Pat medicines off from cart or stage,
The grand Tofcano of the age,
Or might about the countries go,
High-Steward of a puppet-shew,
Steward and Stewardship most meet,
For all know puppets never eat;

Who would be thought, (tho', fave the mark, |_ That point is fomething in the dark)

The Man of Honour, one like those
Renown'd in ftory, who lov'd blows
Better than victuals, and would fight,
Merely for fport, from morn to night;

Who treads like Mavors firm, whose tongue
I with the triple thunder hung;
Who cries to Fear-Stand off-aloof-
And talks as he were cannon-proof;
Would be deem'd ready, when you lift,
With fword and piftol, stick and fift,
Careless of points, balls, bruises, knocks,
At once to fence, fire, cudgel, box,
But at the fame time bears about,
Within himself, fome touch of doubt,

Of prudent doubt, which hints-that fame
It nothing but an empty name;

That life is rightly understood

by all to be a real good;

That, even in a Hero's heart,
Dition is the better part ;

The this fame Honour may be won,
And yet no kind of danger run)
Like Drugger comes, that magic pow'rs
May afcertain his lucky hours.
ix at fome hours the fickle dame
Whom Fortune properly we name,
Who ne'er confiders wrong or right,
When wanted moft plays least in fight,
And, like a modern Court-bred jilt,
Leves her chief fav'rites in a tilt.

Some hours there are, when from the heart
Carape into fome other part,

No matter wherefore, makes retreat,
And fear ufurps the vacant feat ;
Whence planet-firuck we often find
Stuarts and Sackvilles of mankind.
Father he'd know (and by his art
A conjurer can that impart)
Whether politer it is reckon'd
To have or not to have a second,
drag the friends in, or alone
To make the danger all their own ;
Whether repletion is not bad,
And fighters with full ftomachs mad;
Whether before he feeks the plain,

were not well to breathe a vein ;
Whether a gentle falivation,
Confidently with reputation,
Might not of precious use be found,
No to prevent indeed a wound,
Bet to prevent the confequence
Which oftentimes arises thence,

Thofe fevers, which the patient urge on
To gates of death, by help of furgeon;
Whether a wind at eaft or weft
is for green wounds accounted beft;
Whether (was he to chufe) his mouth
Should point towards the north or fouth;
Whether more fafely he might use,
On thefe occafions, pumps or shoes ;

Whether it better is to fight
By fun-fhine, or by candle-light;
Or (left a candle should appear
Too mean to fhine in such a sphers,
For who would of a candle tell
To light a hero into hell,
And left the Sun fhould partial rife
To dazzle one or t'other's eyes.
Or one or t'other's brains to fcorch)
Might not Dame Luna hold a torch?

Thefe points with dignity difcufs'd,
And gravely fix'd, a task which muft
Require no little time and pains,
To make our hearts friends with our brains,
The Man of War would next engage
The kind affiftance of the Sage,
Some previous method to direct,
Which should make thefe of none effect.
Could he not, from the mystic school
Of Art, produce fome facred rule,
By which a knowledge could be got,
Whether men valiant, were, or not,
So he that challenges might write
Only to those who would not fight?

Or could he not fome way difpenfe, By help of which (without offence To Honour, whofe nice nature's fuch, She fearce endures the flighteft touch) When he for want of t' other rule Miftakes his man, and, like a fool, With fome vain fighting blade gets in, He fairly may get out again?

Or, fhould fome Dæmon lay a scheme
To drive him to the last extreme,
So that he muft confefs his fears.
In mercy to his nofe and ears,
And like a prudent recreant knight,
Rather do any thing than fight,
Could he not fome expedient buy
To keep his fhame from public eye?
For well he held, and men review,
Nine in ten hold the maxim too,
That Honour's like a maiden-head,
Which if in private brought to bed,
Is none the worfe, but walks the town,
Ne'er loft, until the lofs be known.

The Parfon too (for now and then
Parfons are juft like other men,
And here and there a grave Divine
Has paffion's fuch as your's or mine)
Burning with holy luft to know
When Fate preferment will beftow,
'Fraid of detection, not of fin,
With circumfpection fneaking in
To Conj'rer, as he does to Whore,
Thro' fome bye-alley, or back-door,
With the fame caution orthodox
Confults the fars, and gets a pox.

The Citizen, in fraud grown old,
Who knows no Deity but Gold,
Worn out, and gafping now for breath,
A medicine wants to keep off death;
Would know, if That he cannot have,
What coins are current in the grave;
If, when the ftocks (which by his pow'r,
Would rife or fall in half an hour,
For, though unthought of and unfeen,
He work'd the fprings behind the screen)

By his directions came about,
And rofe to far, he should fell out;
Whether he fafely might, or no,
Replace it in the funds below.

By all addrefs'd, believ'd, and paid,
Many purfu'd the thriving trade,
And, great in reputation grown,
Succeffive held the Magic throne.
Favour'd by ev'ry darling paffion,
The love of novelty and fashion,
Ambition, Av'rice, Luft, and Pride,
Riches pour'd in on ev'ry fide.

But when the prudent laws thought fit
To curb this infolence of Wit;
When Senates wifely had provided,
Decreed, enacted, and decided,
That no fuch vile and upftart elves
Should have more knowledge than themfelves;
When fines and penalties were laid
To ftop the progrefs of the trade,
And ftars no longer could difpenfe,
With honour, farther influence.
And Wizards (which must be confeft
Was of more force than all the rest)
No certain way to tell had got,
Which were informers, and which not;
Affrighted Sages were, perforce,
Oblig'd to steer fome other courfe.
By various ways, thefe Sons of Chance
Their fortunes labour'd to advance,
Well knowing, by unerring rules,
Knaves ftarve not in the Land of Fools.

Some, with high titles and degrees,
Which wife men borrow when they please,
Without or trouble or expence,
Physicians inftantly commence,
And proudly boast an equal skill
With those who claim the right to kill.

Others about the countries roam,
(For not one thought of going home)
With piftol and adopted leg
Prepar'd at once to rob or beg.

Some, the more fubtle of their race,
(Who felt fome touch of coward grace,
Who Tyburn to avoid had wit,
But never fear'd deferving it)
Came to their brother Smollet's aid,
And carried on the Critic trade.

Attach'd to Letters and the Mufe,
Some verfes wrote, and Jeme wrote news ;
Thofe each revolving month are seen,
The herees of a Magazine;
Thefe, ev'ry morning, great appear
In Ledger, or in Gazetteer;
. Spreading the falsehoods of the day
By turns for Faden and for Say;
Like Swifs, their force is always laid
On that fide where they beft are paid.
Hence mighty prodigies arife,
And daily Monsters strike our eyes;
Wonders, to propagate the trade,
More strange than ever Baker made,
Are hawk'd about from Areet to street,
And Fools believe, whilst Liars eat.

Now armies in the air engage,
To fright a fuperftitious age;
Now comets through the æther range,
In governments portending change;

Now rivers to the ocean fly

So quick they leave their channels dry;
Now monftrous whales on Lambeth shore
Drink the Thames dry, and thirst for more?
And ev'ry now and then appears

An Irish favage numb`ring years
More than those happy fages cou'd,
Who drew their breath before the Flood.
Now, to the wonder of all people,
A church is left without a steeple ;
A feeple now is left in lurch,
And mourns departure of the church,
Which borne on wings of mighty wind,
Remov'd a furlong off we find.
Now, wrath on cattle to discharge,
Hail-ftones as deadly fall, and large
As those which were on Egypt fent,
At once their crime and punishment;
Or those which, as the Prophet writes,
Fell on the necks of Amorites,
When, ftruck with wonder and amaze,
The Sun fufpended, stay'd to gaze,
And, from her duty longer kept,
In Ajalon his fifter sept.

But if fuch things no more engage
The tafte of a politer age,

To help them out in time of need
Another Tofts must rabbits breed.
Each pregnant female trembling hears,
And, overcome with spleen and fears,
Confults her faithful glafs no more,
But madly bounding o'er the floor,
Feels hairs all o'er her body grow,
By Fancy turn'd into a doc.
Now to promote their private ends,
Nature her ufual courfe fufpends,
And varies from the stated plan,
Obferv'd e'er fince the world began,
Bodies (which foolishly we thought,
By cuftom's fervile maxims taught,
Needed a regular supply,
And without nourishment muft die)
With craving appetites and sense
Of hunger eafily difpenfe,

And, pliant to their wond'rous skill,
Are taught, like watches, to stand still
Uninjur'd, for a month or more ;
Then go on as they did before.
The novel takes, the tale fucceeds,
Amply fupplies its author's needs,
And Betty Canning is at least,

With Gafcoyne's help, a fix month's feast.
Whilft in contempt of all our pains,
The tyrant Superftition reigns
Imperious in the heart of man,

And warps his thoughts from Nature's plan ;
Whilft fond Credulity, who ne'er

The weight of wholesome doubts could bear,
To Reafon and herself unjust,

Takes all things blindly up on truft;
Whilft Curiofity, whose rage
No mercy fhews to fex or age,
Muft be indulg'd at the expǝnce

Of Judgment, Truth, and Common Senfe ;
Impoftures cannot but prevail,
And when old miracles grow stale,
Jugglers will still the art pursue,
And entertain the world with new.

For Them, obedient to their will,
And trembling at their mighty skill,
Sad Spirits, fummon'd from the tomb,
Glide glaring ghaftly thro' the gloom,
In all the ufual pomp of ftorms,
In horrid cuftomary forms,
A Wolf, a Bear, a Horfe, an Ape,
As Fear and Fancy give them shape
Tormented with despair and pain,

They roar, they yell, and clank the chain.
Folly and Guilt (for Guilt, howe'er
The face of courage it may wear,
Is ftill a coward at the heart)
At fear-created phantoms start.
The Priest, that very word implies
That he's both innocent and wife,
Yet fears to travel in the dark,
Unless escorted by his Clerk.

But let not ev'ry bungler deem
Too lightly of fo deep a scheme :
For reputation of the Art,
Each Ghost muft a&t a proper part,
Obferve Decorum's needful grace,
And keep the laws of Time and Place,
Mutt change, with happy variation,
His manners with his fituation;
What in the country might país down,
Would be impertinent in town,
No fpirit of difcretion here
Can think of breeding awe and fear,
'Twill ferve the purpose more by half
To make the congregation laugh.
We want no enfigns of furprize,
Locks ftiff with gore, and fawcer eyes ;
Give us an entertaining Sprite,
Gentle, familiar, and polite,
One who appears in fuch a form
As might an holy hermit warm,
Or who on former schemes refines,
And only talks by founds and figns,
Who will not to the eye appear,
But pays her vifits to the ear,

And knocks fo gently, 'twould not fright

A lady in the darkest night.

Such is our FANNY, whofe good-will,
Which cannot in the grave lie ftill,
Brings her on earth to entertain

Her friends and lovers in Cock-Lane.

Tho' ev'ry cause which then confpir'd
To make it practis'd and admir'd,
Yielding to time's deftructive course,
For ages paft hath loft its force.

With ancient bards, an invocation
Was a true act of adoration,
Of worship an effential part,
And not a formal piece of art,
Of paltry reading a parade,
A dull folemnity in trade,
A pious fever, taught to burn
An hour or two to ferve a turn.

They talk'd not of Caftalian Springs,
By way of faying pretty things,
As we drefs out our flimfey rimes;
'Twas the Religion of the times,
And they believ'd that holy stream
With greater force made Fancy teem,
Reckon'd by all a true fpecific
To make the barren brain prolific :
Thus Romish Church (afcheme which bears
Not half fo much excufe as theirs)
Since Faith implicitly hath taught her,
Reveres the force of Holy Water.

The Pagan Syftem, whether true
Or falfe, its ftrength, like buildings, drew
From many parts difpos'd to bear,
In one great Whole, their proper share.
Each God of eminent degree

To fome vaft beam compar'd might be ;
Each Godling was a peg, or rather
A cramp, to keep the beams together:
And man as fafely might pretend,
From Jove the thunder-bolt to rend,
As with an impious pride aspire
Torob Apollo of his lyre.

But why fhould We, who cannot feal
Thefe glowings of a Pagan zeal,
That wild enthufiaftic force,

By which, above her common course,
Nature in extacy up-borne,

Look'd down on earthly things with scorn;
Who have no more regard, 'tis known,
For their religion than our own,

And feel not half fo fierce a flame

At Clio's as at Fisher's name;
Who know these boasted sacred streams
Were mere romantic idle dreams,
That Thames has water clear as those
Which on the top of Pindus rofe,
And that the Fancy to refine,
Water's not half fo good as wine;
Who know, if profit ftrikes our eye,
Should we drink Helicon quite dry,
Th' whole fountain would not thither lead
So foon as one poor jug from Tweed ;
Who, if to raife poetic fire,

The pow'r of beauty we require,
In any public place can view

More than the Grecians ever knew;
If Wit into the scale is thrown,
Can boaft a Lennox of our own;
Why should we fervile cuftoms chufe,
And court an antiquated Mufe?
No matter why-to ask a reafon,

In Pedant Bigotry is treafon.

In the broad, beaten, turnpike-road
Of hackney'd Panegyric Ode,

No Modern Poet dares to ride
Without Apollo by his fide,
Nor in a Sonnet take the air,
Unless his Lady Muse be there.
She, from fome Amaranthine grove,
Where little Loves and Graces rove,
The laurel to my Lord must bear,
Or garlands make for whores to wear ;
She, with foft elegiac verse,

Muft grace fome mighty villain's hearfe ;
Or for fome infant, doom'd by Fate,
To wallow in a large estate,
With rimes the cradle must adorn,
To tell the world a fool is born.

Since then our Critic Lords expect
No hardy Poet thould reject
Establish'd maxims, or prefume
To place much better in their room,
By nature fearful, I fubmit,

And in the dearth of Senfe and Wit,
With nothing done, and little faid,
(By wild excurfive Fancy led,
Into a Second Book thus far,
Like fome unwary traveller,
Whom varied fcenes of wood and lawn,
With treacherous delight, have drawn ;
Deluded from his purpos'd way,
Whom ev'ry step leads more aftray;
Who gazing round can no where fpy,
Or house, or friendly cottage nigh,
And refolution feems to lack
To venture forward or go back)
Invoke fome Goddess to defcend,
And help me to my journey's end.
Tho' confcious Arrow all the while
Hears the petition with a smile,
Before the glafs her charms unfolds,
And in herself My Mufe beholds.

Truth, Goddess of celeftial birth,
But little lov'd, or known on earth,
Whose pow'r but feldom rules the heart,
Whose name, with hypocritic art,
An errant stalking-horse is made,
A fnug pretence to drive a trade,
An inftrument convenient grown

To plant, more firmly, Falfhood's throne,
As rebels varnish o'er their caufe
With fpecious colouring of laws,
And pious traitors draw the knife
In the King's name against his life;
Whether (from cities far away,
Where fraud and falfehood fcorn thy fway)
The faithful nymph's and fhepherd's pride,
With Love and Virtue by thy fide,
Your hours in harmlefs joys are spent
Amongst the children of Content;
Or, fond of gaiety and sport,

You tread the round of England's Court;
Howe'er my Lord may frowning go,
And treat the franger as a foe,
Sure to be found a welcome guest
In George's and in Charlotte's breaft;
If, in the giddy hours of youth,
My conftant foul adher'd to Truth;
If, from the time I first wrote Man,
I ftill purfu'd thy facred plan,
Tempted by interest in vain

To wear mean Falfhood's golden chain;

If, for a feafon drawn away,
Starting from Virtue's path aftray,
All low difguife I fcorn'd to try,
And dar'd to fin, but not te lye j
Hither, O hither, condefcend,
Eternal Truth, thy steps to bend,
And favour him, who ev'ry hour,
Confeffes and obeys thy pow'r !

But come not with that eafy mien,
By which you won the lively Dean,
Nor yet affume the ftrumpet air,
Which Rabelais taught thee firft to wear,
Nor yet that arch ambiguous face,
Which with Cervantes gave thee grace,
But come in facred vefture clad,
Solemnly dull, and truly fad !

Far from thy feemly matron train
Be ideot Mirth, and Laughter vain!
For Wit and Humour which pretend
At once to pleafe us and amend,
They are not for my present turn,
Let them remain in France with Sterne.
Of noblest City parents born,
Whom wealth and dignities adorn.
Who ftill one conftant tenor keep,
Not quite awake, nor quite afleep,
With Thee, let formal Dullness come,
And deep Attention, ever dumb,
Who on her lips her fingers lays,
Whilft every circumftance the weighs,
Whose down-caft eye is often found
Bent without motion to the ground,
Or, to fome outward thing confin'd,
Remits no image to the mind,

No pregnant mark of meaning bears,
But ftupid without vision stares;
Thy fteps let Gravity attend,
Wijdom's and Truth's unerring friend.
For one may fee with half an eye,
That Gravity can never lye ;

And his arch'd brow, pull'd o'er his eyes.
With folemn proof proclaims him wife.

Free from all waggeries and sports,
The produce of luxurious Courts,
Where floth and lu ft enervate youth,
Come thou, a down-right City Truth;
The City, which we ever find,
A fober pattern for mankind;
Where man, in equilibrio hung,
Is feldom old, and never young,
And from the cradle to the grave,
Not Virtue's friend, nor Vice's flave;
As dancers on the wire we spy,
Hanging between the earth and fky.
She comes-I fee her from afar
Bending her course to Temple-Bar:
All fage and filent is her train,
Deportment grave, and garments plain,
Such as may fuit a P'arfon's wear,
And fit the head-piece of a Mayor.

By Truth infpir'd, our Bacon's force
Open'd the way to Learning's source;
Boyle thro' the works of Nature ran;
And Newton, fomething more than man,
Div'd into Nature's hidden springs,
Laid bare the principles of things,
Above the earth our fpirits bore,
And gave us worlds unknown before.

By Truth infpir'd when Lauder's fpight
O'er Milton caft the veil of night,
Douglas arofe, and thro' the maze
Of intricate and winding ways,
Came where the subtle traitor lay,

And dragged him trembling to the day;
Whilft He (Ofhame to nobler parts,
Dishonour to the lib'ral arts,
To traffic in fo vile a scheme !)
Whilst He, our letter'd Polypheme,
Who had Confed rate forces join'd,
Like a base coward, skulk'd behind.
By Truth infpir'd, our Critics go
To track Fingal in Highland (now,
To form their own and others creed

From Manufcripts they cannot read.
By Truth infpir'd, we numbers fee
Of each profeffion and degree,
Gentle and Simple, Lord and Cit,
Wit without wealth, wealth without wit,
When Punch and Sheridan have done,
To FANNY's Ghoftly Lectures run.
By Truth and FANNY now infpir'd,
I feel my glowing bofom fir'd;
Defire beats high in ev'ry vein
To fing the Spirit of Cock-Lane;
To tell (just as the measure flows

In halting rime, half verse, half profe)
With more than mortal arts endu'd,
How the united force withstood,
And proudly gave a brave defiance
To Wit and Dulness in alliance.
This APPARITION (with relation
To ancient modes of derivation,
This we may properly so call,
Although it ne'er appears at all,
As by the way of Inuendo,
Lucus is made à non lucendo)
Superior to the vulgar mode,
Nobly difdains that servile road,
Which coward ghofts, as it appears,
Have walk'd in full five thousand years,
And for restraint too mighty grown,
Strikes out a method of her own.
Others may meanly start away,
Aw'd by the herald of the day,
With faculties too weak to bear
The freshness of the morning air,
May vanish with the melting gloom,
And glide in filence to the tomb ;
She dares the fun's moft piercing light,
And knocks by day as well as night.
Others, with mean and partial view,
Their vifits pay to one or two;
She great in reputation grown,
Keeps the best company in town.
Our active enterprifing Ghoft

As large and fplendid routs can boaft

As those which, rais'd by Pride's command,
Block up the paffage thro' the Strand.
Great adepts in the fighting trade,
Who ferve their time on the parade ;
She-Saints who, true to pleasure's plan,
Talk about God, and luft for man;
Wits, who believe nor God, nor Ghost,
And fools, who worship ev'ry poft;
Cowards whofe lips with war are hung;
Men truly brave, who hold their tongue ;

Courtiers, who laugh they know not why,
And Cits, who for the fame caufe cry;
The canting Tabernacle-Brother,
(For one rogue ftill fufpects another)
Ladies, who to a Spirit fly,
Rather than with their husbands lie;
Lords, who as chastely pass their lives
With other women as their wives;
Proud of their intellects and cloaths,
Phyficians, Lawyers, Parfons, Beaux.
And, truant from their desks and shops,
Spruce Temple clerks, and 'prentice fops,
To FANNY come, with the fame view,
To find her false, or find her true.
Hark! fomething creeps about the house!
Is it a Spirit, or a Moufe?

Hark! fomething fcratches round the room!
A cat, a rat, a ftubb'd birch-broom.
Hark! on the wainscot now it knocks !
If thour't a Ghoft, cried Orthodox,
With that affected folemn air
Which Hypocrites delight to wear,
And all thofe forms of confequence
Which fools adopt instead of fenfe;
If thou'rt a Gheft, who from the tomb
Stalk't fadly filent thro' this gloom,
In breach of Nature's ftated laws,
For good, or bad, or for no caufe,
Give now nine knocks: like Priests of old,
Nine we a facred number hold.

'Piha, cries Profound, (a man of parts
Deep read in all the curious arts,
Who to their hidden springs had trac'd
The force of numbers, rightly plac'd)
As to the Number, you are right,
As to the form, mistaken quite.
What's Nine? Your Adepts all agree,
The virtue lies in three times three.

He said, no need to say it twice,

For Thrice fhe knock'd, and Thrice, and Thrice.
The crowd, confounded and amaz'd,
In filence at each other gaz'd,
From Celia's hand the fnuff box fell,
Tinfel, who ogled with the Belle,
To pick it up attempts in vain,
He ftoops, but cannot rise again.
Immane Pompofo was not heard
T'import one crabbed foreign word.
Fear feizes Heroes, Fools, and Wits,
And Plaufible his pray'rs forgets.

At length, as people just awake,
Into wild diffonance they break;
All talk'd at once, but not a word
Was understood, or plainly heard.
Such is the noife of chatt'ring geefe,
Slow failing on the Summer breeze;
Such is the language Discord speaks
In Welch-women o'er beds of leeks ;
Such the confus'd and horrid founds
Of Irish in potatoe-grounds.

's tongue

But tir'd, for even CIs not on iron hinges hung, Fear and Confufion found retreat, Reafon and Order take their feat. The fact confirm'd beyond all doubt, They now would find the caufes out. For this a facred rule we find Among the niceft of mankind,