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And those above, like those below,
Deal frequently in outside show,
And always to keep up parade,
Have a smile by them ready made.

The forms, which ladies when they meet
Must for good manners' sake repeat,
As "humble servant, how d'you do,"
And in return, " pray how are you?"
Enrich'd at ev'ry proper space
With due integuments of lace,
As madam, grace, and goddeship,
Which we for brevity shall skip,
Happily past, in elbow-chair
At length our ladies seated are.

Indiffrent subjects first they choose,
And talk of weather and the news.
That done, they sit upon the state,
And snarl at the decrees of Fate,
Invectives against Jove are hurl'd,
And they alone should rule the world.
Dull politics at length they quit,
And by ill-nature show their wit;
For hand in hand, too well we know,
These intimates are said to go,
So that where either doth preside
T'other's existence is implied.
The man of wit, so men decree,
Must without doubt ill-natur'd be;
And the ill-natur'd scarce forgets
To rank himself among the wits.
Malicious Venus, who by rote
Had ev'ry little anecdote,
And most minutely could advance
Each interesting circumstance,
Which unto all intrigues related,
Since Jupiter the world created,
Display'd her eloquence with pride,
Hinted, observ'd, enlarg'd, applied;
And not the reader to detain
With things impertinent and vain,
She did, as ladies do on Earth
Who cannot bear a rival's worth,
In such a way each tale rehearse

As good made bad, and bad made worse:
Cæcilia too, with saint-like air,
But lately come from evening pray'r,
Who knew her duty, as a saint,
Always to pray, and not to faint,
And, rain or shine, her church ne'er mist,
Prude, devotee, and methodist,
With equal zeal the cause promoted,
Misconstru'd things, and words misquoted,
Misrepresented, misapplied,
And, Inspiration being her guide,
The very heart of man dissected,
And to his principles objected.
Thus, amongst us, the sanctified,
In all the spirituals of pride,

Whose honest consciences ne'er rested,
Till, of carnalities divested,

They knew and felt themselves t'inherit
A double portion of the spirit:
Who from one church to t'other roam,
Whilst their poor children starve at home,
Consid'ring they may claim the care
Of Providence, who sent them there,
And therefore certainly is tied
To see their every want supplied;
Who unto preachers give away,
That which their creditors should pay,

A TALE.

And hold that chosen vessels must
Be generous before they're just,
And that their charity this way

Shall bind o'er Heaven their debts to pay,
And serve their temp'ral turn, no doubt,
Better than if they'd put it out,

Whilst nought hereafter can prevent
Their sure reward of cent per cent;
Who honest labour scorn, and say
None need to work who love to pray,
For Heav'n will satisfy their cravings,
By sending of Elijah's ravens,

Or rain down, when their spirits fail,
A dish of manna, or a quail;

Who from Moorfields to Tottenham Court
In furious fits of zeal resort,

Praise what they do not understand,
Turn up the eye, stretch out the hand,
Melt into tears, whilst

blows

The twang of nonsense through his nose, deals in speculation,

Or

Or

Or

hums his congregation,

talks with the lord of hosts,
with pillars and with posts;
Who strictly watch, lest Satan shou'd,
Roaring like lion for his food,
Ensnare their feet his fatal trap in,
And their poor souls be taken napping;
Who strictly fast, because they find,
The flesh still wars against the mind,
And flesh of saints, like sinner's, must
Be mortified, to keep down lust;
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 Salvation's seal,
And will not, must not, dare not doubt,
That Heav'n itself can't blot it out;
After they've done their holy labours,
Return to scandalize their neighbours,
And think they can't serve Heav'n so 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 spite,
And think they raise their own renown
By pulling of a neighbour's down;
Still lying on with most success,
Because they charity profess,
And make the outside of religion,
Like Mahomet's inspiring pigeon,
To all their forgeries gain credit,
'Tis enough sure that
said it.
"But what can all this rambling mean?
Was ever such an hodge-podge seen?
Venus, Cæcilia, saints and whores,
Thomas, Vertú, bells, knockers, doors,
Lords, rogues, relations, ladies, cits,

Stars, flambeaux, thunderbolts, horns, wits,
Vulcan, and cuckold-maker, scandal,
Music, and footmen, ear of Hand',

85

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Flesh, spirit, love, hate, and religion,
A quail, a raven, and a pigeon,
All jumbled up in one large dish,
Red-herring, bread, fowl, flesh, and fish.

"Where's the connection, where's the plan? The devil sure is in the man.

All in an instant we are hurl'd

From place to place all round the world,
Yet find no reason for it"-Mum-
There, my good critic, lies the hum-
"Well, but methinks, it would avail
To know the end of this"-A TALE.

SHAKSPEARE;

AN EPISTLE TO MR. GARRICK.

THANKS to much industry and pains,
Much twisting of the wit and brains,
Translation has unlock'd the store,
And spread abroad the Grecian lore,
While Sophocles his scenes are grown
E'en as familiar as our own.

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

Critic, I hear thy torrent rage,
""Tis blasphemy against that stage,
Which Eschylus his warmth design'd,
Euripides his taste refin'd,

And Sophocles his last direction
Stamp'd with the signet 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 rushlights 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 chase.
Whether the drama's here or there,
'Tis Nature, Shakspeare, every where.
The poet's fancy can create,
Contract, enlarge, annihilate,
Bring past and present close together,
In spite of distance, seas, or weather;

And shut up in a single action

What cost whole years in its transaction.
So, ladies at a play, or rout,
Can flirt the universe about,
Whose geographical account

Is drawn and pictured on the mount:
Yet, when they pleases, contract the plan,
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,

Is pilf'ring from the first creation;
Transplanting flowers, with useless toil,
Which wither in a foreign soil.
As conscience often sets us right
By its interior active light,
Without th' assistance of the laws
To combat in the moral cause;
So genius, of itself discerning,
Without the mystic rules of learning,
Can, from its present intuition,
Strike at the truth of composition.

Yet those who breathe the classic vein,
Enlisted in the mimic train,
Who ride their steed with double bit,
Ne'er 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 manners, ornaments, and diction,
And with a jargon of hard names,
(A privilege which dulness claims,
And merely us'd by way of fence,
To keep out plain and common sense)
Extol the wit of ancient days,
The simple fabric of their plays;
Then from the fable, all so chaste,
Trick'd up in ancient-modern taste,
So mighty gentle all the while,
In such a sweet descriptive style,
While chorus marks the servile mode
With fine reflection, in an ode,
Present you with a perfect piece,
Form'd on the model of old Greece.
Come, pr'ythee critic, set before us,
The use and office of a Chorus.
What! silent! why then, I'll produce
Its services from ancient use.

'Tis to be ever on the stage,
Attendants upon grief or rage;
To be an arrant go-between,
Chief-mourner at each dismal scene;
Showing 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 symphony of woes.

Doubtless the ancients want the art To strike at once upon the heart:

Or why their prologues of a mile
In simple call it-humble style,
In unimpassion'd phrase to say,
"Fore the beginning of this play,
1, hapless Polydore, was found
By fishermen, or others, drown'd!"
Or" I, a gentleman, did wed,
The lady I wou'd never bed,
Great Agamemnon's royal daughter,
Who's coming hither to draw water."
Or need the Chorus to reveal
Reflections, which the audience feel;
And jog them, lest attention sink,
To tell them how and what to think?

Oh, where's the bard, who at one view
Could 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 horrour, 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.

AN EPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL,
AUTHOR OF THE ROSCIAD.

If at a tavern, where you'd wish to dine,
They cheat your palate with adulterate wine,
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'll infer, and sure the doctrine's true,
Which says, "No quarter to a foul review."
It matters not who vends the nauseous slop,
Master or 'prentice; we detest the shop.

Critics of old, a manly liberal race,
Approv'd or censur'd with an open face:
Boldly pursu'd the free decisive task,

Nor stabb'd, conceal'd beneath a ruffian's mask.
To works, not men, with honest warmth, severe,
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 flame;
To bring forth merit in its strongest light,
Or damn the blockhead to his native night.
Put, 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, sought their honour'd

graves,

Behold a weak enervate race of slaves.

In classic lore, deep science, language dead,
Though modern withings 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'r.
Now quack and critic differ but in name,
Empirics frontless both, they mean the same;
This raw in physic, that in letters fresh,
Both spring, like warts, excrescence from the
flesh:

Half form'd, half bred in printers' hireling schools,
For all professions have their rogues and fools,
Though the pert witling, or the coward knave,
Casts no reflection on the wise or brave.

Yet, in these leaden times, this idle age, When, blind with dulness, or as blind with rage, Author 'gainst author rails with venom curst, And happy he who calls out "blockhead" first; From the low Earth aspiring genius springs, And sails triumphant, born on eagle wings. No toothless spleen, no venom'd critic's aim, Shall rob thee, Churchill, of thy proper fame; While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous rhyme, Fool lives, and shines out fool to latest time.

Pity perhaps might wish a harmless fool
To scape th' observance of the critic school;
But if low Malice, leagu'd with Folly, rise,
Arm'd with invectives, and hedg'd round with lies;
Should wakeful Dulness, if she ever wake,
Write sleepy nonsense but for writing's sake,
And, stung with rage, and piously severe,
Wish bitter comforts to your dying ear;

If some small wit, some silk-lin'd verseman, rakes,
For quaint reflections, in the putrid jakes,
Talents usurp'd demand a censor's rage,
A dunce is dunce proscrib'd in ev'ry age.

Courtier, physician, lawyer, parson, cit,
All, all are objects of theatric wit.
Are ye then, actors, privileg'd alone,
To make that weapon, ridicule, your own?
Professions bleed not from his just attack,
Who laughs at pedant, coxcomb, knave, or quack;
Fools on and off the stage are fools the same,
And every dunce is satire's lawful game. [room,
Freely you thought, where thought has freest
Why then apologise? for what? to whom?

Though Gray's-Inn wits with author squires
unite,

And self-made giants club their labour'd mite,
Though pointless satire make its weak escape,
In the dull babble of a mimic ape,

Boldly pursue where genius points the way,
Nor heed what monthly puny critics say.
Firm in thyself, with calm indifference smile,
When the wise vet'ran knows you by your style,
With critic scales weighs out the partial wit,
What I, or you, or he, or no one writ;
Denying thee thy just and proper worth,
But to give Falshood's spurious issue birth;
And all self-will'd with lawless hand to raise
Malicious Slander on the base of Praise.

Disgrace eternal wait the wretch's name
Who lives on credit of a borrow'd fame;
Who wears the trappings of another's wit,
Or fathers bantlings which he could not get!
But shrewd Suspicion with her squinting eye,
To truth declar'd, prefers a whisper'd lie.
With greedy mind the proffer'd tale believes,
Relates her wishes, and with joy deceives.

The world, a pompous name, by custom due To the small circle of a talking few,

1 The author takes this opportunity, notwithstanding all insinuations to the contrary, to declare, that he has no particular aim at a gentle-With heart-felt glee th' injurious tale repeats, man, whose ability he sufficiently acknowledges.

And sends the whisper buzzing through the streets.

The prude demure, with sober saint-like air,
Pities her neighbour, for she's wondrous fair.
And when temptations lie before our feet,
Beauty is frail, and females indiscreet:
She hopes the nymph will every danger shun,
Yet prays devoutly that the deed were done.
Mean time sits watching for the daily lie,
As spiders Jurk to catch a single fly.

Yet is not scandal to one sex confin'd, Though men would fix it on the weaker kind. Yet, this great lord, creation's master, man, Will vent his malice where the blockhead can, Imputing crimes, of which e'en thought is free, For instance now, your Rosciad, all to me.

If partial friendship, in thy sterling lays, Grows all too wanton in another's praise, [known, Critics, who judge by ways themselves have Shall swear the praise, the poem is my own; For 't is the method in these learned days For wits to scribble first, and after praise. Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched stuff, And help out nonsense by a monthly puff, Exalt to giant forms weak puny elves, And descant sweetly on their own dear selves; For works per month by Learning's midwives paid, Demand a puffing in the way of trade.

Reserv'd and cautious, with no partial aim
My Muse e'er sought to blast another's fame.
With willing hand could twine a rival's bays,
From candour silent where she could not praise:
But if vile rancour, from (no matter who)
Actor, or mimic, printer, or review;

Lies, oft o'erthrown, with ceaseless venom spread,
Still hiss out scandal from their hydra head;
If the dull malice boldly walk the town,
Patience herself would wrinkle to a frown.
Come then with justice draw the ready pen,
Give me the works, I would not know the men:
All in their turns might make reprisals too,
Had all the patience but to read them through.
Come, to the utmost, probe the desperate wound,
Nor spare the knife where'er infection's found!

But, Prudence, Churchill, or her sister, Fear,
Whispers" forbearance" to my fright'ned ear.
Oh! then with me forsake the thorny road,
Lest we should flounder in some Fleet-ditch Ode,
And sunk for ever in the lazy flood
Weep with the Naiads heavy drops of mud.

Hail mighty Ode! which like a picture-frame, Holds any portrait, and with any name; Or, like your nitches, planted thick and thin, Will serve to cram the random hero in. Hail mighty bard too-whatso'er thy name, -2 or Durfy, for it's all the same. To brother bards shall equal praise belong, For wit, for genius, comedy and song? No costive muse is thine, which freely rakes With ease familiar in the well-known jakes, Happy in skill to souse through foul and fair, And toss the dung out with a lordly air. So have I seen, amidst the grinning throng, The sledge procession slowly dragg'd along. Where the mock female shrew and hen-peck'd male Scoop'd rich contents from either copious pail, Call'd bursts of laughter from the roaring rout, And dash'd and splash'd the filthy grains about.

2 Murphy, who long waged unequal war with Churchill, Lloyd, and Co. C.

Quit then, my friend, the Muses' lov'd abode, Alas! they lead not to preferment's road. Be solemn, sad, put on the priestly frown, Be dull! 'tis sacred, and becomes the gown. Leave wit to others, do a Christian deed, [need. Your foes shall thank you, for they know their

Broad is the path by learning's sons possess'd, A thousand modern wits might walk abreast, Did not each poet mourn his luckless doom, Jostled by pedants out of elbow room.

I, who nor court their love, nor fear their hate,
Must mourn in silence o'er the Muse's fate.
No right of common now on Pindus' hill,
While all our tenures are by critics' will;
Where, watchful guardians of the lady Muse,
Dwell monstrous giants, dreadful tall Reviews,
Who, as we read in fam'd romance of yore,
Sound but a horn, press forward to the door:
But let some chief, some bold advent'rous knight,
Provoke these champions to an equal fight,
Straight into air to spaceless nothing fall
The castle, lions, giants, dwarf and all.

Ill it befits with undiscerning rage,
To censure giants in this polish'd age.
No lack of genius stains these happy times,
No want of learning, and no dearth of rhymes.
The see-saw Muse that flows by measur'd lag,
In tuneful numbers, and affected pause,
With sound alone, sound's happy virtue fraught,
Which hates the trouble and expense of thought,
Once, every moon throughout the circling year,
With even cadence charms the critic ear.
While, dire promoter of poetic sin,
A Magazine must hand the lady in.

[well,

How moderns write, how nervous, strong and The Anti-Rosciad's decent Muse does tell: Who, while she strives to cleanse each actor hurt, Daubs with her praise, and rubs him into dirt. Sure never yet was happy era known So gay, so wise, so tasteful as our own. Our curious histories rise at once complete, Yet still continued, as they're paid, per sheet.

See every science which the world would know, Your magazines shall every month bestow, Whose very titles fill the mind with awe, Imperial, Christian, Royal, British, Law; Their rich contents will every reader fit, Statesman, divine, philosopher, and wit; Compendious schemes! which teach all things at And make a pedant coxcomb of a dunce. [once, But let not anger with such frenzy grow, Drawcansir like, to strike down friend and foe, To real worth be homage duly paid, But no allowance to the paltry trade. My friends I name not (though I boast a few, To me an honour, and to letters too) [pose, Fain would I praise, but, when such things opMy praise of course must make them 's foes.

If manly Johnson, with satyric rage, Lash the dull follies of a trifling age, If his strong Muse with genuine strength aspire, Glows not the reader with the poet's fire? His the true fire, where creep the witling fry To warm themselves, and light their rushlights by. What Muse like Gray's shall pleasing pensive Attemper'd sweetly to the rustic woe? Or who like him shall sweep the Theban lyre, And, as his master, pour forth thoughts of fire? E'en now to guard afflicted Learning's cause, To judge by reason's rules, and Nature's laws,

[flow

Boast we true critics in their proper right, While Lowth and Learning, Hurd and Taste unite.

Hail sacred names!-Oh guard the Muse's

page,

Save your lov'd mistress from a ruffian's rage;
See how she gasps and struggles hard for life,
Her wounds all bleeding from the butcher's knife:
Critics, like surgeons, blest with curious art,
Should mark each passage to the human heart,
But not, unskilful, yet with lordly air,
Read surgeon's lectures while they scalp and tear.

To names like these I pay the hearty vow,
Proud of their worth, and not asham'd to bow.
To these inscribe my rude, but honest lays,
And feel the pleasures of my conscious praise:
Not that I mean to court each letter'd name,
And poorly glimmer from reflected fame,
But that the Muse, who owns no servile fear,
Is proud to pay her willing tribute here.

EPISTLE TO J. B. ES2. 1757.

AGAIN I urge my old objection,
That modern rules obstruct perfection,
And the severity of taste

Has laid the walk of genius waste.
Fancy's a flight we deal no more in,
Our authors creep instead of soaring,
And all the brave imagination
Is dwindled into declamation.

But still you cry in sober sadness,
"There is discretion e'en in madness."
A pithy sentence, which wants credit!
Because I find a poet said it:

Their verdict makes but small impression,
Who are known liars by profession.
Rise what exalted flights it will,
True genius will be genius still;

And say, that horse would you prefer,
Which wants a bridle or a spur?
The mettled steed may lose his tricks;
The jade grows callous to your kicks.

Had Shakspeare crept by modern rules,
We'd lost his witches, fairies, fools:
Instead of all that wild creation,
He'd form'd a regular plantation,
A garden trim, and all enclos'd,
In nicest symmetry dispos'd,
The hedges cut in proper order,
Nor e'en a branch beyond the border:
Now like a forest he appears,

The growth of twice three hundred years;
Where many a tree aspiring shrouds
Its airy summits in the clouds,
While round its root still love to twine
The ivy or wild eglantine.

"But Shakspeare's all creative fancy
Made others 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 rise,
like flies?
And buzz about, in swarms,
Fashion, that sets the modes of dress,
Sheds too her influence o'er the press:

As formerly the sons of rhyme
Sought Shakspeare's fancy and sublime;
By cool correctness now they hope
To emulate the praise of Pope.
But Pope and Shaks eare both disclaim
These low retainers to their fame.

What task can Duiness e'er effect
So easy, as to write correct?
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 poise the scale
That neither measure will prevail,
And mediocrity the Muse

Did never in her sons excuse.

'Tis true, their 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-barber in the street,
Whose ruffle, as it lank depends,
And dangles o'er his fingers' ends,
His olive-tann'd complexion graces
With little dabs of Dresden laces,
While for the body monsieur Puff,
Would think e'en dowlas fine enough?
So fares it with our men of rhymes,
Sweet tinklers of poetic chimes.
For lace, and fringe, and tawdry clothes,
Sure never yet were greater beaux;
But fairly strip them to the shirt,
They're all made up of rags and dirt.

And shall these wretches bards commence, Without or spirit, taste, or sense?

And when they bring no other treasure,
Shall I admire them for their measure?
Or do I scori, 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 taste
Is ever manly, just, and chaste,
Who, like a skilful wise physician,
Dissects each part of composition,
And shows how beauty strikes the soul
From a just compact of the whole;
Though Judgment, in Quintillian's page,
Holds forth her lamp for ev'ry age;
Yet hypercritics 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,
Cry-"This is taste-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 d-n you, you shall pay for swearing."
Then turning, tell th' astonish'd ring,
"I sit to represent the king."

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