nous tongue,
Who fatten on poetick scraps,
Too cunning to be caught in traps.
Dame nature, as the learned fhow,
Provides each animal its foe:

Hounds hunt the hare, the wily fox
Devours your geefe, the wolf your flocks:
Thus envy pleads a natʼral claim
To perfecute the mufes fame;
On poets in all times abufive,
From Homer down to Pope inclufive.

Yet what avails it to complain?
You try to take revenge in vain.

A rat

your utmoft

rage defies,

That fafe behind the wainscot lies:

Say, did you ever know by fight
In cheese an individual mite ?
Shew me the fame numerick flea,

That bit your neck but yesterday: mana i
You then may boldly go in quest
To find the Grub-freet poets neft;!
What fpunging-houfe in dread of jail
Receives them, while they wait for bail;

What alley they are nestled in
To flourish o'er a cup of gin:
Find the last garret where they lay,
Or cellar, where they starve to-day.
Suppose you had them all trepann'd,
With each a libel in his hand,
What punishment would you inflict?
Or call 'em rogues, or get 'em kickt?
These they have often try'd before;
You but oblige 'em fo much more:
Themselves would be the firft to tell,
To make their trash the better fell..

You have been libell'd-Let us know, What fool officious told you fo? Will you regard the hawker's cries, Who in his titles always lies? Whate'er the noify scoundrel fays, It might be something in your praise: And praise bestow'd in Grub-street rhymes Would vex one more a thoufand times. Till criticks blame, and judges praise, The poet cannot claim his bays. On me when dunces are fatirick, I take it for a panegyrick. Hated by fools, and fools to hate, Be that my motto, and my fate.

On

An Imitation of Petronius.

Somnia quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, etc.

THOSE dreams, that on the filent night intrude,

And with falfe flitting fhades our minds delude,

Jove never fends us downward from the fkies;

Nor can they from infernal manfions rise ; But are all meer productions of the brain, And fools confult interpreters in vain.

For, when in bed we reft our weary limbs, The mind unburthen'd fports in various whims;

The bufy head with mimick art runs o'er The scenes and actions of the day before.

The drowsy tyrant, by his minions led, To regal rage devotes fome patriot's head. With equal terrors, not with equal guilt, The murd'rer dreams of all the blood he fpilt.

The foldier fmiling hears the widow's cries,

And ftabs the fon before the mother's eyes. With like remorfe his brother of the trade, The butcher, fells the lamb beneath his blade. The

The statesman rakes the town to find a

plot,

And dreams of forfeitures by treafon got. Nor lefs Tom-t--d-man of true ftatefman mold

Collects the city filth in fearch of gold.
Orphans around his bed the lawyer fees,
And takes the plaintiff's and defendant's
fees.

His fellow pick-purse, watching for a job,
Fancies his fingers in the cully's fob.
The kind phyfician grants the husband's
pray ́rs,

Or gives relief to long-expecting heirs.
The fleeping hangman ties the fatal noose,
Nor unfuccefsful waits for dead mens fhoes.
The grave divine with knotty points
perplext,

As if he was awake, nods o'er his text: While the fly mountebank attends his trade, Harangues the rabble, and is better paid. The hireling fenator of modern days Bedaubs the guilty great with nauseous praise:

And Dick the fcavenger with equal grace. Flirts from his cart the mud in's face.

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