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, juft, and wise, And fo continues till he dies: His humble fenate this professes, In all their speeches, 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 turns devil in hell: And lo! his minifters of state, Transform'd to imps, his levee wait; Where, in the fcenes 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 month 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 cluster
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 gofpel 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 bafe,
(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 smile,
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 bupfeus ;

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 ftamp of bad and good,
Though not a word be understood.
Your leffon learn'd, you'll be fecure
To get the name of connoiffeur:
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 districts 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 forewdness
For fongs of loyalty and lervdness;
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 spoke in Punch's booth;
And fome as justly fame extols
For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls.
Bavius in Wapping gains renown,
And Mævius reigns o'er Kentifh-town :
Tigellius, plac'd in Phoebus' car,
From Ludgate fhines to Temple-bar:
Harmonious Cibber entertains
The court with annual birth-day ftrains;
Whence Gay was banifh'd in difgrace;
Where Pope will never fhow his face;
Where Young must torture his invention
To flatter knaves, or lofe his penfion.
But these are not a thoufandth 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 hoal of herrings down his mawi

A fox with geefe his belly crams;
A wolf deftroys a thousand lambs:
But fearch among the rhyming race,
The brave are worry'd by the bafe,
If on Parnaffus' top you fit,
You rarely bite, are always bit.
Each poet of inferior fize

On you fhall rail and criticise,

And ftrive to tear you limb from limb;
While others do as much for him.

The vermin only teafe and pinch
Their foes fuperior by an inch.
So, naturalifts obferve, a flea

Hath fmaller fleas that on him prey;

And thefe have fmaller ftill to bite 'em, And to proceed ad infinitum.

Thus

every poet in his kind

Is bit by him that comes behind:
Who, though to little to be feen,
Can teafe, and gall, and give the fpleen;
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 poetafters;
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 lash,
Who crowd the prefs with hourly trash,

0 Grub-street! 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 thea haft greater caufe to be
Aham'd of them, than they of thee,
Degenerate from their ancient brood,
Since first the court allow'd them food.
Remains a difficulty ftill,

To purchafe fame by writing ill.

From Flecknoe 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:
And, left a chafm fhould intervene,
When death had finifh'd Blackmore's reign,
The leaden crown devolv'd to thee,
Great poet of the the bollow tree.
But ah! how unfecure thy throne!
A thousand bards thy right difown:
They plot to turn, in factious zeal,
Duncenia 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 cheeft,
Than what a curious eye may trace
In creatures of the rhyming race.
From bad to worse, and worse, they fall;
But who can reach the worst of all?
For though, in nature, depth, and height
Are equally held infinite;

poetry, the height we know; Tis only infinite below.

For instance, 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 prostitute the mufe's name!

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

Fair Britain, in thy monarch bleft,
Whofe virtues bear the stricteft 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 Chinese,
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 lülus,
(Late, very late, oh may he rule us!)
What early manhood has he shown,
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 fate,
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 praises every mufe fhall fing!
In all affairs thou fole director,
Of wit and learning chief protector;
Though fmall the time thou haft to spare,
The church is thy peculiar care.
Of pious prelates what a stock
You choose, to rule the fable flock!
You raife the honour of your peerage,
Proud to attend you at the fteerage.
You dignify the noble race,
Content yourself with humbler place.
Now, learning, valour, virtue, sense,
To titles give the fole prętence,

St. George beheld thee with delight
Vouchfafe to be an azure knight,
When on thy breafts and fides 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 ftrow your bays:
Your panegyrics here provide;
You cannot err on flattery's fide.
Above the ftars exalt your style,
You ftill are low ten thousand mile.
On Lewis all his bards beitow'd
Of incenfe many a thousand load;
But Europe mortify'd his pride,
And fwore 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 fhare.
Yet why should we be lac'd fo ftrait?
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 defire his aid:

We now can better do without him, Since Woolton gave us arms to rout him.

Cætera defiderantur.

HORACE, BOOK IV. ODE XIX. IMI, TATED.

TO HUMPHRY FRENCH, ESQ. 1733.

PATRON of the tuneful throng,

Oh! too nice, and too fevere! Think not that my country fong Shall difplease 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 Alcaus boldly fung, Warns, inftructs, and pleafes well. Nor has time's all-darkening fhade In obfcure oblivion prefs'd What Anacreon laugh'd and play'd; Gay Anacreon, drunken priest!

Lord Mayor of Dublin.

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

Sow'd the field with hoftile 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 fhall fpread.
When the deep-cut notes fhall fade
On the mouldring Parian stone,
On the brass no more be read

The perifhing infcription; Forgotten all the enemies,

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

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

And outfhine th' unclouded fun.
Large thy mind, and not untried,
For Hibernia now doth stand;
Through the calm, or raging tide,
Safe conducts the ship to land.
Falfely we call the rich man gcat;
He is only fo that knows
His plentiful or small cftate
Wifely to enjoy and ufe.
He, in wealth or poverty,

Fortune's power alike defies;
And falíehood and dishonesty

More than death abhors and flies: Flies from death!-No, meets it brave, When the fuffering fo fevere 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 mifs his end,

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

I OFTEN try'd in vain to find
A file for woman-kind,

Aimile I mean to fit 'em,

In every circumstance to hit 'em.
Through every bird and beast I went,
Iramark'd every element;

And ter peeping through all nature,
To find fo whimsical a creature,
Add prefented to my view,
And trait this parallel I drew:
Chads turn with every wind about;
They keep us in fufpenfe and doubt;
Yet oft perverfe, like woman-kind,
Are keen to feud against the wind:
And are not women just the fame?
for, who can tell at what they aim?

keep the ftouteft mortals under,

Wat bellowing they difcharge their thunder:
Shen th' alarum-bell is rung

O: Xante's everlasting tongue,
The hufband dreads its loudness more
Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar.

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 cf's build caftles in the air,
A thing peculiar to the fair;

all the fchemes of their forecafting
Are not more folid, nor more lafting.
A dead is light by turns, and dark;
Sh is a lady with her fpark:
Nw with a fudden pouting gloom

fers to darken all the room; Athe's pleas'd, his fears beguil'd, A is clear when he has fmil'd.

they're wondroufly alike

the fimile will strike);

in the darkeft dumps you view them,
Star ut a moment, you'll fee through them.
I've clouds are apt to make refledion,
And frequently produce infection;
So Calla, with imall provocation,
Bats every neighbour's reputation.
The dosis delight in gaudy show

For they,
like ladies, have their bow);
The graved matron will confefs,
the herfelf is fond of drefs.
Olferve the cloud, in pomp array'd,
What various colours are difplay'd;
ne pink, the rofe, the violet's dye,
IL that great drawing-room the sky;
How do thefe differ from our graces,
In garden-úlks, brocades and laces?
Ar they not fuch another fight,
When met upon a birth-day night?

The clouds aclight to change their fashion:
Dear ladies, be not in a pallion!)
Nr let this whim to you feem ftrange,
Wo every hour delight in change.

In them and you alike are feen The fullen fymptoms of the fpleen; The moment that your vapours rise, 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 brisk coquettes, like rattling hail, Our ears on every fide aftail.

Clouds, when they intercept our fight, Deprive us of celeftial light: So when my Chloe 1 purfue, No heaven befides I have in view. Thus, on comparison, you fee, In every inftance they agree, So like, fo very much the fame, That one may go by t'other's name. Let nte 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 fhow
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 d. vout,
Then is not female clatter worfe,
That drives you not to pray but curfe?
We hardly thunder thrice a-year ;
The bolt difcharg'd, the fky grows clear:
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;
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 befpeaks
Fair weather when the morning breaks;
But women in a cloudy plight
Foretel a ftorm to last till night.

A cloud in proper feafons pours
His bluffings 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 ficklenefs 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 goddess 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 dress 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 fo endow'd?
And yet her father is a cloud.
We dreft 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 Aristophanes 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, just 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,
Because 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 a―es);
While we, o'er Teneriffa plac'd,

Are loftier by a mile at leaft:

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 fky:

4

When Jove would fome 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 please,
O'er cities, rivers, hills, and feas:
From caft 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 shake 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 i
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 Cælia treads, The violets ope their purple heads; The rofes 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 showers, Can every spring 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.