Could HERCULANEUM's friendly earth
Give MAVIUS' works a fecond birth,
MALEVOLENCE, with lifted eyes,
Would fanctify the noble prize.
While modern critics fhould behold
Their near relation to the old,
And wond'ring gape at one another,
To fee the likeness of a brother.
But with us rhiming moderns here,
Critics are not the only fear;
The poet's bark meets fharper fhocks
From other fands, and other rocks.
Not fuch alone who underftand, Whose book and memory are at hand, Who scientific skill profess,
And are great adepts
(Whether diftinguifh'd by degree,
They write A. M. or fign M. D.
Or make advances fomewhat higher
And take a new degree of 'SQUIRE.)
Who read your authors, Greek and Latin,
And bring you ftrange quotations pat in,
As if each sentence grew more terse
From odds and ends, and scraps of verse;
Who with true poetry dispense,
So focial found fuits fimple fenfe,
And load one Letter with the labours,
Which should be thar'd among its neighbours.
Who know that thought produces pain,
And deep reflection mads the brain,
And therefore, wife and prudent grown,
Have no ideas of their own.
But if the man of Nature speak
Advance their Bayonets of Greek,
And keep plain fenfe at fuch a distance,
She cannot give a friend affistance.
Not these alone in judgment rife,
And fhoot at genius as it flies,
But those who cannot fpell, will Talk,
As women fcold, who cannot walk.
Your man of habit, who's wound up
To eat and drink, and dine and fup,
But has not either will or pow'r
To break out of his formal hour;
Who lives by rule, and ne'er outgoes it;
Moves like a clock, and hardly knows it;
Who is a kind of breathing being,
Which has but half the pow'r of seeing;
Who ftands for ever on the brink,
Yet dare not plunge enough to think,
Nor has one reason to supply
Wherefore he does a thing, or why,
But what he does proceeds fo right,
You'd think him always guided by't;
Joins poetry and vice together
Like fun and rain in April weather,
Holds rake and wit as things the fame,
And all the difference but a NAME.
A Rake! Alas! how many wear
The brow of mirth, with heart of care!
The defperate wretch reflection flies,
And shuns the way where madness lies,
Dreads each increafing pang of grief,
And runs to FOLLY for relief.
There, 'midft the momentary joys
Of giddy mirth and frantic noise,
FORGETFULNESS, her eldeft born,
Smooths the World's hate, and blockhead's fcorn,
Then PLEASURE wins upon the mind,
Ye CARES, go whistle to the wind;
Then welcome frolic, welcome whim!
The world is all alike to him.
Diftrefs is all in apprehenfion;
It ceases, when 'tis paft prevention :
And happiness then preffes near,
When not a hope's left, nor a fear.
- But you've enough, nor want my preaching, And I was never form'd for teaching.
Male prudes we know, (those driv❜ling things) Will have their gibes, and taunts, and flings. How will the sober Cit abuse,
The fallies of the Culprit mufe;
To her and Poet shut the door—
And whip the beggar, with his whore?
a FOOL! a WRETCH! a KNAVE!
A mere mechanic dirty flave!
What is his verfe, but cooping fenfe
Within an arbitrary fence?
At best, but ringing that în rhime,
Which profe would fay in half the time?
Measure and numbers! what are thofe
But artificial chains for profe?
Which mechanism quaintly joins
In parallels of fee-faw lines.
And when the frifky wanton writes
In PINDAR'S (what d'ye call 'em) —
Th' uneven measure, fhort and tall,
Now rhiming twice, now not at all,
In curves and and angles twirls about,
Like Chinese railing, in and out.
Thus when you've labour'd hours on hours,
Cull'd all the sweets, cull'd all the flow'rs,
The churl, whofe dull imagination
Is dead to every fine sensation,
Too grofs to relifh nature's bloom,
Or tafte her fimple rich perfume,
Shall caft them by as ufelefs ftuff,
And fly with keeness to his
Look round the world, not one in ten Thinks Poets good, or honeft men.
'Tis true their conduct, not o'er nice, Sits often loose to easy vice.
Perhaps their Temperance will not pafs
The due rotation of the glass;
And gravity denies 'em pow'r
T'unpeg their hats at fuch an hour.
Some vices must to all appear
As conftitutional as FEAR;
And every Moralift will find
A ruling paffion in the mind:
Which, tho' pent up and barricado'd
Like winds, where Æolus bravado'd;
Like them, will fally from their den,
And raise a tempeft now and then ;
Unhinge dame PRUDENCE from her plan,
And ruffle all the world of man.
Can authors then exemption draw
From nature's, or the common law?
They err alike with all mankind,
Yet not the fame indulgence find.
Their lives are more confpicuous grown,
More talk'd of, pointed at, and fhewn,
Till every error seems to rise
TO SINS of moft gigantic size.
Thus fares it ftill, however hard,
With every wit, and every bard.
His publick writings, private life,
Nay more, his miftrefs, or his wife,
And every social, dear connection,
Muft bear a critical diffection;
While friends connive, and rivals hate,
Scoundrels traduce, and blockheads bait.
Perhaps you'll readily admit
There's danger from the trading wit,
And dunce and fool, and fuch as those,
Must be of course the poet's foes :
But fure no fober man alive,
Can think that friends wou'd e'er connive.
From juft remarks on earliest time,
In the first infancy of rhime,
It may be fairly understood
There were two fects
Both fell together by the ears,
And both beat up for volunteers.
By intereft, or by birth allied,
Numbers flock'd in on either fide.
WIT to his weapons ran at once,
While all the cry was "down with DUNCE!"
Onward he led his focial bands,
The common cause had join'd their hands.
Yet even while their zeal they show,
And war against the general foe,
Howe'er their rage flam'd fierce and cruel,
They'd ftop it all to fight a duel.
And each cool wit would meet his brother,
To pink and tilt at one another.
Jealous of every puff of fame,
The idle whift'ling of a name,
The property of half a line,
Whether a comma's your's or mine,
Shall make a Bard a Bard engage,
And shake the friendship of an
But diffident and modeft wit
Is always ready to fubmit ;
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