But with us rhiming moderns here,
Critics are not the only fear;

The poet's bark meets fharper fhocks
From other fands, and other rocks.

Not fuch alone who understand,
Whose book and memory are at hand,
Who scientific fkill profess,

And are great adepts more or less;
(Whether diftinguish'd by degree,
They write A. M. or fign M. D.
Or make advances fomewhat higher
And take a new degree of 'SQUIRE.)
Who read your authors, Greek and Latin,
And bring your strange quotations pat in,
Asif each sentence grew more terfe

From odds and ends, and scraps of verse;
Who with true poetry difpenfe,
So focial found fuits fimple fenfes

And load one Letter with the labours,

Which should be fhar'd among its neighbours.
Who know that thought produces pain,
And deep reflection mads the brain,
And therefore, wife and prudent grown.
Have no ideas of their own.
But if the man of Nature speak,
Advance their Bayonets of Greek,
And keep plain fenfe at fuch a distance,
She cannot give a friend affistance.
Not thefe alone in judgment rise,
And fhoot at genius as it flies,
But thofe who cannot spell will TALK,
As women fcold, who cannot walk.

Your man of habit, who's wound up
To eat and drink, and dine and fup,
But has not either will or pow'r
To break out of his formal hour;
Who lives by rule, and ne'er outgoes it ;
Moves like a clock, and hardly knows it ;
Who is a kind of breathing being,
Which has but half the pow'r of feeing;
Who ftands for ever on the brink,
Yet dare not plunge enough to think,
Nor has one reafon to fupply
Wherefore he does a thing, or why,
But what he does proceeds fo right,
You'd think him always guided by't;
Joins poetry and vice together
Like fun and rain in April weather,
Holds rake and wit as things the fame,
And all the difference but a NAME.

A Rake! Alas! how many wear
The brow of mirth, with heart of care!
The defperate wretch reflection flies,
And fhuns the way where madness lies,
Dreads each increafing pang of grief,
And runs to FoLLY for relief,
There, 'midst the momentary joys
Of giddy mirth and frantic noife,
FORGETFULNESS, her eldest born,

Smooths the World's hate, and blockhead's fcorn,
Then PLEASURE wins upon the mind,

Ye CARES, go whistle to the wind;

Then welcome frolic, welcome whim!
The world is all alike to him.

Diftrefs is all in apprehenfion;
It ceafes when 'tis paft prevention :
And happiness then preffes near,
When nor a hope's left, nor a fear

But you've enough, nor want my preachings And I was never form'd for teaching.

Male prudes we know, (thofe driv'ling things) Will have their gibes, and taunts, and flings. How will the fober Cit abuse,

The fallies of the Culprit mufe;

To her and Poet shut the door

And whip the beggar, with his whore !
POET

FOOL! a WRETCH! a KNAVE!

A mere mechanic dirty flave!
What is his verfe, but cooping fenfe
Within an arbitrary fence?

At best, but ringing that in thime,
Which profe would say in half the time?
Meafure and numbers! what are thofe
But artificial chains or profe?
Which mechanifm quaintly joins
In parallels of fee-faw lines.
And when the frisky wanton writes
In PINDAR'S (what d'ye call 'em)-flights
Th' uneven measure, fhort and tall,
Now rhiming twice, now not at all,
In curves and angles twirls about,
Like Chinele railing, in and out.

Thus when you've labour'd hours on hours,
Cull'd all the fweets, cull'd all the flour's,
The churl, whose dull imagination

Is dead to every fine fenfation,
Too grofs to relish nature's bloom,
Or tafte her fimple rich perfume,
Shall caft them by as ufeless stuff,
And fly with keennefs to his-fnuff.

Look round the world, not one in ten,
Thinks Poets good, or honeft men.

'Tis true their conduct, not o'er nice,
Sits often loofe to eafy vice.
Perhaps their Temperance will not pafs
The due rotation of the glass;
And gravity denies 'em pow'r
T'unpeg their hats at fuch an hour.
Some vices must to all appear
As conftitutional as FLAR;
And every Moralift will find
A ruling paffion in the mind:
Which, though pent up and barricado's
Like winds, where olus bravado'd;
Like them, will fally from their den,
And raife a tempeft now and then ;
Unhinge dame PRUDENCE from her plan,
And ruffle all the world of man.

Can authors then exemption draw
From nature's, or the common law
They err alike with all mankind,
Yet not the fame indulgence find.
Their lives are more confpicuous grow
More talk'd of, pointed at, and fhewn,
Till every error seems to rife
To SINS of moft gigantic fize.

Thus fares it ftill, however hard,
With every wit, and ev'ry bard.
His publick writings, private life,
Nay more, his miftrefs, or his wife,
And ev'ry focial, dear connection,
Muft bear a critical diffection;

While friends connive, and rivals hate,
Scoundrels traduce, and blockheads bate.
Perhaps you'll readily admit

There's danger from the trading wit

nd dunce and fool, and fuch as those, Iuft be of courfe the poet's foes: ut fure no fober man alive, Can think that friends would e'er connive. From juft remarks on earliest time, n the first infancy of rhime,

may be fairly understood

There were two fects-the Bad, the Good.
Both fell together by the ears,
And both beat up for volunteers.
3y intereft, or by birth allied,
Numbers flock'd in on either fide.
WIT to his weapons ran at once,

While all the cry was down with DUNCE!"
Onward he led his focial bands,

The common caufe had join'd their hands.
Yet even while their zeal they show,
And war against the gen'ral foe,
Howe'er their rage flam'd fierce and cruel,
They ftop it all to fight a duel.

And each cool wit would meet his brother,
To pink and tilt at one another.

Jealous of every puff of fame.
The idle whift'ling of a name,
The property of half a line,
Whether a comma's your's or mine,
Shall make a Bard a Bard engage,
And shake the friendship of an age.
But diffident and modest wit
Is always ready to fubmit ;
Fearful of prefs and publication,
Confults a brother's obfervation,
Talks of the maggot in his brains,
As hardly worth the critic pains;
*If ought difgufts the fense or ear,
"You cannot, fir, be too fevere.

Expunge, correct, do what you will,
<I leave it to fuperior skill;
<Exert the office of a friend,

You may oblige but can't offend."
This Bard too has his private clán,
Where He's the great, the only man.
Here, while the bottle and the bowl
Promote the joyous flow of foul,

(And fenfe of mind, no doubt, grows stronger
When failing legs can ftand no longer)
Emphatic judgment takes the chair,
And damns about her with an air.
Then each, felf-puff'd, and hero grown,
Able to cope with hosts alone,
Drawcanfir like, his murders blends,
First flays his foes, and then his friends.

While your good word, or conversation,
Can lend a brother reputation;
While verfe of preface quaintly penn'd,
Can raise the confequence of friend,
How viffible the kind affection!
How close the partial fond connection!
Then He is quick, and I'm difcerning,
And I have wit, and He has learning,
My judgment's strong, and His is chafte ;
And BOTH-ay BOTH, are men of taste.
Should you nor fteal nor borrow aid,
And fet up for yourself in trade,
Refolv'd imprudently to show
That 'tis not always Wit and Co.
Feelings, before unknown, arife,
And Genius looks with jealous eyes,

Though thoufands may arrive at fame,
Yet never take one path the fame,
An Authors vanity or pride

Can't bear a neighbour by his fide,
Although he but delighted goes
Along the track which nature shows,
Nor ever madly runs aftray,
To cross his brother in his way.

And fome there are, whose narrow minds,
Center'd in felf, felf always blinds,
Who, at a friend's re-echoed praise,
Which their own voice confpir'd to raise,
Shall be more deep and inly hurt,
Than from a foe's infulting dirt.

And fome, too timid to reveal
That glow of heart, and forward zeal,
Which words are fcanty to exprefs,

But friends muft feel from friends' fuccefs,
When full of hopes and fears, the Mufe,
Which every breath of praife purfues,
Wou'd open to their free embrace,
Meet her with fuch a blasting face,
That all the brave imagination,
Which feeks the fun of approbation,
No more its early bloffoms tries,
But curls its tender leaves, and dies.

Is there a man whofe genius ftrong,
Rolls like a rapid ftream along,
Whofe Mufe, long hid in chearful night,
Pours on us like a flood of light,
Whofe acting comprehenfive mind

Walks fancy's region's, unconfin'd;
Whom, nor the furly fenfe of pride,
Nor affection, warps afide;
Who drags no author from his fhelf,
To talk on with an eye to self;
Carelefs alike, in converfation,
Of cenfure, or of approbation;
Who freely thinks, and freely fpeaks,
And meets the Wit he never seeks;
Whofe reafon calm, and judgment cool,
Can pity, but notate a fool;
Who can a hearty praise bestow,
If merit fparkles in a foe;

Who bold and open, firm and true,
Flatters no friends-yet loves them too
CHURCHILL will be the last to know
His is the portrait, I would fhow.

Are at a distance from each other. "Suppofe among the letter'd dead, "Some author fhould erect his head, "And starting from his Rubric, pop "Directly into Davies' fhop, "Turn o'er the leaves, and look about "To find his own opinions out; "D'ye think one author out of ten "Would know his fentiments again?

Thinking, your authors differ lefs in, "Than in their manner of expreffing. ""Tis ftile which makes the writer known, "The mark he fets upon his own. "Let CONGREVE fpeak as CONGREVE writ, "And keep the ball up of his wit; "Let SWIFT be SWIFT, nor e'er demean "The fenfe and humour of the DEAN. "E'en let the antients reft in peace, "Nor bring good folks from Rome or Greece "To give a caufe for past tranfactions, "They never dreamt of in their Aions. "I can't help quibbling, brother pott, "Twere better we fhould lay the ghoft, But 'twere a task of real merit

Could we contrive to raise their Spirit.
"Peace, brother, peace, though what you say,
I own has reason in his way,

"On Dialogues to bear fo hard,
Is playing with a dangerous card;
"Writers of rank are facred things,

And crush like arbitrary kings.
"Perhaps your fentiment is right,
"Heav'n grant we may not fuffer by't.
"For fhould friend DAVIES overhear,
He'll publish ours another year."

Though the fun in its glories decreast, Of his beams in the evening is fhorn, Yet he rifes with joy from the east,

And repairs them again in the morn.

But what can youth's sunshine recall,

Or the bloffoms of beauty restore? When its leaves are beginning to fall, It dies, and is heard of no more.

The fpring-time of love then employ, 'Tis a leffon that's easy to learn, For Cupid's a vagrant, a boy,

And his feasons will never return.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO J. B. ESQ.

SHALL

HALL I, from worldly friends eftrang'd,
Embitter'd much, but nothing chang'd

In that affection firm and true,
Which Gratitude excites to You;
Shall I indulge the Mufe, or ftifle
This meditation of a trifle?

But you, perhaps, will kindly take
The trifle for the Giver's fake,
Who only pays his grateful Mite,
The juft acknowledgment of Right,
As to the Landlord duly fent
A pepper-corn fhall pass for rent.

Yet Trifles often thew the Man,
More than his fettled Life and Plan:
Thefe are the ftarts of inclination;
Those the mere glofs of EDUCATION,
Which has a wond'rous knack at turning
A Blockhead to a man of Learning;
And, by the help of form and place,
The child of Sin to babe of Grace.
Not that it alters Nature quite,
And fets perverted Reafon right,
But, like Hypocrify, conceals
The very paffions which she feels;
And claps a Vizor on his face,
To hide us from the World's difgrace,
Which, as the first Appearance ftrikesy
Approves of all things, or dislikes.
Like the fond fool with eager glee,
Who fold his all, and put to fea,
Lur'd by the calm which feemed to fleep
On the fmooth furface of the Deep;
Nor dreamt its waves could proudly rife,
And tofs up mountains at the skies.

APPEARANCE is the only thing,
A King's a Wretch, a Wretch a King.
Undrefs them both-You King, fuppofe
For once you wear the beggar's cloaths;
Cloaths that will take in every air;
-Blefs me! they fit you to a hair.
Now you, Sir Vagrant, quickly don
The robes his Majefty had on.

And now, WORLD, fo wond'rous wife,
Who fee with fuch discerning eyes,

Put obfervation to the Stretch,

Come-which is King, and which is Wretch?

To cheat this World, the hardest task
Is to be conftant to our Mask.
Externals make direct impreffions
And maiks are worn by all Profeffions.

What need to dwell on topics ftale?
Of Parfons drunk with wine or ale?
Of Lawyers, who with face of brass,
For learned Rhetoricians pafs ?
Of Scientific Doctors big,

Hid in the pent-house of their wig?
Whofe converfation hardly goes
Beyond half words, and hums! and Oh's!
Of Scholars, of fuperior Tafte,.
Who cork it up for fear of wafte,
Nor bring one bottle from their shelves,
But keep it always for themselves?

Wretches like thefe, my Soul difdains,
And doubts their hearts as well as brains.
Suppofe a Neighbour should defire
To light a candle at your fire,
Would it deprive your flame of Light,
Because another profits by't?

But youth must often pay its court,
To thefe great Scholars, by report,
Who live on hoarded reputation,
Which dares no rifque of Converfation,
And boast within a store of Knowledge,
Sufficient, blefs us! for a College,
But take a prudent care, no doubt,
That not a grain fhall ftraggle out;
And are of wit too nice and fine,
To throw their pearl and gold to Swine;
And therefore, to prevent deceit.
Think every Man a Hog they meet.
These may perhaps as Scholars fhine,
Who hang themfelves out for a Sign.
What fignifies a Lion's fkin,
If it conceals an Afs within ?
If thou'rt a Lion, prithee roar;

If Afs-bray once, and stalk no more;
In words as well as Looks be wife,
Silence is folly in Disguise;

With fo much wifdom bottled up,
Uncork and give your friends a fup.
What need your nothings thus to fave?
Why place the Dial in the Grave?
A fig for Wit and Reputation,

Which fneaks from all Communication.
So in the poft-bag, cheek by jole,
Letters will go from pole to pole,
Which may contain a wond'rous deal ;
But then they travel under feal,
And though they bear your wit about,
Yet who fhall ever find it out,
Till trufty Wax foregoes its use,
And fets imprifon'd meaning loose?
Yet idle folly often deems

What Man must be from what he seems;
As if, to look a dwelling o'er,
You'd go no farther than the Door.

Mark yon round Parfon, fat and fleek,
Who preaches only once a Week,
Whom Claret, Sloth, and Ven'fon join
To make an orthodox Divine;
Whofe Holiness receives its beauty
From income large, and little Duty;

Who loves the Pipe, the Glafs, the Smock,
And keeps a Curate for his Flock.
VOL. VIIL

The world, obfequious to his nod,
Shall hail this oily man of God,
While the poor priest, with half a score
Of prattling infants at his Door,
Whofe fober wishes ne'er regale
Beyond the homely jug of Ale,

Is hardly deem'd companion fit

For man of Wealth, or man of Wit,,"
Though learn'd perhaps and wife as He
Who figns with ftaring S. T. P.
And full of facerdotal Pride,

Lays God and Duty both afide.

"This Curate, say you, learn'd and wife! "Why does not then this Curate rife ?" This Curate then, at forty-thee, (Years which become a Curacy)

At no great mart of Letters bred,
Had ftrange odd notions in his head,
That Parts, and Books, and Application,
Furnish'd all means of Education;
And that a pulpiteer fhould know
More than his gaping flock below;
That Learning was not got with pain,
To be forgotten all again;

That Latin words, and rumbling Greek,
However charming founds to fpeak,
Apt or unapt in each Quotation,
Were infults on a Congregation,
Who could not understand one word
Of all the learned ftuff they heard;
That fomething more than preaching fine,
Should go to make a found divine;
That Church and Pray'r, and holy Sunday,
Were no excufe for finful Monday;
That pious doctrine, pious Life,

Should both make one, as Man and Wife.
Thinking in this uncommon Mode,

So out of all the priestly road,
What man alive can e'er fuppofe,
Who marks the way PREFERMENT goes,
That the fhould ever find her way

To this poor Curate's house of clay?

Such was the Prieft, fo ftrangely wife!
He could not bow-How fhould He rife?
Learned He was, and deeply read;
-But what of that?-not duly bred.
For he had fuck'd no grammar rules
From Royal founts, or Public schools,
Nor gain'd a fingle Corn of Knowledge
From that vaft Granary-a College.
A Granary, which food fupplies
To vermin of uncommon Size.

Aye, now indeed the Matter's clear,
There is a mighty error here.
A public fchool's the place alone,
Where Talents may be duly known.
It has, no doubt, its imperfections,

But then, fuch Friendships! fuch connections!
The Parent, who has form'd his Plan,
And in his Child confider'd Man,
What is his grand and golden Rule?

"Make your connections, Child, at School.
"Mix with your Equals, fly inferiors,
"But follow clofely your Superios;
"On them your ev'ry Hope depends,
"Be prudent, Tom, get ufeful Friends;
،، And therefore like a fpider wait,
"And fpin your Web about the great.
2 C 2

If my Lord's Genius wants fupplies, "Why-You must make his Exercise. "Let the young Marquis take your Place, "And bear a whipping for his Grace.

Suppofe (fuch Things may happen once) "The Nobles wits, and You the Dunce, "Improve the means of Education; "And learn commodious Adulation, "Your Mafter scarcely holds it fin, "He chucks his Lordship on the Chin, "And would not for the World rebuke, "Beyond a pat, the school-boy Duke. "The Paftor there, ofwliat's the Place? "With fmiles eternal in his Face,

With dimpling cheek, and fnowy hand, That shames the whitenefs of his band; "Whofe mincing Dialect abounds

"In Hums and Hahs, and half form'd founds; "Whofe Elocution, fine and chaste, "Lays his commands with judgment vaift; "And left the Company should hear, "Whispers his Nothings in your Ear;

Think you 'twas Zeal, or Virtue's Care "That placed the fmirking Doctor there? "No-'twas Connections form'd at School "With fome rich Wit, or noble Fool, "Obfequious Flattery, and Attendance, "A wilful, useful, bafe dependance; "A fupple bowing of the Knees "To any human God you pleafe.

(For true good-breeding's fo polite, "Twould call the very Devil white)

'Twas watching others' fhifting Will, "And veering to and fro with skill:

Thefe were the means that made him rife, "Mind your connections, and be wife." Methinks I hear for Tom reply,

I'll be a Bishop by and by.

Connections at a public School
Will often ferve a wealthy Fool,
By lending him a letter'd Knave
To bring him Credit, or to fave;
And Knavery gets a profit real,
By giving parts and worth ideal.

The child that marks this flavish Plant,
Will make his Fortune when a Man.
While honest Wit's ingenious Merit
Enjoys his pittance, and his spirit.

The Strength of public Education
Is quick'ning Parts by EMULATION;
And Emulation will create
In narrow minds a jealous state,
Which ftifled for a courfe of Years,
From want of Skill or mutual Fears,
Breaks out in manhood with a zeal,
Which none but rival Wits can feel.
For when good people Wits commence,
They love all other kind of fenfe;
(The maxim makes you fmile, I fee,
Retort it when you please on me ;)
One writer always hates another,
As Emperors would kill a brother,
Or Emprefs Queen to rule alone,
Pluck down a Hufband from the throne.
When tir'd of Friendship and alliance,
Each fide fprings forward to defiance,
Inveterate Hate and Refolution,
Faggot and Fire and Perfecution,

Is all their aim, and all their Cry,
Though neither fide can tell you why.
To it they run like valiant Men,
And flash about them with their Pen.

What Inkfhed springs from Altercation!
What loppings off of Reputation!
You might as foon hush itormy Weather,
And bring the North and South together,
As reconcile your letter'd es,

Who come to all things but dry blows.
Your defperate lovers wan and pale,
As needy culprits in a jail,

Who mufe and doat, and pine, and die,
Scorch'd by the light'ning of an eye,
(For ladies' eyes, with fatal ftroke,
Will blaft the veriet heart of oak)
Will wrangle, bicker, and complain,
Merely to make it up again.

Though fwain look glum, and miss look fiery,
'Tis nothing but amantium iræ,

And all the progrefs purely this-
A frown, a pout, a tear, a kifs.
Thus love and quarrels (April weather)
Like vinegar and oil together,
Join in an eafy mingled ftrife,
To make the fallad up of life.
Love fettles best from altercation,
As liquors after fermentation.

In a ftage-coach, with lumber cramm'd,
Between two bulky bodies jamm'd,
Did you ne'er writhe yourself about,
To find the feat and cushion out?
How difagreeably you fit,

With b-m awry, and place unfit,
Till fome kind jolt o'er ill-pav'd town,

Shall wedge you clofe, and nail you down,
So fares it with your fondling dolts,
And all love's quarrels.are but jolts.

When tiffs arife, and words of itrife-
Turn one to two in man and wife,

(For that's a matrimonial course

Which yoke-mates must go through perforce,

And ev'ry married man is certain
T'attend the lecture call'd the curtain)
Though not another word is faid,

When once the couple are in bed:
There things their proper channel keep,
(They make it up, and go to fleep)
Thefe fallings in and fallings out,
Sometimes with caufe, but most without,
Are but the common modes of ftrife,
Which oil the fprings of married life,
Where fameness would create the spleen,
For ever ftupidly ferene.

Obferve yon downy bed-to make it,
You tofs the feathers up and shake it.
So fondnefs fprings from words and fcuffling,
As beds lie fmootheft after fhuffling.

But authors' wranglings will create
The very quinteffence of hate;
Peace is a fruitlefs vain endeavour,
Sworn foes for once, they're foes for ever.
-Oh! had it pleas'd my wifer betters
That I had never tafted letters,
Then no Parnaffian maggots bred,
Like fancies in a madman's head,
No grafpings at an idle name,
No childish hope of future fame;