and the very best scholars will understand but a little matter here and there.

It wants but seventeen lines of having an end, I don't say of being finished. As it is so unfortunate to come too late for Mr. Bentley, it may appear in the 4th volume of the Miscellanies, provided you don't think it execrable, and suppress it. Pray when the fine book is to be printed, let me revise the press, for you know you can't; and there are a few trifles I could wish altered.

I know not what you mean by hours of love, and cherries, and pine-apples. I neither see nor hear any thing here, and am of opinion that is the best way. My compliments to Mr. Bentley, if he be I am yours ever,

have spared the graces in his frontispiece, if he chose to be economical, and dressed his authors in a little more decent raiment-not in whited-brown paper, and distorted characters, like an old ballad. I am ashamed to see myself; but the company keeps me in countenance: so to begin with Mr. Tickell. This is not only a state-poem (my ancient aversion), but a state-poem on the peace of Utrecht. If Mr. Pope had wrote a panegyric on it, one could hardly have read him with patience: but this is only a poor short-winded imitator of Addison, who had himself not above three or four notes in poetry, weet enough indeed, like those of a German flute, ut such as soon tire and satiate the ear with their requent return. Tickell has added to this a great overty of sense, and a string of transitions that ardly become a school-boy. However, I forgive him or the sake of his ballad,† which I always thought e prettiest in the world.

All there is of M. Green here, has been printed efore; there is a profusion of wit every where; ading would have formed his judgment, and haronized his verse, for even his wood-notes often eak out into strains of real poetry and music. he School Mistress is excellent in its kind and asterly; and (I am sorry to differ from you, but) ondon is to me one of those few imitations that

have all the ease and all the spirit of an original. The same man's verses* on the opening of Garrick's theatre are far from bad. Mr. Dyer (here you will despise me highly) has more of poetry in his imagination than almost any of our number; but rough and injudicious. I should range Mr. Bramston only a step or two above Dr. King, who is as low in my estimation as in yours. Dr. Evans is a furious madman; and pre-existence is nonsense in all her altitudes. Mr. Lyttleton is a gentle elegiac person. Mr. Nugent + sure did not write his own Ode. I like Mr. Whitehead's little poems, I mean the Ode on a Tent, the Verses to Garrick, and particularly those to Charles Townsend, better than any thing I had seen before of him. I gladly pass over H. Browne and the rest, to come at you. You know I was of the publishing side, and thought your reasons against it none; for though, as Mr.

Chute said extremely well, the still small voice of Poetry was not made to be heard in a crowd; yet satire will be heard, for all the audience are by nature her friends; especially when she appears in the spirit of Dryden, with his strength, and often with his versification, such as you have caught in those lines on the Royal Unction, on the Papal Dominion, and Convents of both Sexes; on Henry VIII. and Charles II. for these are to me the shining parts of your Epistle. There are many lines I could wish, corrected, and some blotted out, but beauties enough to atone for a thousand worse faults han these. The opinion of such as can at all udge, who saw it before in Dr. Middleton's hands, oncurs nearly with mine. As to what any one ays, since it came out; our people (you must now,) are slow of judgment; they wait till some old body saves them the trouble, and then follow

as the joint production of several others. It was addressed Lord Bath, upon the author's change of his religion; but as universally believed to be written by Mallet, who was tor to Newsham, Mr. Nugent's son, and improved by Mr. lteney himself and Lord Chesterfield. Had this Ode been ally his own, he would resemble the poet Tynnichus, in ato's Io, who never composed any other poem worth the ntion or remembrance besides that poem which everybody gs.-V. Walpole's Memoirs, p. 40. This stanza was renufactured by Mr. Courtenay, v. Antijacobin, p. 51 (New orality.)

As clumsy Courtenay mars the verse he steals.'-Ed. Walpole's Epistle to Thomas Asheton, from Florence.

his opinion; or stay till they hear what is said in
town, that is at some Bishop's table, or some coffee-
house about the Temple. When they are deter-
mined I will tell you faithfully their verdict. As
for the beauties* I am their most humble servant.
What shall I say to Mr. Lowth, Mr. Ridley, Mr.
Rolle, the Reverend Mr. Brown, Seward, &c.?
If I say Messieurs! this is not the thing; write
prose, write sermons, write nothing at all; they
will disdain me and my advice. What then would
the sickly Peer + have done, that spends so much
time in admiring every thing that has four legs,
and fretting at his own misfortune in having but
two; and cursing his own politic head and feeble
constitution, that won't let him be such a beast as
he would wish? Mr. S. Jenyns now and then can
write a good line or two-such as these-chr
Cand blot

Snatch us from all our little sorrows here,
Calm every grief, and dry each childish tear, &c.