Nor be concern'd about the fale, He pays his workmen on the nail.

A prince, the moment he is crown'd, Inherits every virtue round,

As emblems of the fovereign power,
Like other baubles in the Tower;
Is generous, valiant, just, and wife,
And fo continues till he dies:
His humble fenate this profeffes,
In all their fpeeches, votes, addreffes.
But once you fix him in a tomb,
His virtues fade, his vices bloom;
And each perfection, wrong imputed,
Is fully at his death confuted.
The loads of poems in his praife,
Afcending, make one funeral blaze:
As foon as you can hear his knell,
This god on earth tens devil in hell:
And lo! his minifters of state,
Transform'd to imps, his levee wait;
Where, in the scenes of endless woe,
They ply their former arts below;
And, as they fail in Charon's boat,
Contrive to bribe the judge's vote;
To Cerberus they give a fop,
His triple-barking mouth to ftop;
Or in the ivory gate of dreams
Project excife and South-fea fchemes;
Or hire their party pamphleteers
To fet Elyfium by the ears.

Then, poet, if you mean to thrive,
Employ your mufe on kings alive;
With prudence gathering up a clufter
Of all the virtues you can mufter,
Which, form'd into a garland fweet,
Lay humbly at your monarch's feet;
Who, as the odours reach his throne,
Will fmile, and think them all his own;
For law and gefiel both determine
All virtues lodge in royal ermine :
(I mean the oracles of both,
Who fhall depofe it upon oath.)
Your garland in the following reign,
Change but the names, will do again.
But, if you think this trade too base,
(Which feldom is the dunce's cafe)
Put on the critic's brow, and fit
At Will's the puny judge of wit.
A nod, a fhrug, a fcornful fmile,
With caution us'd, may ferve a while.
Proceed no further in your part,
Before you learn the terms of art;
For you can never be too far gone
In all our modern critics' jargon:
Then talk with more authentic face
Of unities, in time and place;

Get fcraps of Horace from your friends,
And have them at your fingers' ends;
Learn Ariftotle's rules by rote,
And at all hazards boldly quote;
Judicious Rymer oft' review,
Wife Dennis, and profound Boffu;
Read all the prefaces of Dryden,
For thefe our critics much confide in
(Though merely writ at firft for filling,
To raife the volume's price a fhilling.)
A forward critic often dupes us
With fham quotations peri bupfous:

And if we have not read Longinus,
Will magifterially outfhine us.
Then, left with Greek he over-run ye,
Procure the book for love or money,
Tranflated from Boileau's tranflation,
And quote quotation on quotation.

At Will's you hear a poem read,
Where Battus from the table-head,
Reclining on his elbow-chair,
Gives judgment with decifive air;
To whom the tribe of circling wits
As to an oracle fubmits.

He gives directions to the town,
To cry it up, or run it down;
Like courtier, when they send a note,
Inftructing members how to vote.
He fets the stamp of bad and good,
Though not a word be understood.
Your leffon learn'd, you'll be fecure
To get the name of connoisseur :
And, when your merits once are known,
Procure difciples of your own.
For poets (you can never want 'em)
Spread through Augufta Trinobantum,
Computing by their pecks of coals,
Amount to juft nine thousand fouls:
Thefe o'er their proper diftricts govern,
Of wit and humour judges fovereign.
In every street a city-bard
Rules, like an alderman, his ward;
His undifputed rights extend
Through all the lane, from end to end;
The neighbours round admire his førewdness
For fongs of loyalty and lewdness ;
Outdone by none in rhyming well,
Although he never learn'd to fpell.

Two bordering wits contend for glory;
And one is Whig, and one is Tory:
And this for epics claims the bays,
And that for elegiac lays:

Some fam'd for numbers foft and smooth,
By lovers fpoke in Punch's booth;
And fome as juftly fame extols
For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls.
Bavius in Wapping gains renown,
And Mævius reigns o'er Kentish-town ;
Tigellius, plac'd in Phoebus' car,
From Ludgate fhines to Temple-bar:
Harmonious Cibber entertains
The court with annual birth-day firains;
Whence Gay was banifh'd in difgrace;
Where Pope will never fhow his face ;
Where Young muft torture his invention
To flatter knaves, or lofe his penfion.

Put these are not a thousandth part
Of jobbers in the poet's art,
Attending each his proper station,
And all in due fubordination,
Through every alley to be found,
In garrets high, or under ground;
And when they join their pericranies,
Out fkips a book of mifcellanies.
Hobbes clearly proves that every creature
Lives in a state of war by nature.
The greater for the smallest watch,
But meddle feldom with their match.
A whale of moderate fize will draw
A fhoal of herrings down his maw

every poet in his kind

Is bit by him that comes behind: Who, though too little to be feen,

Can teafe, and gall, and give the spleen;
Call dunces fools and fons of whores,
Lay Grub-street at each other's doors;
Extol the Greek and Roman mafters,
And curfe our modern poctasters;
Complain, as many an ancient bard did,
How genius is no more rewarded;
How wrong a tafte prevails among us;
How much our ancestors outfung us;
Can perfonate an awkward fcorn
For those who are not poets born;
And all their brother-dunces lafh,

Who crowd the prefs with hourly trash.

0 Grub-freet! how do I bemoan thee,

Whofe graceless children fcorn to own thee!
Their filial piety forgot,

Deny their country, like a Scot;
Though, by their idiom and grimace,
They foon betray their native place:
Yet the haft greater caufe to be
Afham'd of them, than they of thee,
Degenerate from their ancient brood,
Sace first the court allow'd them food.
Remains a difficulty ftill,

To purchafe fame by writing ill.
From Flecknee down to Howard's time,
How few have reach'd the low fublime!
for when our high-born Howard dy'd,
Blackmore alone his place fupply'd:
Azd, left a chasm fhould intervene,
When death had finifh'd Blackmore's reign,
The leadin croton devolv'd to thee,
Great poet of the the bollow tree.
Et ah! how unfecure thy throne!
A theuland bards thy right difown:
They plot to turn, in factious zeal,
Ducenia to a common weal;
And with rebellious arms pretend
An equal privilege to defcend.

In bulk there are not more degrees
from elephants to mites in cheese,
Than what a curious eye may trace
la creatures of the rhyming race.
From bad to worse, and worfe, they fall;
Ett who can reach the worst of all?
For though, in nature, depth, and height
Are equally held infinite;

in poetry, the height we know ;
only infinite Below.

For inftance, when you rafhly think,
No rhymer can like Welfted fink,
His merits balanc'd, you shall find
The laureat leaves him far behind.
Concannen, more afpiring bard,
Soars downwards deeper by a yard.
Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour drops:
The reft purfue as thick as hops.
With heads to points the gulf they enter,
Link'd perpendicular to the centre;
And, as their heels elated rife,
Their heads attempt the nether skies.
Oh, what indignity and fhame,
To proftitute the mufe's name!

By flattering kings, whom Heaven defign'♣
The plagues and fcourges of mankind;
Bred up in ignorance and floth,
And every vice that nurfes both.

Fair Britain, in thy monarch bleft,
Whofe virtues bear the ftricteft teft;
Whom never faction could befpatter,
Nor minifter nor poet flatter;
What juftice in rewarding merit!
What magnanimity of spirit!
What lineaments divine we trace
Through all his figure, mien, and face!
Though peace with olive bind his hands,
Confefs'd the conquering hero ftands.
Hydafpes, Indus, and the Ganges,
Dread from his hand impending changes.
From him the Tartar and Chinefe,
Short by the knees, entreat for peace.
The confort of his throne and bed,
A perfect goddefs born and bred,
Appointed fovereign judge to fit
On learning, eloquence, and wit.
Our eldest hope, divine lulus,
(Late, very late, oh may he rule us!)
What early manhood has he fhown,
Before his downy beard was grown!
Then think, what wonders will be done,
By going on as he begun,

An heir for Britain to fecure
As long as fun and moon endure.

The remnant of the royal blood
Comes pouring on me like a flood:
Bright goddeffes, in number five;
Duke William, fweeteft prince alive.
Now fing the minifter of flate,
Who fhines alone without a mate.
Obferve with what majestic port
This Atlas ftands to prop the court
Intent the public debts to pay,
Like prudent Fabius, by delay."
Thou great vicegerent of the king,
Thy praifes every mufe fhall fing!
In all affairs thou fole director,
Of wit and learning chief protector;
Though small the time thou haft to spare,
The church is thy peculiar care.
Of pious prelates what a flock
You choose, to rule the fable flock!
You raife the honour of your peerage,
Proud to attend you at the steerage.
You dignify the noble race,
Content yourself with humbler place.
Now, learning, valour, virtue, fense,
To titles give the fole pretence.

St. George beheld thee with delight
Vouchfafe to be an azure knight,
When on thy breasts and sides Herculean
He fix'd the far and firing cerulean.
Say, poet, in what other nation
Shone ever fuch a conftellation!

Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays,
And tune your harps, and strow your bays:
Your panegyrics here provide;
You cannot err on flattery's fide.
Above the stars exalt your style,
You ftill are low ten thousand mile.
On Lewis all his bards bestow'd
Of incenfe many a thousand load;
But Europe mortify'd his pride,
And swore the fawning rafcals ly'd.
Yet what the world refus'd to Lewis,
Apply'd to George, exactly true is.
Exactly true! invidious poet!
'Tis fifty thousand times below it.

Tranflate me now fome lines, if you can,
From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan.
They could all power in heaven divide,
And do no wrong on either fide;
They teach you how to split a hair,
Give George and Jove an equal share.
Yet why fhould we be lac'd so strait?
I'll give my monarch butter weight.
And reafon good; for many a year
Jove never intermeddled here:
Nor, though his priests be duly paid,
Did ever we desire his aid:

We now can better do without him,
Since Woolfton gave us arms to rout him,
Catera defiderantur.

HORACE, BOOK IV. ODE XIX, IMITATED.

TO HUMPHRY FRENCH, ESQ. 1733.

PATRON of the tuneful throng,

Oh! too nice, and too fevere! Think not that my country fong Shall displease thy honeft ear. Chofen ftrains I proudly bring;

Which the mufe's facred choir, When they gods and heroes fing, Dictate to th' harmonious lyre. Ancient Homer, princely bard!

Juft precedence ftill maintains;
With facred raptures ftill are heard
Theban Pindar's lofty strains.
Still the old triumphant fong,

Which, when hated tyrants fell,
Great Alcæus boldly fung,
Warns, instructs, and pleases well.
Nor has time's all-darkening shade
In obfcure oblivion prefs'd
What Anacreon laugh'd and play'd;
Gay Anacreon, drunken priest!

Lord Mayor of Dublin.

Gentle Sappho, love-fick mufe, Warms the heart with amorous fire; 'Still her tenderest notes infuse

Melting rapture, soft desire. Beauteous Helen, young and

gay,

By a painted fopling won,
Went not first, fair nymph, aftray,
Fondly pleas'd to be undone.

Nor young Teucer's flaughtering bow,
Nor bold Hector's dreadful fword.
Alone the terrors of the foe,

Sow'd the field with hostile blood.

Many valiant chiefs of old
Greatly liv'd and died, before
Agamemnon, Grecian bold,
Wag'd the ten years famous war.
But their names, unfung, unwept,
Unrecorded, loft and gone,
Long in endless night have flept,
And fhall now no more be known.
Virtue, which the poet's care

Has not well confign'd to fame,
Lies, as in the fepulchre

Some old king without a name.
But, O Humphry, great and free,
While my tuneful fongs are read,
Old forgetful time on thee

Dark oblivion ne'er shall spread.
When the deep-cut notes fhall fade
On the mouldring Parian stone,
On the brafs no more be read

The perifhing infcription;
Forgotten all the enemies,

Envious Gn's curfed fpite,
And P- -I's derogating lies,
Loft and funk in Stygian night;
Still thy labour and thy care,

What for Dublin thou hast done,
In full luftre fhall appear,

And outshine th' unclouded fun.

Large thy mind, and not untried,

For Hibernia now doth ftand;'
Through the calm, or raging tide,
Safe conducts the ship to land.
Falfely we call the rich man great;
He is only fo that knows
His plentiful or small eftate
Wifely to enjoy and use.
He, in wealth or poverty,

Fortune's power alike defies;
And falfehood and dishonesty

More than death abhors and flies:
Flies from death!-No, meets it brave
When the fuffering so severe
May from dreadful bondage fave'

Clients, friends, or country dear.
This the fovereign man, complete ;

Hero; patriot; glorious; free; Rich and wife; and good and great; Generous Humphry, thou art he

A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES.

BY DR. SHERIDAN. 1733.

"To make a writer miss his end,

"You've nothing else to do but mend."

1 OFTEN try'd in vain to find
Afimile for woman-kind,
A fimile I mean to fit 'em,

la every circumftance to hit 'em.

Through every bird and beast I went,
I ranfack'd every element;

And, after peeping through all nature,
To find fo whimfical a creature,
A cloud prefented to my view,
And ftrait this parallel I drew :

Clouds turn with every wind about;
They keep us in fufpenfe and doubt;
Yet oft perverfe, like woman-kind,
Are feen to feud against the wind:
And are not women just the fame ?
For, who can tell at what they aim?

Clouds keep the ftouteft mortals under,

When bellowing they difcharge their thunder:
So when th' alarum-bell is rung

Of Xanti's everlafting tongue,
The husband dreads its loudnefs more
Than lightning's flafh, or thunder's roar.
Clads weep, as they do, without pain;
And what are tears but women's rain;
The clouds about the welkin roam;
And ladies never ftay at home.

The clouds build caftles in the air,
thing peculiar to the fair;

For all the fchemes of their forecafting
Are not more folid, nor more lasting.
A dad is light by turns, and dark;
Sh is a lady with her fpark:
Now with a fudden pouting gloom
She feems to darken all the room;
Again the's pleas'd, his fears beguil'd,
And all is clear when the has fmil'd.
In this they're wondrously alike
hope the fimile will strike);

Though in the darkest dumps you view them,
Stay but a moment, you'll fee through them.
The clouds are apt to make reflection,
And frequently produce infection;
Calia, with fmall provocation,

every neighbour's reputation.
The clouds delight in gaudy show
(For they, like ladies, have their bow);
The graveft matron will confefs,
That the herfelf is fond of drefs.
Obferve the clouds in pomp array'd,
What various colours are difplay'd;
The pink, the rofe, the violet's dye,
In that great drawing-room the fky;
How do thefe differ from our graces,
la garden-filks, brocades and laces?
Are they not fach another fight,
When met upon a birth-day night?
The clouds delight to change their fashion:
(Dear ladies, be not in a paffion!)
Nor let this whim to you feem ftrange,
Who every hour delight in change.

In them and you alike are feen
The fullen fymptoms of the spleen;
The moment that your vapours rife,
We fee them dropping from your eyes.

In evening fair you may behold

The clouds are fring'd with borrow'd gold;
And this is many a lady's cafe,
Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.

Grave matrons are like clouds of fnow. Their words fall thick, and foft and flow; While brifk coquettes, like rattling hail, Our ears on every fide affail.

Clouds, when they intercept our fight, Deprive us of celeftial light: So when my Chloe I pursue, No heaven befides I have in view. Thus, on comparison, you see, In every inftance they agree, So like, fo very much the famé, That one may go by t'other's name. Let me proclaim it then aloud, That every woman is a cloud.

ANSWER BY DR. SWIFT.

PRESUMPTUOUs bard! how could you dare
A woman with a cloud compare?
Strange pride and infolence you show
Inferior mortals there below.
And is our thunder in your ears
So frequent or fo loud as theirs?
Alas! our thunder foon goes out;
And only makes you more devout,
Then is not female clatter worse,
That drives you not to pray but curse?
We hardly thunder thrice a-year;
The bolt difcharg'd, the fky grows clear's
But every fublunary dowdy,

The more the fcolds, the more fhe's cloudy.
Some critic may object, perhaps,
That clouds are blam'd for giving claps 3
But what, alas! are claps ætherial,
Compar'd for mischief to venereal?
Can clouds give buboes, ulcers, blotches,
Or from your nofes dig out notches?
We leave the body sweet and found;
We kill, 'tis true, but never wound.

You know a cloudy sky bespeaks
Fair weather when the morning breaks;
But women in a cloudy plight
Foretel a ftorm to laft till night.

A cloud in proper feafons pours
His bleffings down in fruitful fhowers;
But woman was by fate defign'd
To pour down curfes on mankind.

When Syrius o'er the welkin rages.
Our kindly help his fire affuages;
But woman is a curft inflamer,
No parifh ducking-ftool can tame her:
To kindle ftrife, dame nature taught her;
Like fire-works, fhe can burn in water.

For fickleness how durft you blame us,
Who for our conftancy are famous ?
You'll fee a cloud in gentle weather
Keep the fame face an hour together;
While women, if it could be reckon'd,
Change every feature every fecond.

Obferve our figure in a morning,
Of foul or fair we give you warning;
But can you guefs from woman's air
One minute, whether foul or fair?

Go read in ancient books inroll'd
What honours we poffefs'd of old.
To disappoint Ixion's rape,
Jove dreft a cloud in Juno's fhape;
Which when he had enjoy'd, he swore,
No goddefs could have pleas'd him more;
No difference could he find between
His cloud and Jove's imperial queen:
His cloud produc'd a race of Centaurs,
Fam'd for a thousand bold adventures;
From us defcended ab origine,

By learned authors call'd nubigena.

But fay, what earthly nymph do you know, So beautiful to pafs for Juno?

Before Æneas durft afpire

To court her majesty of Tyre,
His mother begg'd of us to drefs him,
That Dido might the more caress him :
A coat we gave him, dy'd in grain,
A flaxen wig and clouded cane

(The wig was powder'd round with fleet,
Which fell in clouds beneath his feet,
With which he made a tearing fhow;
And Dido quickly fmok'd the beau.

Among your females make inquiries,
What nymph on earth fo fair as Iris?
With heavenly beauty so endow'd?
And yet her father is a cloud.
We drest her in a gold brocade,
Befitting Juno's favourite maid.

'Tis known, that Socrates the wife
Ador'd us clouds as deities:
To us he made his daily prayers,
As Ariftophanes declares;
From Jupiter took all dominion,
And dy'd defending his opinion.
By his authority 'tis plain
You worship other gods in vain,
And from your own experience know
We govern all things there below.
You follow where we pleafe to guide;
O'er all your paffions we prefide,
Can raise them up, or fink them down,
As we think fit to fmile or frown:
And, juft as we difpofe your brain,
Are witty, dull, rejoice, complain.

Compare us then to female race!
We, to whom all the gods give place!
Who better challenge your allegiance,
Becaufe we dwell in higher regions!
You find the gods in Homer dwell
In feas and ftreams, or low as hell:
Ev'n Jove, and Mercury his pimp,
No higher climb than mount Olymp
(Who makes you think the clouds he pierces?
He pierce the clouds! he kifs their aes);
While we, o'er Teneriffa plac'd,

Are loftier by a mile at least:

And, when Apollo ftruts on Pindus,

We fee him from our kitchen-windows;

Or, to Parnaffus looking down,
Can pifs upon his laurel crown.

Fate never form'd the gods to fly;
In vehicles they mount the sky:

When Jove would some fair nymph inveigle,” He comes full gallop on his eagle.

Though Venus be as light as air,

She must have doves to draw her chair.
Apollo ftirs not out of door

Without his lacker'd coach and four.
And jealous Juno, ever fnarling,
Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin.
But we can fly where'er we pleate,
O'er cities, rivers, hills, and feas:
From eaft to weft the world we roam,
And in all climates are at home;
With care provide you, as we go,
With fun-fhine, rain, and hail, or fnow.
You, when it rains, like fools, believe
Jove piffes on you through a fieve:
An idle tale, 'tis no fuch matter;
We only dip a fponge in water;
Then fqueeze it clofe between our thumbs,
And fake it well, and down it comes.
As you fhall to your forrow know,
We'll watch your fteps where'er you go;
And, fince we find you walk a-foot,
We'll foundly fouce your frize-furtout.

"Tis but by our peculiar grace,
That Phoebus ever fhows his face :
For, when we pleafe, we open wide
Our curtains blue from fide to fide:
And then how faucily he shows
His brazen face and fiery nofe;
And gives himself a haughty air,
As if he made the weather fair!

'Tis fung, wherever Calia treads,
The violets ope their purple heads;
The roses blow, the cowflip fprings:
'Tis fung; but we know better things.
'Tis true, a woman on her mettle
Will often pifs upon a nettle;
But, though we own fhe makes it wetter,
The nettle never thrives the better;
While we, by foft prolific fhowers,
Can every fpring produce you flowers.

Your poets, Chloe's beauty heightening, Compare her radiant eyes to lightning; And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd, That lightning comes but from a cloud. But gods like us have too much fenfe At poet's flights to take offence: Nor can hyperboles demean us; Each drab has been compar'd to Venus. We own your verfes are melodious; But fuch comparisons are odious.