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Bears fuch a name, I can't tell how
To tell him where I live, I vow.
-Mercy! what's all this noise and stir?
Pray is the KING a coming, fir?
MAN.

No-don't you hear the people fhout?
Tis Mr. PITT, just going out.

MRS. BROWN.

Aye, there he goes, pray heav'n blefs him! Well may the people all carefs him. -Lord, how my husband us'd to fit, And drink fuccefs to honeft PITT, And happy o'er his evening cheer, Cry, you fhall pledge this toast my dear.

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SCOTCH MAN.

Which is the noble EARL OF BUTE,
Geud-faith, I'll gi him a falute.
For he's the Laird of arv our clan, *
Troth he's a bonny muckle man.

Here comes the Coach, fo very flow

As if it ne'er was made to go,
In all the gingerbread of state,
And ftaggering under its own weight.

MRS. SCOT.

Upon my word, it's monftrous fine! Would half the gold upon't were mine! How gaudy all the gilding fhews! It put's one's eyes out as it goes. With a rich glare of various hues, With fhining yellows, fcarlets, blues! It must have coft a heavy price; 'Tis like a mountain drawn by mice.

MR s. BROWN,

So painted, gilded, and fo large, Blefs me! 'tis like my lord mayor's barge. And fo it is-look how it reels! 'Tis nothing elfe-a barge on wheels.

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And what are they? those hindmost things, Men, fish and birds, with flesh, scales, wings? MAN.

Oh, they are Gods too, like the others,
All of one family and brothers,
Creatures, which feldom come a-fhore,
Nor feen about the King before.

For Show, they wear the yellow Hue,
Their proper colour is True-blue.

MRS. Sco T.

Lord blefs us! what's this noise about? Lord, what a tumult and a rout!

How the folks holla, hifs, and hoot!

Well-Heav'n preserve the EARL OF BUTZ!
I cannot stay, indeed, not I,
If there's a riot I fhall die.
Let's make for any house we can.
Do-give us fhelter, honeft man.

MRS. BROWN.

I wonder'd where you was, my dear,
I thought I fhould have died with fear.
This noife and racketing and hurry
Has put my nerves in fuch a flurry!
I could not think where you was got,
I thought I'd loft you, Mrs. Scot;
Where's Mrs. Tape, and Mr. Grin?
Lard, I'm fo glad we're all got in.

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Which often flings whole ftores away,
And oft has not a doit to pay !

Give us a work, indeed-of lengthSomething which speaks poetic strength; Is fluggish fancy at a stand?

No fcheme of confequence in hand? |
I, nor your plan, nor book condemn,
But why your name. and why A. M!
AUTHOR

Yes-it ftands forth to public view
Within, without, on white, on blue,
In proper, tall, gigantic Letters,

Not dash'd-emvowell'd-like my betters.
And though it ftares me in the face,
Reflects no fhame, hints no difgrace.
While those unlaboured trifies pleafe,
Familiar chains are worn with cafe.
Behold! to yours and my furprize,
Thefe trifles to a VOLUME rife.
Thus will you fee me, as I go,
Still gath'ring bulk like balls of fnow,
Steal by degrees upon your sheh,
And grow a giant from an elf.
The current studies of the day,
Can rarely reach beyond a PLAY:
APAMPHLET may deferve a look,
But Heav'n defend us from a Book!
A LIBEL fie on Scandal's wings,
But works of length are heavy things,
-Not one in twenty will fucceed-
Confider, úr, how few can read.

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And in the morning when I ftir,
Pop comes a Devil," Copy fir."
I cannot ftrive with daring flight
To reach the bold Parnaffian HEIGHT;
But at it's foot, content to stray,
in eafy unambitious way,

Pick up thofe flowers the mufes fend,
To make a nofegay for my friend.
In short, I lay no idle claim
To genius ftrong, and noisy fame.
But with a hope and wish to please,
I write, as I would live, with cafe.
FRIEND.

But you must have a fund, a mine, Profe, poems, letters,

Аѵт ноя.

Not a line:

And here, my friend, I reft fecure ;
He can't lose much, who's always poor.
And if, as now, through numbers five,
This work with pleasure kept alive
Can ftill its currency afford,
Nor fear the breaking of its hoard,
Can pay you, as at fundry times,
For jelf per Mag, two thousand Rhimes,
From whence thould apprehenfion grow,
That felf should fail, with richer Co?
No deer of a monthly grub,
Myfelf alone a learned club,

I afk my readers to no treat

Of scientifick hash'd-up meat,
Nor feek to please theatrick friends,
With fcraps of plays, and odds and ends.

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Will you pour out to English fwine, Noat as imported, old GREEK wine; Alas! fuch beverage only fits Collegiate taftes, and claffic wits.

Аѵтнок.

I feek not, with fatyrick ftroke,
To ftrip the pedant of his cloak;
No-let him cull and spout quotations,
And call the jabber, demonstrations,
Be his the great concern to fhew,
If Roman gowns were tied or no *;
Whether the Grecians took a flice
Four times a-day, or only tavice,
Still let him work about his hole,
Poor, bufy, blind, laborious mole;
Still let him puzzle, read, explain,
Oppugn, remark, and read again.

Such, though they wafte the midnight oil
In dull, minute, perplexing toil,
Not understanding, do no good,
Nor can do harm, not understood.
By fcholars, apprehend me right,
I mean the learned, and polite,
Whofe knowledge unaffected flows,
And fits as eafy as their cloaths;
Who care not though an ac or fed
Mifplac'd, endanger PRISCIAN's head;
Nor think his wit a grain the worse,
Who cannot frame a Latin verfe,
Or give the Roman proper word
To things the ROMANS never heard.
'Tis true, except among the Great,
Letters are rather out of date,
And quacking genius more difcerning,
Scoffs at your regulars in learning.

PEDANTS, indeed, are learning's curfe,
But IGNORANCE is fomething worse :
All are not bleft with reputation,
Built on the WANT of EDUCATION,
And fome, to letters duly bred,

Mayn't write the worse, because they've read.
Though books had better be unknown,
Than not one thought appear our own;
As fome can never fpeak themselves,
But through the authors on their shelves,
Whose writing smacks too much of reading.
As affectation fpoils good breeding.

FRIEND.

True; but that fault is feldom known, Save in your bookish college drone. Who, conftant (as I've heard them fay) Study their fourteen hours a-day, And fquatting clofe, with dull attention, Read themselves out of apprehenfion; Who scarco can wafn their hands or face, For fear of lofing time, or place, And give one hour to meat and drink, But never half a one to THINK,

А и т нов.

Lord! I have feen a thousand fuch, Who read, or feem to read, too much.

See SIGONIVS and MANUTIUS.

So have I known, in that rare place,
Where Claffics always breed difgrace,
A wight, upon difcoveries hot,
As whether flames have heat or not,
Study himself, poor fceptic dunce,
Into the very fire at once,
And clear the philofophic doubt,
By burning all ideas out.

With fuch, eternal books, fucceffive
Dead to no sciences progreffive,
While each dull fit of ftudy past,
Juft like a wedge drives out the laft,
From thefe I ground no expectation
Of genuine wii, or free tranflation;
But you mistake me, friend. Suppofe,
(Tranflations are but modern cloaths)
I drefs my boy-(for inttance fake
Maintain thefe children which I make)
I give him coat and breeches-

FRIEND.

True

But not a bib and apron too!
You would not let your child be feen,
But dreft confiftent, neat, and clean.

AUTHOR.

So would I cloath a free tranflation, Or as Pope calls it, imitation; Not pull down authors from my fhelf, To fpoil their wit, and plague myself, My learning ftudious to difplay, And lofe their fpirit by the way.

FRIEND,

Your HORACE now-e'en borrow thence His eafy wit, his manly sense, But let the Moralift convey Things in the manners of to-day, Rather than that old garb affume, Which only fuits a man at Rome.

[AUTHOR.

Originals will always please, And copies too, if done with eafe. Would not old PLAUTUS wish to wear, Turn'd English hoft, an English air, If THORNTON, rich in native wit, Would make the modes and diction fit? Or, as I know you hate to roam, To fetch an inftance nearer home; Though in an idiom most unlike, A fimilarity muft ftrike, Where both of fimple nature fond, In art and genius correfpond; And native both (allow the phrafe Which no one English word conveys) Wrapt up their ftories neat and clean, Eafy as

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Аѵтнок.

(To critics no offence, I hope) PRIOR fhall live as long as POPE, Each in his manner fure to please,

While both have ftrength, and both have eafe ;
Yet though their various beauties strike,
Their eafe, their strength is not alike.
Both with confummate horseman's skill,
Ride as they lift, about the hill;
But take, peculiar in their mode,
Their favourite horse, and favourite road.

For me, once fond of author-fame,
Now forc'd to bear its weight and fhame,
I have no time to run a race,
A traveller's my only pace.
They, whom their steeds unjaded bear
Around Hydepark, to take the air,
May frisk and prance, and ride their fill,
And go all paces which they will;
We, hackney tits-nay, never smile,
Who trot our ftage of thirty mile,
Muft travel in a conftant plan,
And run our journey, as we can.

FRIEND.

A critic fays, upon whose sleeve Some pin more faith than you'll believe, That writings which as caly please, Are not the writings done with ease. From whence the inference is plain, Your friend MAT PRIOR wrote with pain.

AUTHOR.

With pain perhaps he might correct, With care fupply each loose defect, Yet fure, if rhime, which feems to flow Whether its mafter will or no, If humour, not by study fought, But rifing from immediate thought, Are proofs of ease, what hardy name Shall e'er difpute a PRIOR's claim!

But ftill your critic's obfervation Strikes at no POET's reputation,

His keen reflection only hits
Your rhiming fops and pedling wits.
As fome take ftifinefs for a grace,
And walk a dancing-mafter's pace,"
And others, for familiar air
Miftake the flouching of a bear;
So fome will finically trim,
And drefs their lady-mufe too prim,
Others, mere flovens in their pen
(The mob of Lords and Gentlemen)
Fancy they write with ease and pleasure,
By rambling out of rhime and measure.
And, on your critic's judgment, these
Write eafily, and not with EASE.

There are, indeed, whofe with purfues,
And inclination courts the mufe ;
Who, happy in a partial fame,
A while poffefs a poet's name,
But read their works, examine fair,
-Shew me invention, fancy there,
Tafte I allow; but is the flow
Of genius in them? Surely, no.
'Tis labour from the claffic brain.
Read your own ADDISON'S CAMPAIGN.
E'en he, nay, think me not severe,
A critic fine, of Latin ear,
Who toff'd his claffic thoughts around
With elegance on Roman ground,
Juft fimmering with the mufe's flame
Woos but a cool and fober dame;
And all his English rhimes exprefs
But beggar-thoughts in royal drefs.
In verfe his genius feldom glows,
A POET only in his profe,

Which rolls luxuriant, rich, and chaste, Improv'd by Fancy, Wit, and Taste.

FRIEND.

I task you for yourself, my friend,
A fubject you can ne'er defend,
And you cajole me all the while
With differtations upon stile.
Leave others wits and works alone,
And think a little of your own,
For FAME, when all is faid and done,
Though a coy mistress, may be won;
And half the thought, and pains, and time
You take to jingle easy rhime,

Would make an ODE, would make a PLAY,
Done into English, MALLOCH's way,
-Stretch out your more Heroic feet,
And write an ELEGY complete.
Or, not a more laborious tafk,
Could you not pen a Claffic MASQUE?

AUTHOR.

With will at large, and unclogg'd wings, I durft not foar to fuch high things. For I, who have more phlegm than fire, Muft understand, or not admire, But when I read with admiration, Perhaps I'll write in IMITATION.

FRIEND.

But bufinefs of this monthly kind, Need that alone engrofs your mind. Affiftance muft pour in a-pace, New paffengers will take a place,

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-fhall I wish you joy of fame,

W That loudly echoes CHURCHILL's name,

And fets you on the Mufes' throne,
Which right of conqueft made your own?
Or fhali I (knowing how unfit

The world efteems a man of wit,
That wherefoever he appears,

They wonder if the knave has ears)
Addrefs with joy and lamentation,
CONDOLENCE and CONGRATULATION,
As colleges, who duly bring
Their mefs of verse to every king,
Too œconomical in tafte,

Their forrow or their joy to watte:
Mix both together, fweet and fow'r ;
And bind the thorn up with the flow'r?
Sometimes 'tis Elegy, or Ode."
Epifle now's your only mode.
Whether that ftyle more glibly hits, (
The fancies of our rambling wits,
Who wince and kick at all oppreffion,
But love to straggle in digreffion;
Or, that by writing to the GREAT
In letters, honours, or estate,
We flip more eafy into fame,

By clinging to another's name,

And with their strength our weakness yoke,
As ivy climbs about an oak;

AS TUFT-HUNTERS will buzz and purr
About a FELLOW-COMMONER,
Or Crows will wing a higher flight,
When failing round the floating kite.
Whate'er the motive, 'tis the mode,
And I will travel in the road.
The fashionable track pursue,
And write my fimple thoughts to You,
Just as they rife from head to heart,
Not marfhall'd by the herald Art.
By vanity or pleasure led,
From thirst of fame, or want of bread,
Shall any ftart up fons of rhime
PATHETIC, EASY, or SUBLIME?

-You'd think, to hear what Critics fay,
Their labour was no more than play :
And that, but fuch a paltry station
Reflects difgrace on education,
(As if we could at once forfake
What education helps to make)
Each reader has fuperior skill,
And can write better when he will.

In short, howe'er you toil and drudge,
The world, the mighty world, is judge,
And nice and fanciful opinion

Sways all the world with strange dominion;
Opinion! which on crutches walks,
And founds the words another talks.
Bring me eleven Critics grown,
Ten have no judgment of their own:
But, like the Cyclops watch the nod
Of fome informing mafter god :
Or as, when near his latest breath,
The patient fain would juggle death,
When DOCTORS fit in CONSULTATION
(Which means no more than converfation,
A kind of comfortable chat
'Mongft focial friends, on This and That,
As whether stocks get up or down,
And tittle-tattle of the town;
Books, pictures, politics, and news,
Who lies with whom, and who got whose)
Opinions never difagree,

One doctor writes, all take the fee.
But eminence offends at once
The owlish eye of critic dunce,
DULLNESS alarm'd, collects her Force,

And FOLLY fcreams till fhe is hoarfe.
Then far abroad the LIBEL flies
From all th' artillery of lies,
MALICE, delighted, flaps her wing,
And EPIGRAM prepares her fting.
Around the frequent pellets whiftle
From SATIRE, ODE, and pert EPISTLE;
While every blockhead strives to throw
His fhare of vengeance on his foe:
As if it were a Shrove-tide game,
And cocks and poets were the fame.

Thus fhould a wooden collar deck
Some woe-full 'fquire's embarrass'd neck,
When high above the croud he stands
With equi-diftant sprawling hands,
And without hat, politely bare,
Pops out his head to take the air;
The mob his kind acceptance begs
Of dirt, and ftones, and addle-eggs.

O GENIUS! though thy noble skill
Can guide thy Pegasus at will?
Fleet let him bear thee as the wind-
DULLNESS mounts up and clings behind,
In vain you fpur, and whip, and smack,
You cannot shake her from your back.
Ill nature fprings as merit grows,
Clofe as the thorn is to the rofe.
Could HERCULANEUM's friendly earth
Give MAVIUS' works a fecond birth,
MALEVOLENCE, with lifted eyes,
Would fanctify the noble prize.
While modern critics should behold
Their near relation to the old,
And wond'ring gape at one another,
To fee the likeness of a brother.

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