From rhyme, as from a handfome face, Nonfenfe acquires a kind of grace; I therefore give it all its scope, That fenfe may unperceived elope : So minifters of baseft tricks

(I love a fling at politicks)

Amufe the nation, court, and king,

With breaking Fowke, and hanging Byng;
And make each fury rogue a prey,
While they, the greater flink away.
This fimile perhaps would strike,

If match'd with fomething more alike
Then take it drefs'd a fecond time
In Prior's ease, and my fublime.
Say, did you never chance to meet
A mob of people in the street,
Ready to give the robb'd relief,
And all in hafte to catch a thief,
While the fly rogue, who filch'd the prey,
Too close befet to run away,
Stop thief! ftop thief! exclaims aloud,
And fo efcapes among the croud?
So Minifters, &c.

Men, women, houses, horses, books, All borrow credit from their looks. Externals have the gift of striking, And lure the fancy into liking.

А ѵтно я.

Oh! I perceive the thing you mean— Call it St. James's Magazine.

BOOK SELLER.

Or the New British→→→

А и тно в.

Oh! no more.

One name's as good as half a fcore.
And titles oft give nothing lefs
Than what they faringly profess.
Puffing, I grant, is all the mode;
The common hackney turnpike road!
But cuftom is the blockhead's guide,
And fuch low arts difguft my pride.
Succefs on merit's force depends,
Not on the partial voice of friends;
Not on the feems, that bully fin;
But that which passeth fhew within:
Which bids the warmth of friendship glow,
And wrings conviction from a foe.-
Deferve fuccefs, and proudly claim,
Not fteal a paffage into fame.

BOOKSELLER.

Your method, fir, will never do; You're right in theory, it's true. But then, experience in our trade Says, there's no harm in fome parade. Suppofe we faid, by Mr. Lloyd?

Аётнок.

The very thing I would avoid;
And would be rather pleas'd to own
Myfelf unknowing, and unknown:
What could th' unknowing mufe expect,
But information or neglect?
Unknown-perhaps her reputation
Efcapes the tax of defamation,

And wrapt in darkness, laugh's unhurt,
While critic blockheads throw their dirt
But he who madly prints his name,
Invites his foe to take fure aim

BOOKSELLER.

True but a name will always bring A better fanction to the thing: And all your scribling foes are fuch, Their cenfure cannot hurt you much; And, take the matter ne'er fo ill, If you don't print it, fir, they wil

AUTHOR.

Well, be it fo-that ftruggle's o'er Nay, this fhall prove one fpur the more. Pleas'd if fuccefs attends, if not, I've writ my name, and made a blot.

BOOKSELLER.

But a good print.

AUTHOR.

The print? why there

I trust to honeft LEACH's care.
What is't to me? in verfe or profe,
I find the stuff, you make the cloaths:
Add paper, print, and all fuch drefs,
Will lofe no credit from his prefs.

BOOKSELLER.

You quite mistake the thing I mean, I'll fetch you, fir, a MAGAZINE; You fee that picture there-the QUEEN.

AUTHOR.

A dedication to her too!
What will not folly dare to do?
O days of art ! when happy fkill
Ĉan raife a likeness whence it will;
When portraits afk no REYNOLDS' aid,
And queens and kings are ready made.

No, no, my friend, by helps like thefe,
I cannot with my works fhould please;
No pictures taken from the life,
Where all proportions are at itrife;

No HUMMING-BIRD, no PAINTED FLOWER,
No BEAST juft landed in the TOWER,

No WOODEN NOTES, no COLOUR'D MAP,
No COUNTRY-DANGE fhall stop a gap;
O PHILOMATH, be not fevere,
If not one problem meets you here;
Where goffip A, and neighbour B,
Pair, like good friends, with C and D;
And E F G, HIK join;
And curve and incidental line

Fall out, fall in, and crofs each other,
Just like a fifter and a brother.
Ye tiny poets, tiny wits,
Who frisk about on tiny tits,
Who words disjoin, and sweetly fing,
Take one third part, and take the thing i
Then close the joints again, to frame
Some LADY'S, or fome CITY's name,
Enjoy your own, your proper Phœbusz
We neither make, nor print a REBUS.
No CRAMBO, no ACROSTIC fine,
Great letters lacing down each line;
No ftrange CONUNDRUM, no invention
Beyond the reach of comprehenfion,
NO RIDDLE, which whoe'er unties,
Claims twelve MUSEUMS for the PRIZE,
Shall strive to please you, at th' expence
Of fimple tafte, and common fenfe.

BOOKSELLER.

But would not ORNAMENT produce Some real grace, and proper ufe?

A FRONTISPIECE would have its weight, Neatly engrav'd on copper-plate.

AUTHOR.

Plain letter-prefs fhall do the feat, What need of foppery to be neat?

The Pafte-board Guard delights me more, That tands to watch a bun-houfe doora Than fuch a mockery of grace,

And ornament fo out of place.

BOOKSELLER.

But one word more, and I have doneAPATENT might infure its run.

AUTHOR.

Patent! for what! can patents give
A Genius? or make blockheads live?
If fo, O hail the glorious plan!
And buy it at what price you can.
But what alas! will that avail,

Beyond the property of fale?
A property of little worth,
If weak our produce at its birth.
For fame, for honeft fame we strive,
But not to ftruggle half alive,
And drag a miferable being,

Its end ftill fearing and foreseeing.
Oh! may the flame of genius blaze,
Enkindled with the breath of praife!
But far be ev'ry fruitless puff,
To blow to light a dying fnuff.

BOOKSELLER.

But fhould not fomething, fir, be faida
Particular on ev'ry head?
What your ORIGINALS will be,
What infinite variety,

Multum in Parvo, as they fay,
And fomething neat in every way

AUTHOR.

I wish there could-but that depends Not on myfelf, fo much as friends. I but fet up a new machine, With harness tight, and furnish'd clean Where fuch, who think it no difgrace, To fend in time, and take a place, The book-keeper shall minute down, And I with pleasure drive to town.

BOOKSELLER.

Ay, tell them that, fir, and then fay, What letters come in every day; And what great Wits your care procures, To join their focial hands with yours.

Bid General ESSAY lead the van,

y-Oh! the Style will fhew the man a Bid Major SCIENCE bold appear, With all his pot-hooks in the rear.

AUTHOR.

True, true-our News, our PROSE, our

RHYMES,

Shall fhew the colour of the times;
For which moft falutary ends,
We've fellow-foldiers, fellow-friends.
For city, and for court affairs,

My lord duke's butler, and the mayor's
For politicks-eternal talkers,
Profound obfervers, and park-walkers.
For plays, great actors of renown,
(Lately or just arriv'd in town)
Or fome, in ftate of abdication,
Of oratorial reputation ;

Or those who live on fcraps and bits,
Mere green-room wafps, and temple wits;
Shall teach you, in a page or two,
What GARRICK fhould, or fhould not do.
Trim poets from the City desk,
Deep vers'd in rural picturesque,
Who minute down, with wond'rous pains,
What RIDER's Almanack contains

On flow'r and feed, and wind, and weather
And bind them in an Ode together;

Shall through the seasons monthly fing

Sweet WINTER, AUTUMN, SUMMER, SPRING

MRS. SCOT.

Your fervant, MADAM. Well, I fwear

I'd giv'n you over-Child, a chair.
Pray, MA'M, be feated.

MRS. BROWN.

Lard! my dear,

I vow I'm almost dead with fear.

There is fuch fcrouging and fuch fqueezing,
The folks are all fo difobliging;
And then the waggons, carts and drays
So clog up all those narrow ways,
What with the bustle and the throng,
I wonder how I got along.
Befides the walk is so immenfe
Not that I grudge a coach expence,
But then it jumbles me to death,

And I was always fhort of breath.
How can you live fo far, my dear?
It's quite a journey to come here.

MRS. BROWN.

My good man, too-Lord blefs us! Wives Are born to lead unhappy lives, Although his profits bring him clear Almoft two hund. ed pounds a year, Keeps me of cafh fo fhort and bare, That I have not a gown to wear Except my robe, and yellow fack, And this old luteftring on my back. -But we've no time, my dear, to waste. Come, where's your cardinal, make haste. The KING, God bless his majesty, Ifay, Goes to the house of lords to-day, In a fine painted coach and eight, And rides along in all his ftate And then the Queen

KITTY, my things,-I'll foon have done, It's time enough, you know at one. -Why, girl! fee how the creature stands! Some water here, to wash my hands. -Be quick-why fure the gipfy fleeps! -Look how the drawling daudle creeps, That bafon there-why don't you pour, Go on, I fay-stop, ftop-no moreLud! I could beat the huffey down, She's pour'd it all upon my gown. -Bring me my ruffles-can'ft not mind? And pin my handkerchief behind. Sure thou haft aukwardnefs enough, Go-fetch my gloves, and fan, and muff. -Well, heav'n be prais'd-this work is done, I'm ready now, my dear-let's run. Girl,-put that bottle on the fhelf, And bring me back the key yourself,

MRS. BROWN.

That clouded filk becomes you much, I wonder how you meet with fuch, But you've a charming tafte in dress, What might it coft you, Madam?

MRS, SCOT.

Gues

MRS. BROWN.

Oh! that's impoffible-for I Am in the world the worst to buy.

MRS. Sco T.

I never love to bargain hard, Five fhillings, as I think, a yard.

-I was afraid it fhould be gone'Twas what I'd fet my heart upon.

MRS. BROWN.

Indeed you bargain'd with fuccefs, For its a most delightful dress. Befides, it fits you to a hair, And then 'tis flop'd with fuch an air.

MRS. SCOT.

I'm glad you think fo,-Kitty, here,
Bring me my cardinal, my dear.
Jacky, my love, nay dont you cry,
Take you abroad!—indeed not 1;
For all the Bugaboos to fright ye-
Befides, the naughty horse will bite ye;
With fuch a mob about the street,
Blefs me, they'll tread you under feet.
Whine as you pleafe, I'll have no blame,
You'd better blubber, than be lame.
The more you cry, the less you'll—

-Come, come then, give mamma a kifs,
KITTY, Ifay, here take the boy,
And fetch him down the last new toy,
Make him as merry as you can,
-There, go to KITTY-there's a man,
Call in the dog, and shut the door,
Now, MA'M.

MRS. BROWN.

Oh Lard!

MRS. SCOT.

Pray go before,

MRS. BROWN.

I can't indeed, now.

MRS. SCOT.

MADAM, pray.

MRS. BROWN.

Well then, for once, i'll lead the way.
MRS. SCOT.

Lard! what an uproar! what a throng!
How fhall we do to get along?
What will become of us?-look here,
Here's all the king's horse-guards, my dear.
Let us cross over-hafte, be quick,
-Pray fir, take care-your horfe will kick.
He'll kill his rider-he's fo wild.
-I'm glad I did not bring the child.

They kick and prance, and look fo bold,
It makes my very blood run cold,
But let's go forward-come, be quick,
The crowd again grows vaftly thick.
MRS.
BROWN.

Come you from Palace-yard, old dame?
OLD WOMAN.

Troth, do I, my young ladies, why?
MR S. BROWN.

Was it much crowded when you came?
MRS.
SCOT.

And is his majefty gone by?

MRS, BROWN.
Can we get in, old lady, pray
To fee him robe himself to-day?
MRS.

SCOT.

Perdigious! I can hardly stand,

Lord blefs me, Mrs. BROWN, your hand¡
And you, my dear, take hold of hers,
For we must stick as clofe as burrs,
Or in this racket, noife and pother,
We certainly shall lose each other.

-Good God! my cardinal and fack
Are almost torn from off my back.
Lard, I fhall faint-Oh Lud-my breast-
I'm crush'd to atoms, I protest,
God bless me I have dropt my fan,
-Pray did you fee it, honeft man ?
MAN.

I, madam! no,-indeed, I fear You'll meet with fome misfortune here. -Stand back, I fay-pray, fir, forbear Why, don't you fee the ladies there? Put yourselves under my direction, Ladies, I'll be your fafe protection.

MRS. SCOT.

You're very kind fir; truly few Are half fo complaifant as you. We fhall be glad at any day This obligation to repay, And you'll be always fure to meet A welcome, fir, in-Lard! the ftrees