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Would your write well, each flowing thought refine;
Careful obferve each word, as we as line:
Your folid judgment ne'er with trifles cheat,
To please the ign'rant mob, or vulgar great:
Nor e'er to t'adorn the tricks of HARLEQUIN,
Heroick fing the RAPE OF PROSOPINE.
When PORTER heard, that ftars and garters dy'd
For dancing SALLEE, fhe with fmile reply'd,
Let her the foplings charm; 'tis excellence,
Enough for me, to please the men of sense.
T------- or BAYs may ne'er a fmile bestow,
But cry the verse is bad the fatire low;
D-s may fnarl, and give the poets laws,
(Who for a treat wou'd grumble out applause)
Or buskin'd F----- cry my verses down,
And fwear that none but he can please the town.
This fnarling tribe wou'd ne'er my anger move,
Shou'd SwIFT, or ARBUTHNOT, or YOUNG approve,
Shou'd POPE, to whom I'll dedicate my my lays,
Shou'd he but smile------- I'd count their cenfure praise.
F for pleasure you'd, ride, in MOOREFIELDS a horse hire: There madmen your freak, through the grates will admire. If
*Sæpe ftylum vertas, iterum quæ digna legi fine,
Scripturus; neque te ut miretur turba, labores,
Contentus paucis lectoribus. An tua demens
Vilibus in ludis dictari carmina malis ?
+ Non ego: nam fatis eft equitem mihi plaudere;
Contemptis aliis explofa arbuscula dixit.
Men' moveat cimex pantilius? an crucier, quod
Vellicet abfentem demetrius? aut quod ineptus
Fannius hermogenis lædat conviva tigelli ?
Plotius, & varius, mæcenas, virgiliufque,
Vagius, & probet hæc octavius optimus, atque
If for profit you'd ride, ne'er ftand fhill I, fhall I,
But borrow fome coin, and a way to CHANGE-ALLEY,
There rich men, and beggars, not lame, but all blind,
With legal pick-pockets affembled you'll find.
At ten times its value for one day hire a tit:
When your pockets are empty the lighter you'll fit.
Give to fortune the reins, and fpur on to GUILDHALL.
Where if both jades confpire to throw you a fall;
As you've rode this first journey without fear or wit,
Ride one more but with halter, not with lottery bit.
Grub Street Journal, No 99.
A RECEIPT to make an EPIGRAM..
Your matter muft by nature be supply'd;
Nervous your diction, be your meature long,
Nor fear your verfe too ftiff, if fense be strong;
In proper places proper numbers use,
And now the quicker, now the flower choose :
Too foon the dactyl the performance ends;
But the flow fpondee coming thoughts fufpends.
Your laft attention on the fting beftow,
To that your good or ill fuccefs you owe;
For there not wit alone must shine, but humour flow.
If you'd receive applaufe, or furnish joy,
Your all-collected ftrength on that employ:
Thefe Rules obferv'd, your epigram's compleated,
And fure to please, altho' ten times repeated.
Grubftreet Journal, No 100.
An Imitation of an EPIGRAM.
UST ready to be torn by critics paws,
Mild flames had fav'd me from fierce B---ys claws: But fnatch'd from those by hands feverely kind, To MILTON's difmal fate I'm now confign'd.
An EPIGRAM, occafion'd by feeing fome Sheets of Dr. B--T--LY's Edition of MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.
ID MILTON's profe, O CHARLES, thy death defend? A furious foe unconfcious proves a friend. On MILTON's verfe does B--T--LY comment ? --- know A weak, officious friend becomes a foe. While he but fought his author's fame to further, The murd'rous critic has aveng'd thy murder.
Grubfireet Journal, N° 101.
On Dr. B----y's HOMER, which was prefero'd from Fire.
HILE o'er my page dogmatic B---y ftands, The flame prepares to fnatch me from his hands: But fortune envy'd, when the faw my joys, And in a moment all my hopes destroys: From the kind purpose of the fire I'm torn, And to the wretched lot of MILTON born.
AYS W-D to C-KE, o'er a glafs of good ale,
(The liquor they drink, when they want to regale,) How long have we batter'd our brains with the hope To raise our own fame, and to pull down the POPE? Yet he, as the ROMAN the church of ROME guides, Still chief o'er the band of the mufes prefides : In vain to the world our epiftles we fend, For the more we condemn, the more they commend. True, crys the translator of H --D. What then, With a hickup, fays t'other, fhan't I print agen? Says C---KE, who, 'tis faid, has moft wit of the two, Dear brother, I this would advise you to do; Since in vain you've attack'd with fatirical lays, I'd have you refolve to affault him with praise. With a hickup again, and a horrid grim look, Friend, none of your jokes, fays W---D to C---KE.
Grubftreet Journal, Ño 102. Fragments of a SATIRE in the Third Volume of SWIFT and POPE's Mifcellanies.
F meagre GILDON draw his venal quill,
I wish the man a dinner, and fit fill.
If dreadful D-----s raves in furious fret,
I'll answer D-----s when I am in debt,
'Tis hunger, and not malice, makes them print;
And who'll wage war with BEDLAM, or the MINT ?
Should fome more fober critics come abroad:
If wrong, I fmile; if right, I kifs the rod.
Pains, reading, ftudy, are their juft pretence;
And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and fenfe.
Comma's and points they fet exactly right;
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite.
In future ages how their fame will spread,
For routing triplets, and reftoring ed----
Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd their ribalds,
From fanguine SEW- down to pidling T------s,
Who thinks he reads, when he but fcans, and spells,
A word-catcher, that lives on fyllables.
Yet e'en this creature may fome notice claim,
Wrapt round and fanctified with SHAKESPEAR's name : Pretty, in amber to obferve the forms
Of hairs, or ftraws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms:
The thing, we know, is neither rich, nor rare,
But wonder how the devil it got there.
Are others angry ? I excufe them too :
Well may they rage; I gave them but their due.
Each man's true merit 'tis not hard to find:
But each man's fecret standard in his mind,
That cafting weight pride adds to emptiness;
This who can gratify? For who can guess?
The wretch whom pilfer'd paftorals renown,
Who turns a PERSIAN TALE for half a crown,
Juft writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains, from hard-bound brains, fix lines a year;
In fenfe ftill wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left.
Jo-N, who now to fenfe, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning;
And he, whofe fuftian's fo fublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but profe run mad:
Should modeft fatire bid all these translate,
And own that nine fuch poets makes a T---TE ;
How would they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
How would they fwear, not CONGREVE's felf was safe!
Peace to all fuch! but where there one whofe fires
APOLLO kindled, and fair fame inspires;
Bleft with each talent, and each art to please ;
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the TURK, no brother near the throne;