Nor Kings, nor Poetry regarding,
And writing Odes not worth one farthing,
Long liv'd the Laureat Colly.

IV.
Him Pope affail'd, by Legions back'a,
And often to his couplets tack'd

The name of Idle Cibber :
Yet Coll, unskill'd in long and short,
Made in plain Prose a smart Retort,

To Pope a damn'd Grim-Gribber *.

V.

Will. Whitehead bad the reign commence Of Birth-Day Odes and Common-Sense:

And there his efforts rested :
True Poetry, by Genius fir'd,
Billy's cold bosom ne'er inspir’d;
For Bill was chicken-breasted.

VI.
Warton, on Greek and Roman Base,
Rescued the Laurel from disgrace,

With Fame no foes shall hinder.
Bleft with the gift of ev'ry tongue,
Themes Royal Royally he sung,

From the St. James's CHRONICLE, May 25, 1786.

To the Printer of the St. James's CHRONICLE:

WER

SIR,
TERE we to analyse the Literary Merits of

Dr. Johnson, perhaps an accurate Critick would ascribe his highest praise to his labours in Biography. In that branch, one of his first, and most splendid efforts, was the Life of Savage. This idea might be pursued with no smail degree of entertainment and instruction. At present, however, I shall only say, that this train of thought gave birth to the following Epigram, which (if you please) you may hitch into your Poet's Corner.

EPIG R A M.
THEE, Johnson, both dead and alive we may note

In the fam'd Biographical Line :
When living the Life of a Savage you wrote,

Now many a Savage writes thine,

Á POST

ST.

Paul's deep bell, from stately tow'r

T.

Had founded once and twice the hour,
Blue burnt the midnight taper;
Hags their dark spells o'er cauldron brew'd,
While Sons of Ink their work pursu'd,

Printing the Morning Paper.

II.
Say Herald, Chronicle, or Post,
Which then beheld great JOHNSON's Ghost,

Grim, horrible, and squalid?
Compositors their letters dropt,
Pressmen their groaning engine stopta

And Devils all grew pallid.

III.

Enough, the Spectre cried ! Enough!
No more of your fugacious stuff,

Trite Anecdotes and Stories!
Rude martyrs of SAM JOHNSON's name,
You rob him of his honcft fame,
And tarnish all his glories.

. First in the futile tribe is seen Tom Tyers in the Magazine,

That teazer of Apollo !
With goose-quill he, like desperate knife,
Slices, as Vauxhall beef, my life,

And calls the town to swallow.

The cry once up, the Dogs of News,
Who hunt for paragraphs the stews,

Yelp out JOHNSONIANA!
Their nauseous praise but moves my bile,
Like Tartar, Carduus, Camomile,
Or Ipecacuanha,

VI.
Next Boswell comes (for 'twas my tot
To find at last one honest Scot)

With conftitutional vivacity,

Yet,

Yet, garrulous, he tells too much,
On fancied-failings prone to touch,
With fedulous loquacity.

VII.
At length-Job's patience it would tire
Brew'd on my lees, comes THRALE's Entire,

Straining to draw my picture
For She a common-place-book kept,
JOHNSON at Streatham din'd and Nept,
And who thall contradi&t her?

VIII.
THRALE, loft ’mongst Fidlers and Sopranos,
With them play Fortes and Pianos,

Adagio and Allegro !
I lov'd THRALE's widow and THRALE's wife;
But now, believe, to write my life
I'd rather trust my Negro. *

IX. 1

gave the Publick works of merit, Written with vigour, fraught with spirit;

Applause crown'd all my labours.
But thy delusive pages speak
My palsied pow'rs, exhausted, weak,

The scoff of friends and neighbours.

* His Black Servaat

X.