To a thrice illuftrious Quack, Pedant, and Bard, on bis incomparable Poem, call'd, A Satyr against Wit.
By the Right Hon. the Countefs of Sandwich.
Hou Fund of Nonfenfe, was it not enough,
That Cits and pious Ladies lik'd thy Stuff,
That, as thou copy'dft Virgil, all might fee
Judicious Bell-men imitated thee:
That to thy Cadence Sextons fer their Chimes,
And Nurfes, fkimming Poffets, humm'd thy Rhimes,
But thou must need fall foul on Men of Senfe,
With Dullness equal to thy Impudence.
Are D-n, C-dr-n, G-th, V-k, B-le,
Thofe Names of Wonder, that adorn our Iffe,
Fit Subjects for thy vile pedantick Pen?
Hence, fawcy Ufher, to thy Defk again.
Conftrue Dutch Notes, and pore upon Boys A-es,
But, prithee, write no more heroick Farces.
Teach blooming Blockheads, by their own try'd Rules,
To give us Demonftration that they're Fools.
Let 'em, by N's Sermon-Stile refine
Their English Profe, their Poetry by thine;
Let Wy's Rhimes their Emulation raife,
And Ar-uk-r inftruct 'em how to praife.
That, when all Ages in this Truth agree,
They're finish'd Dunces, they may rival thee;
Thou only ftrain to mighty William's Sword!
Old Jemmy never knighted fucha Td.
For the most naufeous Mixture God can make,
Is a dull Pedant, and a bufy Quack.
To Sir RBI-re, on the two Arthurs be ing condemn'd to be hang'd.
Nce more take Pen in Hand, obfequious Knight,
For here's a Theme thou canst not under-write,
Unless the Devil owes thy Mufe a Spite.
To Prince and King thy Dullness Life did give;
Let then thefe Arthurs too in Dogg'rel love.
oooooooooocooooooooooooooooo
ATALE.
By Coll. Codrington..
Oems and Profe of diff'rent Force lay Claim,
With the fame Confidence, to Tully's Name;
And fhallow Criticks were content to fay,..
Profe was his Bus'nefs, Poetry his Play..
Thus Cefar thought, thus Brutus, and the reft,
Who knew the Man, and knew his Talent beft.
Maurus arofe, fworn Foe to Health and Wis,
Who Folio Bills, and Folie Ballads writ;
Who buftl'd much for Bread and for Renown,
By Lies and Poison scatter'd thro' the Town.
To Roman Wives with Veneration known,
For Roman Wives were very like our own.
And Hufbands, then we find, in Latin Song,
Would love too little, and would live too long.
Tully, fays he, 'tis plain to Friends and Foes,
Writes his own Verfe, but borrows all his Profe. --
He fearlefs was, because he was not brave;
A noble Roman would not beat a Slave,
The Counsel smiling, faid, Judicious Friend,
Thy fhining Genius fhall thy Works defend.
Inimitable Strokes defend thy Fame;
Thy Beauties and thy Force are ftill the fame:
And I muft yield with the confenting Town,
Thy Ballads and thy Bills are all thy own.
Upon the Character of Codron, as 'tis drawn by the bungling Knight, in his Satyr against Wit. By Coll. Codrington.
TOW kind is Malice, manag'd by a Sot,
Where no Defign directs the Embryo Thought, And Praife and Satyr ftumble out by Lot. The mortal Thruft, to Codron's Heart defign'd, Proves a foft wanton Touch to charm his Mind. Can M-nt-gue or D-rf-t higher foar? Or can immortal Sh--ld with for more? Brightness, Force, Juftice, Delicacy, Eafe, Muft form that Wit that can the Ladies pleafe. No falfe affected Rules debauch their Tafte, No fruitless Toils their gen'rous Spirits wafte, Which wear a Wit into a Dunce at laft. No Lumber Learning gives an awkward Pride, Falfe Maxims cramp not, nor false Lights mifguide. Voiture and W-1h their eafy Hours employ, Voiture and W-1h, oft read, will never cloy. With Care they guard the Mufick and their Stile, They fly from B-ly, and converfe with B-le: They steal no Terms, no Notions from the Schools, The Pedant's Pleafure, and the Pride of Fools; With native Charms their matchlefs Thoughts furprize, Soft as their Souls, and beauteous as their Eyes: Gay as the Light, and unconfin'd as Air, Chaft and fublime, all worthy of the Fair. How then can a rough artless Indian Wit The faultlefs Palates of the Ladies fit? Codron will never ftand fo nice a Teft,
Nor is't with Praife fair Mouths oblige him beft.
Let others make a vain Parade of Parts,
Whilft Codron aims not at Applaufe, but Hearts.
Secure him thofe, and thou shalt name the reft;
Thy Spite fhall chufe the Worft, thy Tafte the Best.
He will his Health to Mirmil's Care refign,
He will with Buxtorf and with B-ly shine,
And be a Wit in any Way but thine.
An Epiram on Job, traverfted by the City Bard. By Col. Codrington.
OOR Fob lost all the Comforts of his Life,
P and hardly fav'd a Potsherd and a Wife':
Yet Fob bleft God, and Feb again was bleft,
His Virtue was effay'd, and bore the Teft.
But had Heav'n's Wrath pour'd out its fierceft Vial,
Had he been then burlefqu'd, without Denial,
The patient Man had yielded to that Trial.
His pious Spoufe, with Blre on her Side,
Muft have prevail'd, and Job had curft, and dy'd.
To the Adventurous Knight of Cheapfide, upon his Satyr against Wit.
7 Hat Frenzy has poffefs'd thy defp'rate Brain,
To rail at Wit in this unhallow'd Strain ?
Reproach of thy own Kind! to flander Senfe,
The nobleft Gift bestow'd by Providence!
Was it Revenge provok'd thee thus to write,
Because thou'rt curft to fuch a Dearth of Wit?
Or was it eager Paflion for a Name,
To be inroll'd among the Fools of Fame?
Like him, who rather than he'd live obfcure,
Would fire a Church to make his Name fecure?
Or was it thy Defpair at length to find
Thy Loads of Chaff the Sport of ev'ry Wind?
To fee thy hafty Mufe, that loves to roam,
Promife fuch Journeys, but come founder'd Home?
Juft Fate of Sots, who think in their vain Breast,
Their Coffee-Rhimes shall ftand the publick Teft :-
Seiz'd with prolifick Dulness, 'tis thy Curfe
To write still on, and ftill too for the Worse.
Who hates not Wef-y, may thy Works esteem, -
Both alike able to disgrace their Theme.
But thou, thro' wild Conceit, afpiring ftill,
Claim'ft, in thy Ravings, Efculapian Skill.
Quack, thou art fure in both, and curs'd is he, -
Who guided by his adverse Stars to thee,
Employs thy deadly Potions to reclaim
His feeble Health, thy Pen to spread his Fame.
To the canting Author of the Satyr against Wit
HE Preacher, Maurus cries, All Wit is vain,
Unless 'tis like his Godliness, for Gain.
Of moft vain Things he may the Folly own;
But Wit's a Vanity he has not known.
Friendly Advice to Dr. Bl.
By the Rt. Hon. the Lord
Kight Reward Rupid rare in fo
Now's the Reward of ftupid Praise in yon.
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