AUTHOR,

Oh! I perceive the thing you mean Call it St. James' Magazine.

BOOKSELLER.

Or the New British

AUTHOR.

Oh! no more.

One name's as good as half a score.
And titles oft give nothing lefs
Than what they staringly profess.
Puffing, I grant, is all the mode;
The common hackney turnpike road:
But cuftom is the blockhead's guide,
And fuch low arts difguft my pride.
Success on merit's force depends,
Not on the partial voice of friends;
Not on the feems, that bully fin;
But that which paffeth fhew within:
Which bids the warmth of friendship glow,
And wrings conviction from a foe.
Deferve Success, and proudly claim,
Not feal a paffage into fame.

BOOKSELLER.

Your method, fir, will never do;
You're right in theory, it's true.
But then, experience in our trade
Says, there's no harm in some parade.
Suppofe we faid, by Mr. Lloyd?

AUTHOR.

The very thing I wou'd avoid;

And would be rather pleas'd to own
Myfelf unknowing, and unknown:
What could th' unknowing muse expect,
But information or neglect?

Unknown-perhaps her reputation
Efcapes the tax of defamation,

And

And wrapt in darkness, laughs unhurt,
While critic blockheads throw their dirt:
But he who madly prints his name,
Invites his foe to take fure aim.

True

BOOKSELLER.

but a name will always bring

A better fanction to the thing:

And all your scribbling foes are fuch,
Their cenfure cannot hurt you much;
And, take the matter ne'er fo il',
If you don't print it, fir, they will.

Well, be it fo

Nay,

AUTHOR.

that struggle's o'er

this fhall prove one fpur the more.

Pleas'd if fuccefs attends, if not,

I've writ my name, and made a blot.

BOOKSELLER.

But a good print.

AUTHOR.

The print? why there

I trust to honeft LEACH's care.

What is't to me? in verfe, or profe,
I find the stuff, you make the cloaths:
And paper, print, and all fuch dress,
Will lofe no credit from his prefs.

BOOKSELLER.

You quite mistake the thing I mean, — I'll fetch you, fir, a MAGAZINE; You see that picture there,

the QUEEN.

AUTHOR.

A dedication to her too!
What will not folly dare to do?
O days of art! when happy skill
Can raise a likeness whence it will;
When portraits aík no REYNOLD's aid,
And queens and kings are ready made.
B 2

No,

No, no, my friend, by helps like these,
I cannot with my work should please ;
No pictures taken from the life,

Where all proportions are at ftrife;

No HUMMING-BIRD, no PAINTED FLOWER,
No BEAST juft landed in the Tower,
No WOODEN NOTES, no COLOUR'D MAP,
NO COUNRY-DANCE fhall ftop a gap;
O PHILOMATH, be not fevere,
If not one problem meets you here;
Where goffip A, and neighbour B,
Pair, like good friends, with C and D
And E F G, HIK join;

And curve and incidental line

Fall out, fall in, and cross each other,
Juft like a fifter and a brother.
Ye tiny poets, tiny wits,

Who frisk about on tiny tits,

Who words disjoin, and sweetly fing,
Take one third part, and take the thing;
Then close the joints again, to frame
Some LADY'S, or fome CITY's name,
Enjoy your own, your proper Phoebus;
We neither make, nor print a REBUS.
No CRAMBO, no ACROSTIC fine,
Great letters lacing down each line;
No ftrange CONUNDRUM, no invention
Beyond the reach of comprehenfion,
No RIDDLE, which whoe'er unties,
Claims twelve MUSEUMS for the PRIZE,
Shall ftrive to please you, at th' expence
Of fimple tafte, and common fense.

BOOKSELLER.

But would not ORNAMENT produce
Some real grace, and proper use?
A FRONTISPIECE would have its weight,
Neatly engraved on copper-plate.

AUTHOR.

AUTHOR.

Plain letter-prefs fhall do the feat,
What need of foppery to be neat?
The Pafte-board Guard delights me more,
That ftands to watch a bun-house door,
Than fuch a mockery of grace,

And ornament so out of place.

BOOKSELLER.

But one word more, and I have done A PATENT might infure its run.

AUTHOR.

Patent! for what! can patents give
A Genius? or make blockheads live?
If fo, O hail the glorious plan!
And buy it at what price you can,
But what alas! will that avail,
Beyond the property of sale?
A property of little worth,

If weak our produce at its birth.

For fame, for honeft fame we strive,
But not to ftruggle half alive,
And drag a miferable being,
Its end ftill fearing and foreseeing.

Oh! may the flame of genius blaze,
Enkindl'd with the breath of praise !
But far be ev'ry fruitless puff,

To blow to light a dying snuff.

BOOKSELLER.

But fhould not fomething, fir, be faid,

Particular on ev'ry head?

What your ORIGINALS will be,

What infinite variety,

Multum in Parvo, as they fay,

And fomething neat in every way?

AUTHOR,

I wish there could but that depends

Not on myself, fo much as friends.

I but

I but fet up a new machine,

With harness tight, and furnish'd clean;
Where fuch, who think it no difgrace,
To fend in time, and take a place,
The book-keeper shall minute down,
And I with pleasure drive to town.

BOOKSELLER.

Ay, tell them that, fir, and then say,
What letters come in every day;
And what great Wits your care procures,
To join their focial hands with your's.

AUTHOR.

What! muft I huge propofals print,
Merely to drop fome faucy hint,
That real folks of real fame

Will give their works, and not their name?
This Puff's of use, you fay-why let it,
We'll boast such friendship when we get it.

BOOKSELLER.

Get it! Ah, fir, you do but jeft, You'll have affiftance, and the best.

There's CHURCHILL

Affistance?

will not CHURCHILL lend

AUTHOR.

Surely to his FRIEND.

BOOKSELLER.

And then your intereft might procure Something from either CONNOISSEUR. COLMAN and THORNTON, both will join Their focial hand, to ftrengthen thine: And when your name appears in print, Will GARRICK never drop a hint ?

AUTHOR.

True, I've indulg'd fuch hopes before,
From those you name, and many more;
And they, perhaps, again will join
Their hand, if not afham'd of mine.

Bold