Bold is the talk we undertake,
The friends we wifh, the WORK must make;
For Wits, like adjectives, are known
To cling to that which ftands alone.
BOOKSELLER.
Perhaps too, in our way of trade,
We might procure fome useful aid;
Could we engage some able pen,
To furnish matter now and then ;
There's what's his name, fir? wou'd compile,
And methodize the news in ftyle.
Take back your newsman whence he came, Carry your crutches to the lame.
BOOKSELLER.
You must enrich your book, indeed!
Bare MERIT never will fucceed;
Which readers are not now a-days,
By half fo apt to buy, as praise;
And praise is hardly worth pursuing,
Which tickles authors to their ruin.
Books shift about, like ladies' dress,
And there's a fashion in fuccefs.
But could not we, like little Bayes,
Armies imaginary raise ?
And bid our generals take the field,
To head the troops that lie conceal'd?
Bid General ESSAY lead the van,
ByOh! the Style will fhew the man ;
Bid Major SCIENCE bold appear,
With all his pot-hooks in the rear,
True, true our NEWS, our PROSE, our RHIMES,
Shall fhew the colour of the times;
For which moft falutary ends,
We've fellow-foldiers, fellow-friends,
For city, and for court affairs,
My lord duke's butler, and the mayor's. - eternal talkers,
Profound obfervers, and park-walkers.
For plays, great actors of renown,
(Now with the fquadrons out of town)
Or fome, in ftate of abdication,
Of oratorial reputation;
Or those who live on fcraps and bits,
Mere green-room wafps, and Temple wits;
Shall teach you, in a page or two,
What GARRICK fhould, or fhould not do.
Trim poets from the City desk,
Deep vers'd in rural picturefque,
Who minute down, with wond'rous pains,
What RIDER'S Almanack contains
On flow'r and feed, and wind, and weather,
And bind them in an Ode together;
Shall thro' the feafons monthly fing
Sweet WINTER, AUTUMN, SUMMER, SPRING,
BOOKSELLER.
Ah, fir! I fee you love to jeft,
I did but hint things for the best.
Do what you please, 'tis your defign,
And if it fails, no blame is mine;
I leave the management to you,
Your fervant, fir,
An EPISTLE to C. CHURCHILL.
ELL fhall I wish you joy of fame,
That loudly echoes CHURCHILL's name,
And fets you on the Mufes' throne,
Which right of conqueft made your own?
Or fhall I (knowing how unfit
The world efteems a man of wit,
That wherefoever he appears,
They wonder if the knave has ears)
Address with joy and lamentation,
CONDOLANCE and CONGRATULATION,
As colleges, who duly bring
Their mess of verfe to every king,
Too œconomical in tafte,
Their forrow or their joy to wafte;
Mix both together, sweet and fow'r ;
And bind the thorn up with the flow'r ?
Sometimes 'tis Elegy, or Ode.
Epifle now's your only mode.
Whether that ftyle more glibly hits
The fancies of our ramb'ling wits,
Who wince and kick at all oppreffion,
But love to ftraggle in digreffion;
Or, that by writing to the GREAT
In letters, honours, or estate,
We flip more easy into fame,
By clinging to another's name,
And with their strength our weakness yoke,
As ivy climbs about an oak;
AS TUFT-HUNTERS will buz and purr
About a FELLOW-COMMONER,
Or Crows will wing a higher flight,
When failing round the floating kite,
Whate'er the motive, 'tis the mode,
And I will travel in the road.
The fashionable track perfue,
And write my fimple thoughts to You,
Juft as they rife from head or heart,
Not marshall'd by the herald Art.
By vanity or pleasure led,
From thirft of fame, or want of bread,
Shall any start up fons of rhime. i
PATHETIC, EASY, or SUBLIME?
You'd think, to hear what Critics fay,
Their labour was no more than play:
And that, but fuch a paltry station
Reflects difgrace on education,
(As if we could at once forfake
What education helps to make)
Each reader has fuperior skill,
And can write better when he will.
In fhort, howe'er you toil and drudge,
The world, the mighty world, is judge.
And nice and fanciful opinion
Sways all the world with ftrange dominion
Opinion! which on crutches walks,
And founds the words another talks.
Bring me eleven Critics grown,
Ten have no judgment of their own:
But, like the Cyclops, watch the nod
Of fome informing mafter god.
Or as, when near his latest breath,
The patient fain would juggle death,
When DOCTORS fit in CONSULTATION
(Which means no more than converfation,
A kind of comfortable chat
Mongft focial friends, on This and That,
As whether stocks get up or down,
And tittle-tattle of the town,
Books, pictures, politics, and news,
Who lies with whom, and who got whole)
Opinions never difagree,
One doctor writes, all take the fee.
But eminence offends at once
The owlish eye of critic dunce.
DULLNESS, alarm'd, collects her Force,
And FOLLY fcreams till fhe is hoarfe.
Then far abroad the LIBEL flies
From all th' artillery of lies,
MALICE, delighted, flaps her wing,
And EPIGRAM prepares her fting.
Around the frequent pellets whistle
From SATIRE, ODE, and pert EPISTLE
While every blockhead strives to throw
His fhare of vengeance on his foe:
As if it were a Shrove-tide game,
And cocks and poets were the same.
Thus fhould a wooden collar deck
Some woe-full 'fquire's embarrass'd neck,
When high above the crowd he stands.
With equi-diftant fprawling hands,
And without hat, politely bare,
Pops out his head to take the air;
The mob his kind acceptance begs
Of dirt, and ftones, and addle-eggs.
O GENIUS! tho' thy noble skill
Can guide thy Pegasus at will,
Fleet let him bear thee as the wind
DULLNESS mounts up and clings behind,
In vain you fpur, and whip, and smack,
You cannot shake her from your back.
Ill-nature fprings as merit grows, Close as the thorn is to the rose.
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