Calliope, and God knows who.
To add no more invectives to it,
You spoil'd the youth, to make a poet.
In common justice, Sir, there's no man
That makes the whore, but keeps the woman.
Among all honest Christian people,
Whoe'er break limbs, maintains the cripple.

The sum of all I have to say,
Is, that you'd put me in some way ;
And your petitioner shall pray-

There's one thing more I had almost slipt,
But that may do as well in postscript:
My friend Charles Montague's preferr’d;
Nor would I have it long observ'd,
That one mouse eats, while t'other's stary'd.

ANOTHER EPISTLE TO THE SAME.

AN EPISTLE
TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD, ESQ.
WHEN crowding folks, with strange ill faces,
Were making legs, and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
Tir'd out my good Lord Dorset's spirit:
Sneaking I stood amongst the crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.
I waited while the clock struck thrice,
And footman brought out fifty lies ;
Till, patience vext, and legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry:
But did opine it might be better,
By penny-post to send a letter.
Now if you miss of this epistle,
I'm baulk'd again, and may go whistle.
My business, Sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little place ;
And fair pretensions I have for't,
Much need, and very small desert.
Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted ;
I always begg'd, you always granted.
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my learning and my vittle ;
Ask'd for me, from my lord, things fitting,
Kind as I'd been your own begetting ;
Confirm what formerly you've given,
Nor leave me now at six and seven,
As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen.

No family, that takes a whelp
When first he laps, and scarce can yelp,
Neglects or turns him out of gate
When he's grown up to dog's estate :
Nor parish, if they once adopt
The spurious brats by strollers dropt,
Leave them, when grown up lusty fellows,
To the wide world, that is, the gallows:
No, thank them for their love, that's worse
Than if they'd throttled them at nurse.

My uncle, rest his soul ! when living,
Might have contriv'd me ways of thriving;
Taught me with cyder to replenish
My vats, or ebbing tide of Rhenish.
So when for hock I drew prickt white-wine,
Swear't had the flavour, and was right wine,
Or sent me with ten pounds to Furni.
val's inn, to some good rogue-attorney ;
Where now, by forging deeds, and cheating,
I'd found some handsome ways of getting.

All this you made me quit, to follow
That sneaking whey-fac'd god Apollo;
Sent me among a fiddling crew
Of folks, I'd never seen nor knew,

Burleigh, May 14, 1689.
Sir,
As once a twelvemonth to the priest,
Holy at Rome, here Antichrist,
The Spanish king presents a jennet,
To show his love that's all that's in it:
For if his holiness would thump
His reverend bum 'gainst horse's rump,
He might b'equipt from his own stable
With one niore white, and eke more able :
Or as, with gondolas and men, his
Good excellence the Duke of Venice
(I wish, for rhyme, 't had been the king)
Sails out, and gives the gulf a ring ;
Which trick of state, he wisely maintains,
Keeps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance;
For else, in honest truth, the sea
Has much less need of gold than he :
Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy
For Popish similes beyond sea ;
As folks from mud-wall'd tenemerit
Bring landlords pepper-corn for rent ;
Present a turkey, or a hen,

To those might better spare them ten :-
Ev'n so, with all submission, I
(For first men instance, then apply)
Send you each year a homely letter,
Who may return me much a better.

Then take it, Sir, as it was writ,
To pay respect, and not show wit:
Nor look askew at what it saith ;
There's no petition in it-'faith.

Here some would scratch their heads, and try What they should write, and how, and why;

But I conceive, such folks are quite in
Mistakes, in theory of writing.
If once for principle 'tis laid,
That thought is trouble to the head ;
I argue thus : the world agrees
That he writes well, who writes with ease :
Then he, by sequel logical,
Writes best that never thinks at all.

Verse comes from heaven, like inward light;
Mere human pains can ne'er come by't;
The god, not we, the poem makes ;
We only tell folks what he speaks.
Hence, when anatomists discourse,
How like brutes' organs are to ours;
They grant, if higher powers think fit,
A bear might soon be made a wit;
And that, for any thing in natnre,
Pigs might squeak love-odes, dogs bark satire.

Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal; But 'twas the god, meanwhile, that spoke all. Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing, With prompting priest behind the hanging : The wooden head resolv'd the question While you and Pettis help'd the jest on.

Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius, Are against gods, you know; and teach us, The gods make not the poet; but The thesis, vice-versa put, Should Hebrew-wise be understood ; And means, the poet makes the god.

Egyptian gardeners thus are said to
Have set the leeks they after pray'd to;
And Romish bakers praise the deity
They chipp'd while yet in its paniety.

That when you poets swear and cry,
The god inspires; I rave, I die ;
If inward wind does truly swell ye,
'T must be the cholic in your belly :
That writing is but just like dice,
And lucky mains make people wise :
That jumbled words, if fortune throw 'em,
Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem;
Or make a speech, correct and witty,
As you know who at the committee.

So atoms dancing round the centre,
They urge, made all things at a venture.

But, granting matters should be spoke
By method, rather than by luck;
This may confine their younger styles,
Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's;
But never could be meant to tie
Authentic wits, like you and I :
For as young children, who are tied in
Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding ;
When members knit, and legs grow stronger,
Make use of such machine no longer ;
But leap pro libitu, and scout
On horse call'd hobby, or without;
So when at school we first declaim,
Old Busby walks us in a theme,
Whose

props support our infant vein,
And help the rickets in the brain :
But, when our souls their force dilate,
And thoughts grow up to wit's estate ;
In verse or prose, we write or chat,
Not sixpence matter upon what.

'Tis not how well an author says ;
But 'tis how much, that gathers praise.
Tonson, who is himself a wit,
Counts writers' merits by the sheet.
Thus each should down with all he thinks,
As boys eat bread, to fill up chinks.

Kind Sir, I should be glad to see you ;
I hope y' are well ; so God be wi' you ;
Was all I thought at first to write :
But things since then are alter'd quite;
Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high :
So God knows when ny clack will lie:
I must, Sir, prattle on, as afore,
And beg your pardon yet this half-hour.

So at pure barn of loud Non-con,
Where with my grannum I have gone,
When Lobb had sifted all his text,
And I well hop'd the pudding next;
6. Now to apply,” has plagu'd me more
Than all his villain cant before.

For your religion, first, of her,
Your friends do savoury things aver ;
They say, she's honest as your claret,
Nor sour'd with cant, nor stumm’d with merit;
Your chamber is the sole retreat
Of chaplains every Sunday night :
Of grace, no doubt, a certain sign,
When layman herds with man divine;
For if their fame be justly great,
· Who would no Popish nuncio treat ;
That his is greater, we must grant,
Who will treat nuncios Protestant.
One single positive weighs more,
You know, than negatives a score.

In politics, I hear, you're stanch,
Directly bent against the French ;
Deny to have your free-born toe
Dragoon'd into a wooden shoe:
Are in no plots; but fairly drive at
The public welfare, in your private ;
And will for England's glory try
Turks, Jews, and Jesuits, to defy,
And keep your places till you die.

For me, whom wandering fortune threw
From what I lov'd, the town and you :
Let me just tell you how my time is
Past in a country life. Imprimis,
As soon as Phæbus' rays inspect us,
First, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast;
So on, till 'foresaid god does set,
I sometimes study, sometimes eat.
Thus, of your heroes and brave boys,
With whom old Homer makes such noise,
The greatest actions I can find,
Are, that they did their work, and din'd.

The books, of which I'm chiefly fond,
Are such as you have whilom conn'd;
That treat of China's civil law,
And subjects' rights in Golconda ;
Of highway elephants at Ceylon,
That rob in clans, like men o'th' Highland;
Of apes that storm or keep a town,
As well almost as Count Lauzun;
Of unicorns and alligators,
Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, satyrs,
And twenty other stranger matters ;

At distance through an artful glass

To the mind's eye things well appear : They lose their forms, and make a mass

Confus'd and black if brought too near.

Which, though they're things I've no concern in,
Make all our grooms admire my learning.

Critics I read on other men,
And hypers upon them again ;
From whose remarks I give opinion
On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one.

Then all your wits that fileer and sham,
Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram;
From whom I jests and puns purloin,
And slily put them off for mine:
Fond to be thought a country wit:
The rest when fate and you think fit.

Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her
To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar;
Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,
Squire Shephard's health_With all my heart.

Thus without much delight or grief,
I fool away an idle life:
Till Shadwell from the town retires
(Chok'd up with fame and sea-coal fires)
To bless the wood with peaceful lyric:
Then hey for praise and panegyric;
Justice restor'd, and nations freed,
And wreaths round William's glorious head.

If we see right, we see our woes :

Then what avails it to have eyes ?
From ignorance our comfort flows:

The only wretched are the wise.
We wearied should lie down in death :

This cheat of life would take no more; If you thought fame but empty breath,

Í Phillis but a perjur'd whore.

TO THE

HON. CHARLES MONTAGUE, ESQ.

AFTERWARDS EARL OF HALIFAX.

HOWE'ER, 'tis well, that while mankind

Through fate's perverse meander errs, He can imagin'd pleasures find,

To combat against real cares. Fancies and notions he pursues,

Which ne'er had being but in thought; Each, like the Grecian artist, woos

The image he himself has wrought.

THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS. IN IMITATION OF A GREEK IDYLLIUM. CELIA and I the other day Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea : The setting sun adorn'd the coast, His beams entire, his fierceness lost : And, on the surface of the deep, The winds lay only not asleep. The nymph did like the scene appear, Serenely pleasant, calmly fair: Soft fell her words, as flew the air, With secret joy I heard her say, That she would never miss one day A walk so fine, a sight so gay.

But, oh the change the winds grow high ;
Impending tempests charge the sky :
The lightning flies, the thunder roars ;
And big waves lash the frighten'd shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,
She turns her head, and wings her flight:
And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore, or view the main.

Once more at least look back, said I,
Thyself in that large glass descry:
When thou art in good humour drest;.
When gentle reason rules thy breast;
The sun upon the calmest sea
Appears not half so bright as thee :
"Tis then that with delight I rove
Upon thy boundless depth of love:
I bless my chain; I hand my oar;
Nor think on all I left on shore.

But when vain doubt and groundless fear
Do that dear foolish bosom tear;
When the big lip and watery eye
Tell me, the rising storm is nigh;
"Tis then, thou art yon angry main,
Deform’d by winds, and dash'd by rain ;
And the poor sailor, that must try
Its fury, labours less than I.

Shipwreck'd, in vain to land I make,
While love and fate still drive me back :
Forc'd to dote on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first, and then obey.
Wretched when from thee, vex'd when nigh,
I with thee, or without thee, die.

Against experience he believes ;

He argues against demonstration ; Pleas'd, when his reason he deceives;

And sets his judgment by his passion. The hoary fool, who many days

Has struggled with continued sorrow, Renews his hope, and blindly lays

The desperate bet upon to-morrow. To-morrow comes ; 'tis noon, 'tis night;

This day like all the former flies : Yet on he runs, to seek delight

To-morrow, till to-night he dies. Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim

At objects in an airy height: The little pleasure of the game

Is from afar to view the flight.

Our anxious pains we, all the day,

In search of what we like, employ: Scorning at night the worthless prey,

We find the labour gave the joy.