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Should be the lamps for lover's ruin,

Or else, as fancy trips on faster, And light them to their own undoing ;

Fine marble hills or alabaster. While all the frow about your breast

A figure made of wax wou'd please Should leave them hopeless and distreft.

More than an aggregate of these, For those who rarely foar above

Which though they are of precious worth, * The art of coupling love and dove,

And held in great esteem on earth, In their conceits and amorous fictions,

What are they, rightly understood, Are mighty fond of contradictions,

Compar'd to real fielh and blood ? Above, in air ; in earth, beneath ;

And I, who hate to act by rules And things that do, or do not breathe,

Of whining, rhiming, loving fools, All have their parts, and separate place,

Can never twist my mind about To paint the fair one's various grace.

To find such ftrange resemblance out, Her check, her eye, her bolom show

And fimile that's only fit The rose, the lilly, diamond, snow.

To Thew my plenteous lack of wir. Jet, milk, and amber, vales and mountains, Therefore, omitting fames and darts, Stars, rubies, suns, and mosly fountains,

Wounds, fighs and tears, and bleeding hearts, The poet gives them all a share

Obeying, what I here declare, In the description of his fair,

Makes half my happiness, the Fair,
She burns, the chills, the pierces hearts

The favourite subject I pursue,
With locks, and bolts, and flames, and darts. And write, as who would not, for you.
And could we trust th'extravagancy

Perhaps my muse, a common curse,
Of every poet's youthful faney,

Errs in the manner of her verse, They'd make cach nymph they love so well, Which, nouching in the doggrel lay, As cold as snow, as hot as

Goes tittup all her easy way. -Ogentle lady, spare your fright,

Yes-an Acrostic had been better, No horrid rhime shall wound your fight.

Where each good natured prattling lettet, I would not for the world be heard,

Though it conceal the writer's aim, : To ptter such unseemly word,

Tells all the world his lady's name, Which the politer parson fears

But all Acrostics, it is said, To mention to politer ears.

Shew wond'rous pain of empty head, But, could a female form be shown,

Where wit is cramp'd in hard confines, (The thought, perhaps, is not my own)

And fancy dare not jump the lines. Where every circumitance should meet

I love a fanciful disorder, To make the poet's nymph compleåt

And straggling out of rule and order ; Form'd to his Fancy's utmost pitch,

Impute not then to vacant head, She'd be as ugly as a witch.

Or what I've writ, or what I've said, Come then, O muse, of trim conceit,

Which imputation can't be true, Muse, always fine, but never ncat,

Where head and heart's so full of you. Who to the dull unfated ear

Like TRISTRAM SHANDY, I could write Of French or Tuscan SONNETEER,

From morn to noon, from noon to night, Tak 'It up the fame unvaried tone,

Sometimes obscure, and sometimes lekning, Like the Scotch bagpipe's favourite drone,

A litele fideways to a meaning, Squeezing out thoughts in dittie: quaint,

And unfatigu'd myself, pursue To poet's mistress, whore, or saint ;

The civil mode of teazing you.
Whether thou dwell'st on ev'ry grace,

For as your folks who love the dwelling
Which lights the world from LAURA's face, On circumstance in story telling,
Or amorous praise expatiates wide

And to give each relation grace,
On beauties which the nymph must hide ;

Describe the time, the folks, the place, For wit affected, loves to show

And are religiously exact Her every charm from top to toe,

To point out cach unmeaning fact, And wanton fancy oft pursues

Repeat their wonders undefired, Minute description from the muse,

Nor think one hearer can be tired; Come and pourtray, with pencil fine,

So they who take a method worse, The poet's mortal nymph divine.

And prose away, like me, in verse, Her golden locks of classic hair,

Worry their mistress, friends or betters. Are nets to catch the wanton air ;

With satire, sonnet, ode, or letters, Her forehead ivory, and her eyes

And think the knack of pleasing follows Each a bright sun to light the skies,

Each jingling pupil of APOLLO's. Orb’d in whose centre, Capid aims

-Yet let it be a venial crime His darts protect us ! tipt with flames ;

That I address you thus in rhime. While the Ny god's unerring bow

Nor think that I am Phæbus'-bit Is the half circle of her brow.

By the Tarantula of wit, Each lip a ruby, parting, thews

But as the meanest critic knows The precious pearl in even rows,

All females have a knack at prose, And all the loves and graces sleek

And letters are the mode of writing Bathe in the dimples of her cheek.

The ladies take the most delight in ; Her breasts pure frow, or white as milk,

Bold is the man, whose faucy aim Arcivory apples, smooth as filk,

Leads him to form a rival claim ;

A double death the vi&tim dies,
Wounded by wit as well as eyes.

-With mine disgrace a lady's prose,
And puta nettle next a rose ?
Who would, so long as taste prevails,
Compare St. James's with Versailles ?
The nightingale, as story goes,
Fam'd for the music of his woes,
In vain against the artist try'd,
But strain'd his tuneful throat and died.

Perhaps I fought the rhiming way,
For reasons which have pow'rful sway.
The swain, no doubt, with pleasure sues
I he nymph he's sure will not rcfuse.
And more compaffion may be found
Amongst theke goddesses of found,
Than always happens to the share
Of the more cruel human fair;
Who love to fix their lover's pains,
Pleas'd with the rattling of their chains,
Rejoicing in their servant's grief,
As 'twere a fin to give relief.
They twist each easy fool about,
Nor let them in, nor let them out,
But keep them twirling on the fire
Of apprehension and desire,
As cock-chafers, with corking pin
The school-boy ftabs to make them spin.

For 'tis a maxim in love's school,
'To make a man of fenfe a fool;
I mean the man, who loves indeed,
And hupes and wishes to succeed;
But from his fear and apprehension,
Which always mars his best intention,
Can ne'er address with proper ease
The very person he would please.

Now Poets, when these nymphs refuse,
Strait go a courting to the muse.
But still fome difference we find
'Twixt goddesses and human kind;
The muses' favours are ideal,
The ladies' scarce, but always real.
The poet can, with little pain,
Create a mistress in his brain,
Heap each attraction, every grace
That should adorn the mind or face,
On Delia, Phyllis, with a score
Of Phylifes and Delias more.
Or as the whim of paflion burns,
Can court each frolic muse by turns ;
Nor shall one word of blame be said,
Altho' he take them all to bed.
The muse detests coquettry's guilt,
Nor apes the manners of a jilt.

Jilt ! O dishonest hateful name,
Your sex's pride, your sex's shame.
Which often bait their treacherous hook
With smile endearing, winning look,
And wind them in the easy heart
Of man, with most ensnaring art,
Only to torture and betray
The wretch they mean to cast away.
No doubt 'tis charming pleasant angling
To see the poor fond creatures dangling,
Who ruch like gudgeons to the bait,
And gorge the mischief they should hate.
Yet lure such cruelties deface
Your virtues of their faireft grace.

Vol. VIII.

And pity, which in woman's breast,
Should swim at top of all the rest,
Mult such insidious sport condemn,
Which play to you, is death to them.

So have I often read or heard,
Though both upon a trav'llers word,
(Authority may pass it down,
So, vide TRAVEIS, by Ed. Brown)
At Metz, a dreadful engine stands,
Form'd like a maid, with folded hands,
Which finely drest, with primmest grace,
Receives the cuiprit's first embrace ;
But at the second (dismal wonder !)
Unfolds, clafps, cuts his heart asunder.

You'll say, perhaps I love to rail, We'll end the matter with a tale.

A Robin once, who lov'd to fray, And hop about from spray to spray, Familiar as the folks were kind, Nor thought of mischief in his mind, Slight favours make the bold presume, Would flutter round the lady's room, And careless often take his it and Upon the lovely Flavia's hand. The nymph, 'tis said, his freedom fought,

- In short, the trifling fool was caught ; And happy in the fair one's grace,

Would not accept an Eagle's place: And while the nymph was kind as fair,

With'd not to gain his native air, But thought he bargain'd to his cost, To gain the liberty he lost.

I ill at the last, a fop was seen,
A parrot, dress'd in red and green,
Who could not boast one genuine note,
But chatter'd, swore and lyd-by rote.
“ Nonsense and noise will oft prevail,
" When honour and affection fail.”
The lady lik'd her foreign guest,
For novelty will please the best ;
And whether it is lace or fan,
Or filk, or china, bird or man,
None fure can think it wrong, or trange,
That ladies Tould admire a change.

The Parrut now came into play,
The Rabin! he had had his day,
But could not brook the nymph's disdain,
So fled and ne'er came back again.

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Precisely when your bones frould ache,
And when grow found! by th' almanack.
For he knew ev'ry thing, d’ye see,
By, what d'ye call't, atrology,
And skill'd in all the starry system,
Foretold events, and often mist'em.
And then it griev'd me sore to look
Just at the heel-piece of his book,
Where stood a man, Lord bless my heart !
(No doubt by matthew maticks art,)
Naked, expos'd to public view,
And darts Ituck in him through and through.
I warrant him fome hardy fool,
Who scorn'd to follow wisdom's rule,
And dar'd blasphemously despise
Our doctor's knowledge in the skies.
Full dearly he abides his laugh,
I'm sure 'tis SWIFT, or BICKERSTAFF.

Excuse this bit of a digression,
A cobler's is a learni'd profession.
Why may not I too couple rhimes ?
My wit will not disgrace the times;
I too, forsooth, among the reit,
Claim one advantage, and the best,
I scarce know writing, have no reading,
Nor any kind of scholar breeding ;
And wanting that's the sole foundation
Of half your poets' reputation.
While genius, perfect at its birth,
Springs up, like mushrooms from the earth.

You know they send me to and fro
To carry messages or so ;
And though I'm somewhat old and crazy,
I'm still of service to the lazy,
For our good squire has no great notion
Of much alacrity in motion,
And when there's miles betwixt you know
Would rather Jend by half than go ;
Then I'm dispatch'd to travel hard,
And bear myself by way of card.
I'm a two-legg'd excuse to show
Why other people cannot go ;
And merit sure I must affume,
For once I went in GARRICK's room.

In my old age, 'twere wond’rous hard
To come to town, as trav'lling card,
Then let the post convey me there,
The clerk's dire&ion tell him where,
For, though I ramble at this rate
He writes it all, and I dietate;
For I'm resolv'd-by help of neighbour;
(Who keeps a school, and goes to labour)

To tell you all things as they past;
Coblers will go beyond their last,
And so I'm told will authors too,
-But that's a point I leave to you ;
Cobbling extends a thousand ways,
Some cobble shoes, some cobble plays į
Some--but this jingle's vastly clever,
It makes a body write for ever.
While with the motion of the pen,
METHOD pops in and out again,
So, as I said, I thought it better,
To set me down and think a letter,
And without any more ado,
Seal up my mind, and send it you,
You'll ask me, master, why I chuse
To plague your worship with my male?

I'll tell you then.--will truth offend !
Though cobler, yet I love my friend.
Besides, I like you merty folks,
Who make their puns, and crack their jokes ;
Your jovial hearts are never wrong,
I love a story, or a long ;
But always feel most grievous qualms,
From WESLEY's hymns, or WISDOM's psalms*.

My father often told me, one day
Was for religion that was Sunday,
When I should go to prayers twice,
And hear our parfon battle vice;
And dress’d in all my finest cloaths,
Twang the psalmoddy through my nose.
But betwixt churches, for relief,
Eat bak'd plumb-pudding, and roast-beef;
And cheartul, without fin, regale
With good home-brew'd, and nappy ale,
But not one word of fafting greetings,
And dry religious singing meetings.
But here comes folks a-preaching to us
A saving doctrine to undo us,
Whose notions fanciful and scurvy,
Turn old religion topsy-turvy.
I'll give my pleasure up for no mani
And an't I right now, master Sxow-MAN?
You seem'd to me a person civil,
Our parfon gives you to the devil ;
And says, as how, that after grace,
You laugh'd directly in his face ;
Ay, laugh'd out-right (as I'm a linner)
I should have lik'd to have been at dinner,
Not for the sake of master's fare,
But to have seen the doctor stare,
Odzooks, I think, he's perfect mad,
Scar'd out of all the wits he had,
For wherefoc'er the doctor comes,
He pulls his wig, and bites his thumbs,
And mutters, in a broken rage,
The MINOR, GARRICK, FOOT!, the STAGE,
(For I must blab it out-but hilt,
His reverence is a methodift)
And preaches like an errant fury,
'Gainst all your show folks about DRURY,
Says actors all are hellish imps,
And managers the devil's pimps.

He knows not what he sets about;
Puts on his surplice inside out,
Mistakes the lessons in the church,
Or leaves a collect in the lurch ;

And tóther day--God help his head;
The gardener's wife being brought to bed,
When sent for to baptize the child
His wig awry, and staring wild,
He laid the prayer-book flat before him,
And read the burial service o'er him.
-The folks must wait without their shoes,
For 1 muft tell you all the news.
For we have had a deal to do,
Our squire's become a show-man too!
And horse and foot arrive in Alocks
To see his worship’s famous rocks,
Whilst, he with humourous delight,
Walks all about and shews the fighty

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Points out the place, where trembling you
Had like t have bid the world adieu ;
It bears the fad remembrance till,
And people call it GARRICK'S Hill.
The goats cheir usual distance keep,
We never have recourse to sheep ;
And the whole scene wants nothing now,
Except your ferry-boat and cow.
I had a great deal more to say,
But I am sent express away,
To fetch the squire's three children down
To TISSINGTON from DERBY town;
And ALLIN says he'll mend my rhime,
When e'er I write a second time.

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[NUS'D to verse, and tir’d, Heav'n knows,

Of drudging on in heavy prose,
Day after day, year after year,
Which I have sent the GAZETTEER ;
Now, for the first time I essay
To write in your own easy way.
And now, O LLOYD, I wish I had,
To go that road your ambling pad,
While you, with all a puet's pride,
On the great horse of verse might ride.
You leave the road that's rough and stoney,
To pace and whistle with your poney ;
Sad proof to us you're lazy grown,
And fear to gall your huckle bone.
For he who rides a nag so small,
Will soon we fear, ride none at all.

There are, and nought gives more offence,
Who have some fay'rite excellence,
Which evermore they introduce,
And bring it into constant use.
Thus GARRICK still in sv'ry part
Has pause, and attitude, and start :
The pause, I will allow, is good,
And so, perhaps, the attitude ;
The start tou's fine : but if not scarce,
The tragedy becomes a farce.

I have too, pardon me, sume quarrel,
With other branches of your laurel.
I hate the stile, that still defends
Yourself, or praises all your friends,
As if the club of wits was met
To make eulogiums on the Set;
Say, must the town for ever hear,
And no Reviewer dare to sneer,
Of THORNTOS's humour, GARRICK's nature,
And COLMAN's wit, and CHURCHILL's satire ;
CHURCHILL, who--let it not offend,
If I make free, though he's your friend,
And sure we cannot want excuse,
When CHURCHILL nam’d for smart abuse
CHURCHILL ! who ever loves to raise
On Nander’s dung his mushroom bays :

The priest, I grant, has something clever,
A something that will last for ever :
Let him, in part, be made your pattern,
Whose muse, now queen, and now a Nattern,
Trick'd out in Rosciap rules the roaft,
Turns trapes and trollop in the Ghost,
By turns both tickles us, and warms,
And, drunk or sober, has her charms.

GARRICK, to whom with lath and plaister
You try to raise a fine pilatter,
And found on LEAR and MACBETH,
His monument e'en after death,
GARRICK's a dealer in grimaces,
A haberdasher of wry faces,
A hypocrite, in all his stages,
Who laughs and cries for hire and wages;
As undertakers' men draw grief
From onion in their handkerchief,
Like real mourners cry and sob,
And of their passions make a job.

And COLMAN too, that little finner,
That essay-weaver, drama - spinner,
Too much the comic Sock will use,
For 'tis the law must find him Shoes,
And though he thinks on fame's wide ocean
He swims, and has a pretty motion,
Inform him, LLOYD, for all his grin
That HARRY FIELDING holds his chin.

Now higher foar, my muse, and higher,
To BONNEL THORNTON, hight Esquire !
The only man to make us laugh,
A very Peter PARAGRAPH ;
The grand conducter and adviser
In CHRONICLE, and ADVERTISIR,
Who still delights to run his rig
On Citizen and Perritvig !
Good sense, I know, though dash'd with oddity,
In THORNTON is no scarce commodity :
Much learning too I can descry,
Beneath his perriwig doth lie.

I beg his pardon, I declare,
His grizzle's gone for greasy hair,
Which now the wag with ease can some,
With dirty ribband in a queue
But why neglect (his trade forsaking
For fcribbling, and for merry-making,)
With tye to overshade that brain,
Which might have shewn in WARWICK-LANI?
Why not, with spectacles on nose,
In chariot lazily repose,
A formal, pompous, deep physician,
HIMSELF A SIGN-POST EXHIBITION ?

But hold, my Muse! you run a-head:
And where's the clue that shall unthread
The maze, wherein you are entangled ?
While out of tune the bells are jangled
Through rhimes rough road that serve to deck
My jaded Pegasus his neck.
My muse with Lloyd alone contends :
Why then fall foul upon his friends ?
Unless to shew like handy-dandy,
Or CHURCHILL'S GHOST, or TRISTRAN SHAN,

DY.
Now here, now there, with quick progression,
How smartly you can make digression :
Your rambling spirit now confine,
And speak to LLOYD in ev'ry line,

2 D2

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Tell me then, LLOYD, what is't you mean
By cobbling up a MAGAZINE?
A MAGAZINE, a wretched Olio
Purloin'd from quarto and from folio,
From Pamphlet, New3-paper, and Book ;
Which tost up by a monthly cook,
Borrows fine shapes, and titles new,
Of fricafee or rich ragout,
Which dunces dress, as well as you.

Say, is't for you, your wit to coop,
And tumble through this narrow hoop ?
The body thrives, and so the mind,
When both are free and unconfin'd;
But harness'd in like hackney tit,
To run the inonthly stage of wit,
The racer tumbles in the shaft,
And shews he was not meant for draft.
Pot-bellied gluttons, Naves of taite,
Who bind in leathern belt their waist,
Who lick their lips at ham or haunch,
But hate to see the strutting paunch
Full often rue the pain that's felt
From circumscription of the belt.
Thus women too we ideots call,
Who lace their shapes too close and small.
Tight stays, they find, oft end in humps,
And take, too late, alas ! to jumps.
The chinese ladies cramp their feet,
Which seem, indeed, buth small and neat,
While the dear creatures laugh and talk,
And can do every thing—but walk;
Thus you, " who trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe,"
And in the Ring are never seen,
Or Rotten-Row of Magazine,
Will cramp your muse in four-foot verse,
And find at last your ease your carse.
Clio already humbly begs
You'd give her leave to stretch her legs,
For though fometimes she takes a leap,
Yet quadrupeds can only creep.

While Namby-Pamby thus you scribble,
Your manly genius a mere fribble,
Pinn'd down, and sickly, cannot vapour,
Nor dares to spring, or cut a caper.

Rouse then, for shame, your ancient spirit !
Write a great work! a work of merit !
The conduct of your friend examine,
And give a PROPHECY OF FAMINE ;
Or like yourself, in days of yore,
Write ACTORS, as you did before :
Write what may pow'rful friends create you.
And make your present friends all hate you.
Learn not a shuffing, shambling, pace,
But go erect with manly grace ;
For Ovid says, and pr'y thee heed it,
Os homini sublime dedit,
But if you still waite all your prime
In spinning Lilliputian rhyme,
Too long your genius will lie fallow,
"And ROBERT LLOYD be ROBERT SHALLOW.

RING paper, Ath, and let me send

M; hearty service to my friend.
How pure the paper looks and white !
What pity 'tis that folks will write,
And on the face of candour scrawl
With desperate ink, and heart of gall!
Yet thus it often fares with those
Who, gay and easy in their prose,
Incur ill-natures ugly crime,
And lay about 'em in their rhyme.

No man more generous, frank and kind,
Of more ingenuous social mind,
Than CHURCHILL, yet though CHURCHILL beso
I will pronounce him ton severe,
For, whether scribbled ator not,
He writes no name without a blot.

Yet let me urge one honeft plea?
Say, is the Muse in fault or He?
The man, whose genius thirsts for praise,
Who boldly plucks, not waits the bays;
Who drives his rapid car along,
And feels the energy of fong;
Writes, from the impulse of the Muse,
What sober reason might refuse.

My Lord, who lives and writes at ease,
(Sure to be pleas'd, as sure to please)
And draws from silver-Stand his pen,
To scribble sonnets now and then ;
Who writes not what he truly feels,
But rather what he Nily steals,
And patches up in courtly phrase,
The manly sense of better days ;
Whose dainty Muse is only kist;
But as his dainty lordship lift,
Who treats her like a Mistress ftill,
To turn her off and keep at will;
Knows not the labour, pains and strife,
Of him who takes the Muse to Wife.
For then the poor good-natur'd man
Muft bear his burden as he can;
And if my lady prove a shrew,
What would you have the husband do?

Say, should he thwart her inclination
To work his own, and her vexation?
Or giving madam all her rein,
Make marriage but a filken chain ?
Thus we, who lead puetic lives,
The hen-peck'd culls of vixen wives,
Receive their orders, and obey,
Like husbands in the common way:
And when we write with too much phlegm,
The fault is not in us, but them :
True fervants always at command,
We hold the pen ; they guide the hand.

Why need I urge fo plain a fact
To you who catch me in the act ?
And see me, (ere I've said my grace,
That is, put Sir in proper place,
Or with epistolary bow,
Have prefàc'd, as I scarce know how.)

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