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S HA K S P E A RE,

A P E.

AN EPISTLE TO MR, GARRICK.

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Who strictly faft, because they find,
The flesh ftill wars against the mind,
And flesh of saints, like finner's, mult
Be mortified, to keep down luft ;
Who, four times in the year at least,
Join feast of love to love of feast,
Which, though the profligate and vain
In terms of blasphemy prophane,
Yet all the ceremony here is
Pure as the mysteries of Ceres ;
Who, God's elect, with triumph feel
Within themselves falvation's seal,
And will not, must not, dare not doubt,
That heav'n itself çant blot it out;
After they've done their holy labours,
Return to scandalize their neighbours,
And think they can't serve hear'n fo well,
As with its creatures filling hell :
So that, inflam'd with holy pride,
They save themselves, damn all beside,
For persons, who pretend to feel

The glowings of uncommon zeal,
Who others scorn, and seem to be
Righteous in very great degree,
Do, 'bove all others, take delight
To vent their spleen in tales of fpite,
And think they raise their own renowsa
By pulling ot a neighbour's down ;
Still lying on with most success,
Because they charity profess,
And make the outlide of religion,
Like Mahomet's inspiring pigeon,
To all their forgeries gain credit,
"Tis enough sure that -faid it.

But what can all this rambling mean?
Was ever such an hodge-podge seen?
Venus, Cecilia, Saints, and whores,
Thomas, Vertù, Bells, Knockers, Doors,
Lords, Rogues, Relations, Ladies, Cits,
Stars, Flambeaux, Thunderbolts, Horns, Wits,
Vulcast, and Cuckold-maker, Scandal,
Music, and Footmen, Ear of Handel,
Weather, News, Envy, Politicks,
Intrigues, and Women's Thousand Tricks,
Prudes, Methodists and Devotees,
Faftings, Feasts, Pray’rs, and Charities,
Ceres, with her myfterious train,

and
Flesh, Spirit, Love, Hate and Religon,
A Quail, a Raven and a Pigeon,
All jumbled up in one large dita,
Red-Herring, Bread, Fowl, Fleih, and Fifa.
Where's the connection, where's the plan
"The devil sure is in the man.
All in an instant we are hurl's
From place to place all round the world,
Yet find no reason for it-mum-
There, my good critic, lies the hum
Well but me thinks, it would avail
To know the end of thisA TALE

*HANKS to much industry and pains,

Much twisting of the wit and brains,
Translation has unluck'd the store,
And spread abroad the Grecian lore,
While Sophocles his scenes are grown
E'en as familiar as ourown.

No more shall taste presume to speak
From its inclosures in the Greek;
But, all its fences broken down.
Lie at the mercy of the town.

Critic, I hear thy torrent rage,

'Tis blasphemy againft that stage,
“ Which Æschylus his warmth design's,
“ Euripides his talte refin'd,
" And Sophocles his last direction,
“ Stamp'd with the fignet of perfection."

Perfection! 'tis a word ideal,
That bears about it nothing real :
For excellence was never hit
In the first essays of man's wit.
Shall ancient worth, or ancient fame
Preclude the Moderns from their claim ?

Must they be blockheads, dolts, and fools)
Who write not up to Grecian rules?

Who tread in buskins or in socks.
Must they be damn'd as Heterodox,
Nor merit of good works prevail,
Except within the classic pale ?
'Tis stuff that bears the name of knowledge
Not current half a mile from college ;

Where half their lectures yield no more
(Besure I speak of times of yore)
Than just a niggard light, to mark

How much we all are in the dark : As rufhlights in a spacious room, Just burn enough to form a gloom.

When Shakspeare leads the mind a dance From France to England, hence to France, Talk not to me of time and place; I own I'm happy in the chace.

Whether the drama's here or there,
'Tis nature, Shakspeare, every where.
The poet's fancy can create,
Contract, enlarge, annihilate,
Bring paft and present close together,
In spite of distance, seas, or weathers
And shut up in a single action
Whať. cost whole years in its transactiosta
So, ladies at a play, or rout,
Can Airt the universe about.
Whose geographical account
Is drawn and pictured on the mount:
Yet, when they please contract the plans
And shut the world up in a fan.

True Genius, like Armida's wand,
Can raise the spring from barren land,
While all the art of Imitation,
I& pilf ring from the firft creation &

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Or need the chorus to reveal
Reflexions, which the audience feel;
And jog them, left attention sink,
To tell them how and what to think ?

Oh, where's the Bard, who at one view
Cou'd look the whole creation through,
Who travers'd all the human heart,
Without recourse to Grecian art ?
He scorn'd the modes of imitation,
Of altering, pilfering, and translation,
Nor painted horror, grief, or rage;
From models of a former age ;
The bright original he took,
And tore the leaf from nature's book.
'Tis Shakspeare, thus, who stands alone
-But why repeat what you have shown ?
How true, how perfect, and how well,
The feelings of our hearts must tell.'s

AN EPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL,

AUTHOR OF THE ROSCIAD.

F at a Tavern, where you'd wish to dine,

I ,

Transplanting flowers, with useless toil;
Which wither in a foreign soil.
As conscience often sets us right
By its interior active light,
Without th' affistance of the laws
To combat in the moral cause;
So Genius, of itself discerning,
Without the mystic rules of learning;
Can, from its prefent intuition,
Stike at the truth of composition.

Yet those who breathe the classic veini
Enlifted in the mimic train,
Who ride their steed with double bit,
Ne'ér run away with by their wit,
Delighted with the pomp of rules,
The specious pedantry of schools,
(Which rules, like crutches, ne'er became
Of any use but to the lame,)
Pursue the method set before 'em ;
Talk much of order, and decorum,
of probability of fiction,
Of männers, ornament, and diction,
And with a jargon of hard names,

A privilege which dulness claims,
And merely uş'd by way of fence,
To keep out plain and common sense,)
Extol the wit of antient days,
The simple fabric of their plays;
Then from the fable, all so chaste,
Trick'd up in antient modern taste,
So mighty gentle all the while,
In such a sweet descriptive stile.
While chorus marks the servile mode
With fine reflection, in an ode,
Present you with a perfect piece,
Form's on the model of old Greece.

Come, pr'ythee Critic, set before us,
The use and office of a chorus.
What ! filent! why then I'll produce
Its services from antient use.

'Tis to be ever on the stage,
Attendants upon grief or rage ;
To be an arant go-between,
Chief-mourner at each dismal scene ;
Shewing its sorrow, or delight,
By shifting dances, left and right,
Not much unlike our modern notions ;
Adagio or Allegro motions ;
To watch upon the deep distress,
And plaints of royal wretchedness;
And when, with tears, and execration,
They've pour'd out all their lamentation,
And wept whole cataracts from their eyes,
To call on rivers for supplies,
And with their Hais, and Hees, and Hoes,
To make a fymphony of woes.

Doubtless the Antient want the art To strike at once upon the heart : Or why their prologues of a mile In fimple call it humble stile, In unimpassioned phrase to say “ 'Fore the beginning of this play. « I, hapless Polydore, was found “ By filhermen, or others drown'd!” Or, “ ), a gentleman, did wed, “ The lady I wou'd never bed, « Great Agamemnon's royal daughter, 66 Who's coming hither to draw water.'

Vol. VIŲ.

Would you, resolve me, critics for you can,
Send for the master up, or chide the man?
The man no doubt a knavish business drives,
But tell me what's the master who connives ?
Hence you'H infer, and sure the doctrine's true,
Which :ys, no quarter to a foul Review.
It matters not who vends the nauseous sop,
Master or 'prentice; we detest the shop.

Critics of old, a manly liberal race,
Approv'd or cenfur'd with an open face;
Boldly pursu'd the free decisive task,
Nor stabb'd, conceal'd beneath a ruffian's mak.
To works not men, with honest warmth, fevere,
Th' impartial judges laugh'd at hope or fear :
Theirs was the noble skill, with gen'rous aim,
To fan true genius to an active Aame ;
To bring forth merit in its strongert light,
Or damn the blockhead to his native night.
But, as all states are subject to decay,

The state of letters too will melt away,
Smit with the harlot charms of trilling sound,
Softness now wantons e'en on Roman ground ;
Where Thebans, Spartans, fought their honour'd

graves, Behold a weak enervate race of Daves. In classic lore, deep science, language dead, Though modern witlings are but scantly read, Professors * fail not, who will loudly bawl In praise of either, with the want of all: Hail'd mighty critics to this present hour. -The tribune's name surviv'd the tribune's pow's.

* The author takes chis opportunity, notwithstando ing all inlinuations to the contrary, to declare, that he has no particular aim at a gentleman, whose abilia ty he sufficiently acknowledges.

lies ;

Now Quack and Critic differ but in name, The prude demure, with fuber faint-like air, Empirics frontless both, they mean the same; Pities her neighbour for she's wand'rous fair. This raw in Phylic, that in Letters fresh,

And when temptations lie before our feet, Both spring,

like warts, excrescence from the Beauty is frail, and females indiscreet:
ficth.

She hopes the nymph will every danger thun,
Half formd, half bred in printers hireling schools, Yet prays devoutly-hat the deed were done.
For all professions have their rogues and fools, Mean time sits watching for the daily lie,
Though the pert witling, or the coward knave, As spiders, lurk to catch a simple Ay.
Cafts no reflection on the wife or brave.

Yet is not scandal to one sex contin'd,
Yet, in these leaden times, this idle age, Though then would fix it on the weaker kind.
When; blind with dulness, or as blind with rage, Yet, this great lord, creation's master, man,
Author 'gainst author rails with venum curit, Will vent his malice where the blockhead can,
And happy He who calls out blockhead firit; Imputing crimes, of which e'en thought is free,
From the low earth aspiring genius springs, For instance now, your Rosciad, all to me.
And fails triumphant, born on eagles wings.

If partial friendship, in thy sterling lays, No toothless spleen, no venom'd critic's aim, Grows all too wanton in another's praise, Shall rob thee Churchill, of thy proper fame; Critics, who judge by ways themfelves have knowing While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous rhyme, Shall swear the praise, the poem is my own; Fool lives, and shines out fool to latert time. For 'tis the method in these learned days Pity perhaps might with a harmless fool

For wits co fcribble first, and after praise. To fcape th' obfervince of the eritic school ; Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched ftuff, But if low malice, leagu'd with folly, rise, And help out nonsense by a monthly puff, Armd with invectives, and hedy'd round with Exalt to giant forms weak puny elves,

And descant sweetly on their own dear selves; Should wakeful dulness, if she ever wake,

For works per month by learning's midwives paid, Write sleepy nonsense but for writing's sake, Demand a puffing in the way of trade. And, itung with rage, and piously severe,

Reserv'd and cautious, with no partial aim With bitter comforts to your dying car;

My muse e'er sought to blast another's fame. If some small wit, some silk-lin'd verfeman rakes, With willing hand cou'd twine a rival's bays, For quaint reflections in the putrid jakes,

From candour silent where she cou'd not praise : Talents usurp'd demand a censor's rage,

But if vile rancour, from (no matter who) A dunce is dunce proscrib'd in ev'ry age.

Actor or mimic,nprinter, or Review; Courtier, physician, lawyer, parfon, cit, Lies, oft o'erthrown, with ceaseless Venom (pread All, all are objects of theatric wit.

Still hiss out scandal from their Hydra head; Are ye then, actors, privileg'd alone.

If the dull maliec boldly walk the town, To make that weapon, ridicule your own

Patience herself wou'd wrinkle to a frown. Professions bleed not from his just attack,

Come then with justice draw the ready pen, Who laugħs at pedant, coxcomb, knave, of quack; Give me the works, I wou'd not know the men: Fools on and off the itage are fools the same, all in their turns might make reprisals too, And every dunce is fatire's lawful game.

Had all the patience but to tread them through: Freely you thought, where thought has freeft room, Come, to the utmost, probe the defperate wound, Why then apologize ? for what? to whom?

Nor spare the knife where'er infection's found! Though Gray's-Inn wits with author fquires unite, But, prudence, Churchill, or her lifter, Fear, And self-made giants club their labour'd mite, Whispers forbedrance to my fright'ned ear. 'Though pointless satire make its weak escape, Oh! then with me forsake the thorny road, In the dull babble of a mimic ape,

Left we should flounder in sume Fleet-Ditch Odes Boldly pursue where genius points the way, And sunk for ever in the lazy flood Nor heed what monthly puny critics say.

Weep with the Naiads heavy drops of Mud. Firm in thyself, with calm indifference smile,

Hail mighty Ode! which like a picture frame, When the wise Vet'ran knows you by your stile, Holds any portrait, and with any name ; With critic scales weighs out the partial wit, Or, like your hitches, planted thick and thin, What I, or You, or He, or no one writ;

Will serve to cram the random hero in. Denying thee thy just and proper worth,

Hail mighty bard too-whatso'er thy name, But to give falfhood's spurious issue birth;

-or Durfy, for it's all the same. And all self-will'd with lawlefs hand to raise To brother bards shall equal praise belong, Malicious Nander on the base of praise.

For wit, for ius, comedy and song ? Disgrace eternal wait the wretch's name

No costive Mi se is thiné, which freely rakes Who lives on credit of a borrowd fame ;

With ease familiar in the well-known jakes, Who wears the trappings of another's wit, Happy in skill to fouse through foul and fair, Of fathers bantlings which he could not get! And toss the dung out with a lordly air. But threwd Suspicion with her squinting eye, So have I feen, amidst the grinning throng, To truth declar'd, prefers a whisper'd lye. The Nedge procession fowly dragg'd along, With greedy mind the proffer'd tale believes; Where the mock female threw and hen-peck'd male Relates her wishes, and with joy deceives.

Scoop'd richi contents from either copious pail, The World, a pompous name, by custom due Callid bursts of laughter from the roaring rout, To the small circle of a talking few,

And dash'd and splash'd the filthy grains about: With heart-felt glee th’injurious tale repeats, Quit then, my friend, the Mules' lor'd abodel And sends the whisper buzzing through the Arçets. Alas! they lead not to preferment's road.

Be Golemn, fad, put on the priestly frowa, Or who like him shall sweep the Theban lyre,
Be dull! 'tis sacred, and becomes the gown. And, as his master pour forth thoughts of fire ?
Leave wit to others, do a Christian deed,

E'en now to guard afflicted learning's cause,
Your foes shall thank you, for they know their need. To judge by reason's rules, and nature's laws,

Broad is the path by learning's fons pusless'd, Boast we true critics in their proper right,
A thousand modern wits might walk abreast, While Lowth and Learning, HURD and Taste
Did not each poet mourn his luckless doom,

unite. Joftled by pedants out of elbow room.

Hail sacred names !-Oh guard the Muse's page, 1, who nor court their love, nor fear their hate, Save your loy'd mistress from a ruffian's rage ; Mut mourn in filence o'er the Muse's fate.

See how she gasps and struggles hard for life,
No right of common now on Pindus' hill,

Her wounds all bleeding from the butcher's knife
While all our tenures are by critic's will ;

Critics, like surgeons, bleft with curious art,
Where, watchful guardians of the lady muse, Should mark each passage to the human heart,
Dwell munstrous giants, dreadful tall REVIEWS, But not, unskilful, yet with lordly air,
Who, as we read in fam'd romance of yore, Read surgeon's leđures while they scalp and tear.
Sound but a horn, press forward to the door:

To names like these I pay the hearty vow,
But let some chief, some bold advent'rous knight, Proud of their worth, and not asham'd to bow.
Provoke those champions to an equal fight, To these inscribe my rude, but honest lays,
Strait into air of fpaceless nothing fall

And feel the pleasures of my conscious praise :
*The castle, lions, giants, dwarf and all.

Not that I mean to court each letter'd name,
Ill it befits with undiscerning rage,

And poorly glimmer from reflected fame,
To censure giants in this polish'd age.

But that the Muse, who owns no servile fear,
No lack of genius ftains these happy times, Is proud to pay her willing tribute here.
No want of learning, and no dearth of rhymes.
'The fee-faw Mure that fows by measur'd laws,
In tuneful numbers, and affected pause,
With found alone, sound's happy virtue fraught,
Which hates the trouble and expence of thought,
Once, every moon throughout the circling year,

EPISTLE TO J. B. ESQ. 1757
With even cadence charms the critic ear.
While, dire promoter of poetic fin,
A Magazine must hand the lady in.
How Moderns write, how nervous, trong and GAIN I urge my old objection,
well,

That modern rules obstruct perfection,
The ANTI-ROSCIAD's decent Mufe does tell :

And the severity of Taste
Who, while she strives to cleanse each actor hurt, Has laid the walk of genius waste.
Daubs with her praise, and rubs him into dirt.

Fancy's a flight we deal no more in,
Sure never yet was happy æra known

Our authors creep instead of roaring,
So gay, so wise, fo tasteful as our own.

And all the brave imagination
Our curious histories rise at once COMPLETI, Is dwindled into declamation.
Yet ftill continued, as they're paid, per sheet.

But still you cry in sober sadness,
See every science which the world wou'd know, ". There is discretion e'en in madness."
Your Magazines shall every month bestow,

A pithy sentence, which wants credit!
Whose very titles fill the mind with awe,

Because I find a poet said it :
Imperial, Christian, Royal, British, Law,

Their verdict makes but small impresion,
Their rich contents will every reader fit,

Who are known lyars by profession.
State/mon, Divine, Philosopher, and Wit;

Rise what exalted flights it will,
Compendious fekemes! which teach all things at True genius will be genius ftill;
önce,

And say, that horse would you prefer,
And make a pedant coxcomb of a dunce.

Which wants a bridle or a spur?
But let not anger with such frenzy grow,

The mettled steed may lose his tricks ;
Draw canfir like, to strike down friend and foe,

The jade grows callous to your kicks.
To real worth be homage duly paid,

Had Shakspeare crept by modern rules,
But no allowance to the paltry trade.

We'd lost his Witches, Fairies, Fools !
My friends I name not (though I boast a few, Instead of all that wild creation,
To me an honour, and to letters too)

He'd form'd a regular plantation,
Fain would I praise, but, when fuch Things oppose, A garden trim, and all inclos'd,
My praise of course must make them

In nicest symmetry dispos’d,
If manly JOHNSON, with satyriç rage,

The hedges cut in proper order,
Lash the dull follies of a trilling age,

Not e'en a branch beyond the border ?
If his strong Muse with genuine strength aspire, Now like a forest he appears,
Glows not the reader with the poet's fire ?

The growth of twice three hundred years
HIS the true fire, where creep the widling fry Where many a tree aspiring Shrouds
To warm themselves, and light their rushlights by. Įts airy summit in the clouds,
What Muse like Gray's fhall pleasing pensive While round its root still love to twinte
flow

The iry or wild eglantine.
Attemper'd sweetly to the rústic woe?

Y

A

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's focs.

Cry—“ This is tafte--that's my opinion."
And poets dread their mock dominion.

So have you seen with dire affright,
The petty monarch of the night,
Seated aloft in elbow chair,
Command the prisoners to appear,
Harangue an hour on watchmen's praise,
And on the dire effect of frays;
Then
cry,

" You'll suffer for your daring, “ And 0-n you, you shall pay for swearing." Then turning, tell the astonish'd ring, I lie to represent the KING,

EPISTLE TO THE SAME, 1757.

H Н

“ But Shakspeare's all creative fancy “ Made athers love extravagancy: “ While cloud-capt nonsense was their aim, “ Like Hurlothrumbo's mad lord Flame." True-who can stop dull imitators ? 'Those younger brothers of translators, Those insects, which from genius rile, And buzz abont, in swarms, like Aies? Fashion, that sets the modes of dress, Sheds too her influence o'er the press : As formerly the fons of rhyme Sought Shakspeare's fancy and sublime ; By cool correctness now they hope To emulate the praise of Pope. But Pope and Shakspeare both disclaim These low retainers to their fame. What task can dullness e'er effect So easy, as to write corrett? Poets, 'tis said, are sure to split By too much or too little wit; So, to avoid th' extremes of either, They miss their mark and follow neither ; They so exactly poife the scale That neither measure will prevail, And mediocrity the Muse Did never in her fons excuse. 'Tis true, thcir tawdry works are grac'd With all the charms of modern taste, And every senseless line is drest In quaint expression's tinsel vest. Say, did you never chance to meet A monsieur-barder in the street, Whote rume, as it lank depends, And dongles o'er his fingers' ends, His olive tann'd complexion graces With little dahs of Dresden laces, While for the body Monsieur Puff, Wou'd think e'en dowlas fine enough? So fears it with our men of rhymes, Sweet tinklers of poetic chimes. For lace, and fringe, and tawdry cloaths, Sure never yet were greater beaux ; But fairly ítrip them to the shirt, They're all made up of rags and dirt.

And shall these wretches bards commence, Without or spirit, talte, or sense? And when they bring no other treasure, Shall I admire them for their measure ? Or do I scorn the critic's rules Because I will not learn of fools ? Although Longinus’full-mouth'd prose With all the force of genius glows; 'Though Dionysius' learned tatte Is ever manly, just, and chaite, Who, like a skilful wife physician, Diffects each part of composition, And thews how beauty strikes the soul From a just compact of the whole ; Though judgment, in Quintillian's page, Ilolds forth her lamp for ev'ry age; Yet Hypercrita s I disdain, A race of blockheads dull and vain, And laugh at all those empty fools, Who cramp a genius with dull rules, And what their narrow science mocks Damn with the name of Het'rodox.

These butchers of a poet's fame, While they usurp the critic's name,

AS my good dame a wicked child ?

It takes the gentle name of wild ; if chests he breaks, if locks he picks, 'Tis nothing more than youthful tricks : The mother's fondness stamps it merit, For vices are a sign of spirit.

Say, do the neighbours think the fame With the good old indulgent dame? Cries goslip Prate, “ I hear with grief My neighbour's son's an arrant thief. " Nay, could you think it, I am told, " He stýle five guineas, all in gold, “ You know the youth was always wild “ He got his father's maid with child ; " And robb'd his master, to defray " The money he had lost at play. “ All means to save him must now fail, “ What can it end in :-In a Jail."

Howe'er the dame doats o'er her youths My goslip says the very truth.

But as his vices love wou'd hide,
Or torture them to virtue's fide,
So friendship’s glass deceives the eye,
(A glass too apt to magnify)
And makes you think at least you see
Some spark of genius ev'n in me,
You say I thou'd get fame: I doubt it :
Perhaps I am as well without it.
For what's the worth of empty praise?
What poet ever din’d on bays ?
For though the Laurel, rarest wonder !
May screen us from the stroke of thunder,
This mind I ever was, and am in,
It is no antidote to famine.
And poets live on flender fare,
Who, like Cameleons, feed on alr,
And starve, to gain an empty breath,
Which only serves them after death.

Grant I succeed, like Horace rife,
And strike my head against the skies :
Common experience daily shews,
That poets have a world of foes ;
And we shall find in every town
Gossips enough to cry them down;
Who meet in pious conversation
T'anatomize a reputation,
With flippant tongue, and empty head,
Who talk of things they never read.

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