Where all goes to ruin
The Dean has been doing.
The girls of the village
Come flocking for pillage,
Pull down the fine briers
And thorns to make fires;
But yet are so kind

To leave something behind:
No more need be said on't,
I smell when I tread on't.
Dear Friend! Doctor Jenny,
If I could but win ye.
Or Walmsley or Whaley,
To come hither daily,
Since Fortune, my foe,'
Will needs have it so,
That I'm by her frowns
Condemn'd to black gowns :
No 'squire to be found
The neighbourhood round,
(For, under the rose,

I would rather choose those)
If your wives will permit ye,
Come here out of pity
To ease a poor lady,
And beg her a playday;
So may you be seen
No more in the spleen;
May Walmsley give wine,
Like a hearty divine!
May Whaley disgrace
Dull Daniel's whey face;
And may your three spouses
Let you lie at friends' houses,

As some raw youth in country bred,
To arms, by thirst of honour led,
When at a skirmish first he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears,
Will duck his head aside, will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart,
Till 'scaping oft without a wound
Lessens the terror of the sound;
Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
He runs into a cannon's chops.
An author thus, who pants for fame,
Begins the world with fear and shame :
When first in print you see him dread
Each pop-gun levell'd at his head;
The lead yor critic's quill contains
Is destin❜d to beat out his brains;
As if he heard loud thunders roll,
Cries, Lord have mercy on his soul!".
Concluding that another shot

Will strike him dead upon the spot:

But when with squibbing, flashing, popping,
He cannot see one creature dropping,
That missing fire, or missing aim,
His life is safe, (I mean his fame)
The danger past, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critic in the face.

Though splendour gives the fairest mark
To poison'd arrows from the dark,
Yet in yourself when smooth and round,1
They glance aside without a wound.

"Tis said the gods tried all their art How Pain they might from Pleasure part; But little could their strength avail; Both still are fasten'd by the tail: Thus Fame and Censure, with a tether, By Fate are always link'd together. Why will you aim to be preferr❜d In wit before the common herd, And yet grow mortified and vex'd To pay the penalty annex'd? "Tis eminence makes envy rise, As fairest fruits attract the flies, Should stupid libels grieve your mind, You soon a remedy may find; Lie down obscure, like other folks, Below the lash of snarler's jokes: Their faction is five hundred odds, For every coxcomb lends them rods, And sneers as learnedly as they, Like females o'er their morning tea.

You say the Muse will not contain, And write you must, or break a vein.

1 In seipso totus teres atque rotundus.

Then if you find the terms too hard,
No longer my advice regard,
But raise your fancy on the wing;
The Irish senate's praises sing;
How jealous of the nation's freedom!
And for corruptions, how they weed 'em!
How each the public good pursues,
How far their hearts from private views!
Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys,
Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys."
Thus grown a member of the club,
No longer dread the rage of Grub.
How oft am I for rhyme to seek!
To dress a thought I toil a week;
And then how thankful to the town,
If all my pains will earn a crown!
Whilst every critic can devour
My work and me in half an hour.
Would men of genius cease to write,
The rogues must die for want and spite;
Must die for want of food and raiment,
If scandal did not find them payment.
How cheerfuly the hawkers cry
A Satire! and the gentry buy ;
While my hard-labour'd poem pines
Unsold upon the printer's lines.

A genius in the reverend gown
Must ever keep its owner down;
'Tis an unnatural conjunction,
And spoils the credit of the function,
Round all your brethren cast your eyes;

Point out the surest men to rise;

2 The Irish parliament sat at the Blue-boys' Hospital, while the new parliament house was building.

That club of candidates in black,
The least deserving of the pack,
Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud,
With grace and learning unendow'd,
Can turn their hands to every job,
The fittest tools to work for Bob ;3
Will sooner coin a thousand lies
Than suffer men of parts to rise;
They crowd about Preferment's gate,
And press you down with all their weight;
For as of old, mathematicians

Were by the vulgar thought magicians,
So academic dull ale-drinkers

Pronounce all men of with, Free-thinkers,
Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends,
Disdains to serve ignoble ends.
Observe what loads of stupid rhymes
Oppress us in corrupted times;
What pamphlets in a court's defence
Show reason, grammar, truth, or sense?
For though the Muse delights in fiction,
She ne'er inspires against conviction.
Then keep your virtue still unmixt,
And let not faction come betwixt ;
By party-steps no grandeur climb at,
Though it would make you England's primate:
First learn the science to be dull,

You then may soon your conscience lull;
If not, however seated high,

Your genius in your face will fly.

When Jove was from his teeming head Of Wit's fair goddess brought to bed,

3 Sir Robert Walpole, afterwards Earl of Oxford.