Y Works are advertis'd for fale,
And cenfures fly as thick as hail;
While my poor scheme of publication Supplies the dearth of conversation.
What will the World fay?-That's your cry. Who is the World? and what am I?
Once, but thank heaven, thofe days are o'er, And perfecution reigns no more,
One man, one hardy man alone,
Ufurp'd the critic's vacant throne,
And thence with neither taste nor wit, By powerful catcall from the pit,
Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down. Who pafs'd the fentence then?-the Town. So now each upstart puny elf
Talks of the world, and means himself.
Yet in the circle there are those Who hurt e'en more than open foes: Whose friendship serves the talking turn, Juft fimmers to a kind concern, And with a wond'rous foft expreffion Expatiates upon indifcretion;
Flies from the Poems to the Man, And gratifies the favourite plan To pull down other's reputation,
And build their own on that foundation. The scholar grave, of tafte difcerning, Who lives on credit for his learning, And has no better claim to wit
Than carping at what others writ, With pitying kindnefs, friendly fear, Whispers conjectures in your ear.
"I'm forry-and he's much to blame- "He might have publifh'd-but his name! "The thing might plcafe a few, no doubt, "As handed privately about-
"It might amufe a friend or two, "Some partial friend like me and you; "But when it comes to prefs and print "You'll find, I fear, but little in't. "He ftands upon a dangerous brink "Who totters o'er the fea of ink, "Where reputation runs aground, The author caft away, and drown'd. "And then-'twas wilful and abfurd, (So well approv'd, fo well preferr'd,) "Abruptly thus a place to quit "A place which most his genius hit, "The theatre for Latin wit!
"With critics round him chafte and terfe, "To give a plaudit to his verfe!"
Latin, I grant, fhews college breeding, And fome school-common-place of reading. Bat has in Moderns small pretenfion To real wit or strong invention. The excellence you critics praise
Hangs on a curious choice of phrase; Which pick'd and chofen here and there, From profe or verse no matter where, Jumbled together in a dish,
Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish, You fet the claffic hodge-podge on For pedant wits to feed
Your wou'd-be Genii vainly seek
Fame for their Latin verfe, or Greek; Who would for that be most admir'd Which blockheads may, and have acquir'd, A mere mechanical connection
Of favourite words,
Of phrafes,-where the labour'd cento Presents you with a dull memento, How Virgil, Horace, Ovid join, And club together half a line. These only strain their motly wits In gathering patches, fhreds, and bits, wrap their barren fancies in,
And make a claffic Harlequin.
-Were I at once impower'd to fhew My utmost vengeance on my foe, To punish with extremeft rigour, I could inflict no penance bigger
Than ufing him as learning's tool To make him Ufher of a fchool. For, not to dwell upon the toil Of working on a barren foil, And lab'ring with inceffant pains To cultivate a blockhead's brains, The duties there but ill befit The love of letters, arts, or wit. For whofoe'er, though flightly, fips, Their grateful flavour with his lips, Will find it leave a fmatch behind, Shall fink fo deeply in the mind, It never thence can be eras'd— But, rifing up, you call it Tafte. 'Twere foolish for a drudge to chuse
A gufto which he cannot use. Better difcard the idle whim,
What's He to Tafte? or Tafte to Him? For me, it hurts me to the foul To brook confinement or controul; Still to be pinion'd down to teach The fyntax and the parts of fpeech; Or, what perhaps is drudging worse, The links, and joints, and rules of verfe; To deal out authors by retale, Like penny pots of Oxford ale; -Oh! 'Tis a fervice irkfome more
Than tugging at the flavish oar.
Yet fuch his task, a difmal truth, Who watches o'er the bent of youth;
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