When at a fkirmish first he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears,
Will duck his head afide, will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart,
Till 'fcaping oft' without a wound;
Leffens the terror of the found;
Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
He runs into a cannon's chops:
An author thus, who pants for fame,
Begins the world with fear and shame;
When first in print, you fee him dread
Each pop gun level'd at his head:
The lead yon critic's quill contains,
Is deftin'd to beat out his brains;
As if he heard loud thunders roll,
Cries, Lord, have mercy on his foul!
Concluding, that another fhot
Will ftrike him dead upon the spot.
But, when with fquibbing, flashing, popping,
He cannot fee one creature dropping;
That, miffing fire, or missing aim,
His life is fafe, I mean his fame;
The danger paft, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critic in the face.

Though fplendour gives the fairest mark
To poifon'd arrows from the dark,
Yet, in yourself when smooth and round,
They glance afide without a wound.

'Tis faid, the gods try'd all their art,
How pain they might from pleafure part:
But little could their frength avail:
Both ftill are faften'd by the tail.
Thus fame and cenfure with a tether
By fate are always link'd together.

Why will you aim to be preferr'd
In wit before the common herd:
And yet grow mortify'd and vex'd
To pay the penalty annexed?

'Tis eminence makes envy rife:
As faireft fruits attract the flies.
Should ftupid libels grieve your mind,
You foon a remedy may find:
Lie down obfcure like other folks
Below the lath of inarler's jokes,
Their faction is five hundred odds;
For every coxcomb lends them rods,
And fneers as learnedly as they,
Like females o'er their morning tea.
You fay, the Mufe will not contain,
And write you muft, or break a vein.
Then, if you find the terms too hard,
No longer my advice regard:
But raile your fancy on the wing;
The Irish fenate's praifes fing:
How jealous of the nations freedom,
And for corruptions how they weed 'em;
How each the public good purfues,
How far their hearts from private views;
Make all true patriots up to fhoe-boys,
Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;
Thus grown a member of the club,
No longer dread the rage of Grub.

How oft' am I for rhyme to feek!
To drefs a thought, may toil a week;
And then how thankful to the town,
If all my pains will earn a crown!
Whilt every critic can devour
My work and me in half an hour.

Would men of genius ceafe to write,
The rogues muft die for want and spite;
Muft die for want of food and raiment,
If fcandal did not find them payment.
How cheerfully the hawkers cry
A fatire, and the gentry buy!
While my hard-labour'd poem pines
Unfold upon the printer's lines.

A genius in the reverend gown
Muft ever keep its cwner down;
'Tis an unnatural conjunction,
And spoils the credit of the function.
Round all your brethren caft your eyes;
Point out the fureft men to rife:
That club of candidates in black,
The leaft deferving of the pack,
Afpiring, factious, fierce, and loud,
With grace and learning unendow'd,
Can turn their hands to every job,
The fittest tools to work for Bob;
Will fooner coin a thoufand lies,
Than fuffer men of parts to rife;
They crowd about preferment's gate,
And prefs you down with all their weight.
For as, of old, mathematicians

Were by the vulgar thought magicians;
So academic dull ale-drinkers
Pronounce all men of wit free-thinkers.

Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends,
Difdains to ferve ignoble ends.
Obferve what loads of ftupid rhymes
Opprefs us in corrupted times:

What pamphlets in a court's defence
Show reafon, grammar, truth, or fense?
For though the Mufe delights in fiction,
She ne'er infpires against conviction.
Then keep your virtue ftill unmixt,
And let not faction come betwixt :
By party-steps no grandeur climb at,
Though it would make you England's primate
First learn the fcience to be dull,
You then may foon your confcience lull;
If not, however feated high,
Your genius in your face will fly.

When Jove was from his teeming head
Of Wit's fair goddess brought to bed,
There follow'd at his lying-in
For after-birth a Sooterkin;
Which, as the nurse purfu'd to kill,
Attain'd by flight the Mufes' hill,
There in the foil began to root,
And litter'd at Parnaffus' foot
From hence the critic vermin sprung,
With harpy claws and poisonous tongue,
Who fatten on poetic fcraps,
Too cunning to be caught in traps.
Dame Nature, as the learned flow,
Provides each animal its foe:
Hounds hunt the hair; the wily fox
Devours your geefe, the wolf your flocks.
Thus envy pleads a natural claim
To perfecute the Mufes' fame;
On poets in all times abufive,
From Homer down to Pope inclufive,
Yet what avails it to complain?
You try to take revenge in vain.
A rat your utmost rage defies,
That fafe behind the wainscot lies.

Say, did you ever know by fight In cheese an individval mite? Show me the fame numeric flea, That bit your neck but yesterday: You then may boldly go in quest To find the Grub-street poet's neft; What (punging-house, in dread of jail, Receives them, while they wait for bail; What alley they are nestled in, To flourish o'era cup of gin; Find the laff garret where they lay, Or cellar where they starve to-day. Suppose you had them all trepann'd, With each a libel in his hand, What punishment would you infiict? Or call them rogues, or get them kickt? There they have often try'd before; You but oblige them so much more: Themselves would be the firft to tell, To make their trash the better fell. You have been libell'd--Let us know, What fool officious told you fo? Will you regard the hawker's cries, Who in his titles always lies? Whate'er the noify scoundrel fays, It might be fomething in your praise : And praise beftow'd on Grub-ftreet rhymes Would vex one more a thousand times. Til critics blame, and judges praise, The poet cannot claim his bays. On me when dunces are fatiric, I take it for a panegyric. Hated by fools, and fools to hate, Be that my motto, and my fate.

DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-
DAY SONG. 1729.

To form a juft and finish'd piece,
Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece,
What godthips are in chief request,
And it your prefent fubject best :
And bould it be your hero's cafe,
Te are both male and female race,
Your bufineis must be to provide
A core of goddeffes befide.
Some call their monarchs, fons of Saturn.
For which they bring a modern pattern;
Betafe they might have heard of one,
Who often long'd to eat his fon :
But this, I think, will not go down,
Forhere the father kept his crown.
Why, then, appoint him fon of Jove,
Who met his mother in a grove :
To this we freely fhall confent,
Well knowing what the poets meant ;
And in their fenfe, 'twixt me and you,
may be literally true.

1

Next, as the laws of verfe require,

He mult be greater than his fire;

C

Jove, as every school-boy knows,
Was able Saturn to depofe:

And fure no Chriftian poet breathing
Would be more fcrupulous than a heathen!
Or, if to blafphemy it tends,
That's but a trifle among friends.

Your Hero now another Mars is,
Makes mighty armies turn their a--s.

Behold his glittering falchion mow Whole fquadrons at a fingle blow; While victory, with wings outfpread, Flies, like an eagle, o'er his head; His milk-white steed upon its haunches, Or pawing into dead men's paunches: As Overton has drawn his fire, Still feen o'er many an ale-house fire. Then from his arms hoarfe thunder rolls, As loud as fifty mustard-bowls; For thunder ftill his arm supplies, And lightning always in his eyes: They both are cheap enough in confcience, And ferve to echo rattling nonfenfe. The rumbling words march fierce along, Made trebly dreadful in your tong.

Sweet poet, hir'd for birth-day rhymes,
To fing of wars, choose peaceful times.
What though, for fifteen years and more,
Janus had lock'd his temple-door;
Though not a coffee-house we read in
Hath mention'd arms on this fide Sweden;
Nor London Journals, nor the Postmen,
Though fond of warlike lies as most men;
Thou still with battles ftuff thy head full:
For, muft thy hero not be dreadful?

Difmiffing Mars, it next muft follow
Your conqueror is become Apollo:
That he's Apollo is as plain as
That Robin Walpole is Maecenas;
But that he ftruts, and that he fquints,
You'd know him by Apollo's prints.
Old Phoebus is but half as bright,
For yours can fhine both day and night.
The firft, perhaps, may once an age
Inspire you with poetic rage;
Your Phoebus Royal, every day,
Not only can inspire, but pay.

Then make this new Apollo fit Sole patron, judge, and god of wit. "How from his altitude he ftoops "To raise up virtue when she droops; "On learning how his bounty flows, "And with what justice he beftows: "Fair Ifis, and ye banks of Cam! "Be witnefs if I tell a flam. "What prodigies in arts we drain, "From both your ftreams, in George's reign. "As from the flowery bed of Nile". But here's enough to thow your style. Broad innuendos, fuch as this, If well applied, can hardly mifs: For, when you bring your fong in print, He'll get it read, and take the hint, (It must be read before 'tis warbled, The paper gilt, and cover marbled) And will be fo much more your debtor, Because he never knew a letter, And, as he hears his wit and fenfe (To which he never made pretence) Set out in hyperbolic strains,

A guinea fhall reward your pains:
For patrons never pay fo well,

As when they fcarce have learn'd to spell.
Next call him Neptune: with his tridenr
He rules the fea; you fee him ride in't:
And, if provok'd, he foundly firks his
Rebellions waves with rods, like Xerxes.

He would have feiz'd the Spanish plate,
Had not the fleet gone out too late;
And in their very ports befiege them,
But that he would not difoblige them;
And make the rafcals pay him dearly
For thofe affronts they give him yearly.
'Tis not deny'd, that, when we write,
Our ink is black, our paper white;
And, when we fcrawl our paper o'er,
We blacken what was white before;
I think this practice only fit
For dealers in fatiric wit.

But you fome white-lead ink must get,
And write on paper black as jet;
Your intereft lies to learn the knack.
Of whitening what before was black.
Thus your encomium, to be strong,
Must be applied directly wrong,
A tyrant for his mercy praise,
And crown a royal dunce with bays:
A fquinting monkey load with charms,
And paint a coward fierce in arms.
Is he to avarice inclin'd?

Extol him for his generous mind:
And, when we ftarve for want of corn,
Come out with Amalthea's horn.
For all experience this evinces
The only art of pleafing princes:
For princes' love you should defcant
On virtues which they know they want.
One compliment I had forgot,
But fongfters muft omit it not;
I freely grant the thought is old:
Why, then, your hero must be told,
In him fuch virtues lie inherent,
To qualify him God's vicegerent;
That, with no title to inherit,
He must have been a king by merit.
Yet, be the fancy old or new,
'Tis partly falfe and partly true:
And, take it right, it means no more
Than George and William claim'd before.
Should fome obfcure inferior fellow,
Like Julius, or the Youth of Peila,
When all your lift of gods is out,
Prefume to fhow his mortal inout,
And as a deity intrude,

Because he had the world fubdued;
Oh, let him not debafe your thoughts,
Or name him but to tell his faults.---

Of gods I only quote the best,
But you may hook in all the reft.

Now, birth-day bard, with joy proceed To praife your emprefs and her breed. Firft of the first, to vouch your lies, Bring all the females of the skies; The graces, and their mistress Venus, Muft venture down to entertain us: With bended knees when they adore her, What dowdies they appear before her! Nor fhall we think you talk at random, For Venus might be her great grandam : Six thousand years has liv'd the goddess, Your heroine hardly fifty odd is. Befides, your fongfters oft have shown That the hath graces of her own; Three graces by Lucina brought her, Just three, and every grace a daughter.

Here many a king his heart and crow■
Shall at their fnowy feet lay down;
In royal robes, they come by dozens
To court their English German coufins :
Befides a pair of princely babies,

That, five years hence, will both be Hebes
Now fee her feated in her throne
With genuine luftre, all her own:
Poor Cynthia never thone fo bright,
Her fplendour is but borrow'd light:
And only with her brother linkt
Can fhine, without him is extinct.
But Carolina fhines the clearer
With neither fpoufe nor brother near her;
And darts her beams o'er both our ifles,
Though George is gone a thousand miles.
Thus Berecynthia takes her place,
Attended by her heavenly race;
And fees a fon in every god,
Unaw'd by Jove's all-fhaking nod.

Now fing his little Highness Freddy,
Who ftruts like any king already :
With fo much beauty, fhow me any maid
That could refift this charming Ganymede
Where majefty with fweetnefs vies,
And, like his father, early wife.
Then cut him out a world of work,
To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk:
Foretel his empire crown'd with bays,
And golden times, and halcyon days;
And fwear his line fhall rule the nation
For ever---till the conflagration.

But, now it runs into my taind,
We left a little Duke behind;
A Cupid in his face and size,
And only wants to want his eyes.
Make fome provifion for the younker,
Find him a kingdom out to conquer:
Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er,
Make Gulliver his commodore;
Into whofe pocket valiant Willy put,
Will foon fubdue the realm of Lilliput.

A fkilful critic justly blames

Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names,
The fenfe can ne'er be too jejune,
But smooth your words to fit the tune.
Hanover may do well enough,

But George and Brunswick are too rough;
Heffe-Darmstadt make a rugged found,
And Guelp the Atrongest ear will wound.
In vain are all attempts from Germany
To find out proper words for harmony:
And yet I muft except the Rhine,
Because it clinks to Caroline.
Hail! Queen of Britain, Queen of rhymes!
Be fung ten hundred thousand times!
Too happy were the poets' crew,
If their own happiness they knew:
Three fyllables did never meet
So foft, fo fliding, and fo fweet:
Nine other tuneful words like that
Would prove ev'n Homer's numbers flat.
Behold three beauteous vowels ftand,

With bridegroom liquids, hand in hand d;

In concord here for ever fixt,
No jarring confonant betwixt.

May Caroline continue long,
For ever fair and young !..-in fong,

That though the royal carcase must,
Saeez'd in a coffin, turn'd to duft?
Taoie elements her name compose,
Lie atoms are exempt from blows.
Though Caroline may fill your gaps,
Tet till you must confult your maps;
Find rivers with harmonious names,
Sebrina, Medway, and the Thames.
Britannia long will wear like fteel,
But Albion's cliffs are out at heel;
And patience can endure no more
To hear the Belgic lion roar.
Give up the phrafe of haughty Gaul,
But proud Iberia foundly maul:
Refore the ships by Philip taken,

And make him crouch to fave his bacon.
Nafau, who got the name of Glorious
Because he never was victorious,
A hanger-on has always been;
For old acquaintance bring him in.
To Walpole you might lend a line,
But much I fear he's in decline;
And, you chance to come too late,
When he goes out, you share his fate,
And bear the new fucceffor's frown;
Or, whom you once fang up, fing down.
Reject with fcorn that ftupid notion,
To praise your hero for devotion;
Nor entertain a thought fo odd,
That princes fhould believe in God;
Bet follow the secureft rule,
And turn it all to ridicule :

Ts grown the choiceft wit at court,
And gives the maids of honour sport.
Ex, face they talk'd with Doctor Clarke,
They now can venture in the dark :

That found Divine the truth hath spoke all,
And pawn'd his word, hell is not local.
This will not give them half the trouble
Of bargains fold, or meanings double.
Sappofing now your fong is done,
To Mynbeer Handel next you run,
Who artiully will pare and prune
Your words to fome Italian tune:
Then print it in the largest letter,
W capitals, the more the better.
Preet it boldly on your knee,
And take a guinea for your fee.

BOUTS RIMÉS.

ON SIGNORA DOMITILLA. Our School-mafter may rave i' th' fit Of claffic beauty hæc et illa, Not all his birch infpires fuch wit As th' ogling beams of Domitilla. Let nolles toaft, in bright champain, Nymphs higher born than Domitilla; I'll drak her health, again, again, In Berkeley's tar, or fars-parilla. At Goodman's-Fields I've much admir'd The postures ftrange of Monfieur Brilla; E what are they to the foft step, The gliding air, of Demitilla?

Virgil has enterniz'd in fong

The flying footsteps of Camilla!
Sure, as a prophet, he was wrong;

He might have dreamt of Domitilla.
Great Theodofe condemn'd a town
For thinking ill of his Placilla;
And deuce take London, if fome knight
O' th' city wed not Domitilla!
Wheeler, Sir George, in travels wife,
Gives us a medal of Plantilla ;
But, oh the empress has not eyes,

Nor lips, nor breaft, like Domitilla.
Nor all the wealth of plunder'd Italy,
Pil'd on the mules of king At-tila,
Is worth one glove (I'll not tell a bit a lie)
Or garter, inatch'd from Domitilla.

Five years a nymph at certain hamlet,
Y-cleped Harrow of the Hill, a-
bus'd much my heart, and was a dam'nd let
To verfe-but now for Domitilla.

Dan Pope configns Belinda's watch
To the fair Sylphid Momentilla,

And thus I offer up my catch

To th' fnow-white hands of Domitilla.

HELTER SKELTER;

OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNIES UPON THEIR RIDING THE CIRCUIT.

Now the active young attornies
Brifkly travel on their journies,
Looking big as any giants,
On the horses of their clients;
Like fo many little Mars's,
With their tilters at their as,
Brazen-hilted, lately burnish'd;
And with harness-buckles furnish'd,
And with whips and spurs so neat,
And with jockey-coats complete,
And with boots fo very greasy.
And with faddles eke so easy;
And with bridles fine and gay,
Bridles borrow'd for a day;
Bridles deftin'd far to roam,

Ah! never, never to come home.
And with hats fo very big Sir;
And with powder'd caps and wigs, Sir;
And with ruffles to be shown,
Cambrick ruffles not their own;
And with Holland fhirts fo white,
Shirts becoming to the fight,

Shirts be-wrought with different letters,
As belonging to their betters;
With their pretty tinsel'd boxes,
Gotten from their dainty doxies;
And with rings so very trim,
Lately taken out of lim-
And with very little pence,
And as very little fenfe;
With fome law, but little justice,
Having ftolen from my hostess,
From the barber and the cutler,
Like the foldier from the futler;

Hij

From the vintner and the taylor,
Like the felon from the jailor;
Into this and t' other county,
Living on the public bounty;
Thorough town and thorough village,
All to plunder all to pillage;
Thorough mountains, thorough valies,
Thorough ftinking lanes and alleys;
Some to-kifs with farmers' spouses,
And make merry in their houses;
Some to-tumble country wenches
On their rufhy-beds and benches,
And, if they begin a fray,

Draw their fwords, and-run away;
All to murder equity,
And to take a double fee;
Till the people all are quiet,
And forget to broil and riot :
Low in pocket, cow'd in courage,
Safely glad to fup their porridge;
And vacation's over-then,
Hey, for London town again.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd,
As rational, the human-kind.
"Reafon," they fay," belongs to man;"
But let them prove it if they can.
Wife Ariftotle and Smiglelius,
By ratiocinations fpecious,

Have ftrove to prove with great precifion,
With definition and divifion,
Homo eft ratione præditum:

But, for my foul, I cannot credit 'em,
And muft, in fpite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boafted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature ;
That inftinct is a furer guide
Than reafon-boafting mortals' pride;
And that brute beafts are far before 'em,
Deus eft anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour profecute;
Bring action for affault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics difturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court.
They never to the levee go,
To treat as dearest friend, a foc :
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Pater-nofter-row.
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-mafters,
No pick-pockets, or poetaíters,
Are known to honeft quadrupeds:
No fingle brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beats, it is confefs'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human fhape;

Like man, he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling paffion : But, both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape furpaffes: Behold him humbly cringing wait Upon the minifter of state; View him foon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of fuperiors: He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators: At court, the porters, lacquey's waiters, Their mafters' manners ftill contract; And footmen lords and dukes can act. Thus, at the court, both great and small Behave alike; for all ape all.

THE PUPPET-SHOW.

THE life of man to represent,

And turn it all to ridicule,
Wit did a puppet-fbow invent,

Where the chief actor is a fool.
The gods of old were logs of wood,
And worship was to puppets paid;
In antic dress the idol stood,

And priest and people bow'd the head.
No wonder then, if art began
The fimple votaries to frame,
To shape in timber foolish man,
And confecrate the block to fame.
From hence poetic fancy learn'd

That trees might rife from human forms,
The body to a trunk be turn'd,
And branches iffue from the arms.

Thus Dædalus and Ovid too,

That man's a blockhead, have confeft;
Powel and Stretch the hint pursue ;
Life is a farce, the world a jeft.

The fame great truth South-Sea hath prov'd
On that fam'd theatre, the alley;
Where thousands, by directors mov'd,
Are now fad monuments of folly.
What Momus was of old to Jove,

The fame a Harlequin is now ;
The former was buffoon above,

The latter is a Punch below.
This fleeting fcene is but a ftage,

Where various images appear;
In different parts of youth and age
Alike the prince and peasant share.
Some draw our eyes by being great,
Falfe pomp conceals mere wood within;
And legiflators rang'd in ftate

Are oft' but wifdom in machine.
A ftock may chance to wear a crown,
And timber as a lord take place;
A ftatue may put on a frown,
And cheat us with a thinking face.

*Two famous puppet-show men