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Authors alone, with more than favage rage,
Unnat'ral war with brother-authors wage.
The pride of nature would as foon admit
Competitors in empire as in wit:
Onward they rush at Fame's imperious call,
And, less than greateft, would not be at all.

Smit with the love of honour,-or the pence,
O'er-run with wit, and deftitute of sense,
Should any novice in the riming trade
With lawless pen the realms of verse invade;
Forth from the court, where fceptred fages fit,
Abus'd with praife, and flatter'd into wit;
Where in lethargic majefty they reign,
And what they won by dulnefs, ftill maintain;
Legions of factious authors throng at once;
Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
'To Hamilton's the ready lies repair :-

Ne'er was lye made which was not welcome there-
Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought,
The polish'd falfhood's into public brought.
Quick-circulating flanders mirth afford,
And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.

A Critic was of old a glorious name,
Whofe fanction handed Merit up to Fame;
Beauties as well as faults he brought to view :
His judgment great, and great his candour too.
No fervile rules drew fickly Tafte afide;
Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide.
But now, Oh strange reverfe! our Critics bawl
In praife of candour with a heart of gall.
Confcious of guilt, and fearful of the light,
They lurk enshrouded in the veil of night;
Safe from detection, feize th' unwary prey,
And ftab, like bravoes, all who come that way.
When first my Mufe, perhaps more bold than wife,
Bad the rude trifle into light arise,
Little she thought fuch tempefts would enfue;
Lefs, that those tempefts would be rais'd by you.
The thunder's fury rends the tow'ring oak;
Rofciads, like fhrubs, might 'fcape the fatal ftroke.
Vain thought! a Critic's fury knows no bound;
Drawcanfir-like, he deals deftruction round;
Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare,
Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire.
Unhappy Genius; plac'd by partial fate
With a free spirit in a slavish state;

Where the reluctant Mufe, opprefs'd by kings,
Or droops in filence, or in fetters fings;
In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borne
The bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's fcorn.
Why didft thou safe from home-bred dangers steer,
Referv'd to perish more ignobly here?
Thus, when the Julian tyrant's pride to fwell
Rome with her Pompey at Pharfalia fell,
The vanquish'd chief efcap'd from Cæfar's hand
To die by ruffian's in a foreign land.

How could thefe felf-elected monarchs raise
So large an empire on so small a base?
In what retreat, inglorious and unknown,
Did Genius fleep, when Dullness feiz'd the throne ?
Whence, abfolute now grown, and free from awe,
She to the fubject world difpenfes law.
Without her licence not a letter ftirs,
And all the captive crifs-cross-row is her's.
The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew,
Opinions gave, but gave his reafons too.

*Printer of the Critical Reveiw.

Our great Dictators take a fhorter way→→→
Who shall difpute what the Reviewers fay
Their word's fufficient; and to ask a reason,
In fuch a ftate as theirs, is downright treafon.
True judgment now with them alone can dwell;
Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible.
Dull fuperftitious readers they deceive,
Who pin their easy faith on Critic's sleeve,
And, knowing nothing, ev'ry thing believe!
But why repine we, that these puny elves
Shoot into giants?-We may thank ourselves;
Fools that we are, like Ifrael's fools of yore,
The calf ourfelves have fashion'd we adore.
But let true Reason once refume her reign,
This god fhall dwindle to a Calf again.

Founded on arts which fhun the face of day,
By the fame arts they still maintain their sway.
Wrapp'd in mysterious fecrecy they rise,
And, as they are unknown, are fafe and wife.
At whomfoever aim'd, howe'er fevere
Th' envenom'd flanders flies, no names appear.
Prudence forbids that ftep.-Then all might know
And on more equal terms engage the foe.
But now, what Quixote of the age would care
To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air?

By int'reft join'd, th' expert confederates stand, And play the game into each other's hand. The vile abufe, in turn by all deny'd, Is bandy'd up and down from fide to fide: flies-hey-presto !—like a juggler's ball, 'Till it belongs to nobody at all.

It

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All men and things they know, themselves un known,

And publish ev'ry name-except their own.
Nor think this strange-fecure from vulgar eyes
The nameless author paffes in difguife.
But vet'ran Critics are not fo deceiv'd,
If vetran Critics are to be belicv'd.
Once feen, they know an author evermore,
Nay fwear to hands they never faw before.
Thus in the Rofciad, beyond chance or doubt,
They, by the writing, found the writers out.
"That's Lloyd's-his manner there you plainly trace,
"And all the Actor ftares you in the face.
"By Colman that was written.-On my life,
"The strongest fymptoms of the Jealous Wife.
"That little difingenuous piece of spite,
"Churchill, awretch unknown, perhaps might write,"
How doth it make judicious readers fmile,
When authors are detected by their ftile;
Tho' ev'ry one who knows this author, knows
He fhifts his ftile much oftner than his cloaths?

Whence could arife this mighty critic fpleen,
The Mufe a trifler, and her theme fo mean?
What had I done, that angry Heav'n should fend
The bitt'reft foe where moft I wish'd a friend?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,
And hail'd the honours of thy matchlefs fame.
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,
So nobler Pickle ftands fuperbly bound.
From Livy's temples tear th' hiftoric crown,
Which with more juftice blooms upon thine own
Compar'd with thee, be all life-writers dumb,
But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumb.
Who ever read the Regicide, but swore
The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before?
Others for plots and under-plots may call,
Here's the right method-have no plot at all.

Who can so often in his caufe engage
The tiny pathos of the Grecian stage,
Whilft horrors rife, and tears spontaneous flow,
At tragic Ha! and no lefs tragic Oh !
To praise his nervous weakness all agree;
And then for fweetness, who fo fweet as he!
Too big for utterance when forrows fwell,
The too big forrows flowing tears must tell :
But when those flowing tears fhall cease to flow,
Why then the voice muft (peak again, you know.

Rude and unfkilful in the Poet's trade,
I kept no Naiads by me ready-made;
Ne'er did I colours high in air advance,
Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France;
No flimfy linfey-woolfey fcenes I wrote,
With patches here and there like Joseph's coat.
Me humbler themes befit: Secure, for me,
Let playwrights fmuggle nonfenfe, duty free:
Secure, for me, ye lambs, ye lambkins bound,
And frifk, and frolic o'er the fairy ground:
Secure, for me, thou pretty little fawn,
Lick Sylvia's hand, and crop the flow'ry lawn:
Uncenfur'd let the gentle breezes rove
Thro' the green umbrage of th' enchanted grove:
Secure, for me, let foppith Nature fmile,
And play the coxcomb in the Defart Ifle.

The stage I chose-a fubject fair and free'Tis yours-'tis mine-'tis public property. All common exhibitions open lie

For praise or cenfure to the common eye.
Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed;
Hence monthly critics earn their daily bread.
This is a gen'ral tax which all must pay,
From those who fcribble, down to those who play.
Actors, a venal crew, receive fupport
From public bounty, for the public sport.
To clap or hifs, all have an equal claim,
The cobler's and his lordship's right the fame.
All join for their fubfiftence; all expect
Free leave to praise their worth, their faults correct.
When active Pickle Smithfield stage afcends,
The three days wonder of his laughing friends;
Each, or as judgment, or as fancy guides,
The lively wittling praises or derides.

And where's the mighty diff'rence, tell me where,
Betwixt a Merry-Andrew and a Player ?

The strolling tribe, a defpicable race,
Like wand'ring Arabs, fhift from place to place.
Vagrants by law, to justice open laid,
They tremble, of the beadle's lafh afraid,
And fawning cringe, for wretched means of life,
To Madam Mayorefs, or his Worship's wife.

The mighty monarch, in theatric fack,
Carries his whole regalia at his back;
His royal confort heads the female band,
And leads the heir-apparent in her hand;
The pannier'd afs creeps on with confcious pride,
Bearing a future prince on either fide.
No choice musicians in this troop are found
To varnish nonfense with the charms of found;
No fwords, no daggers, not one poifon'd bowl;
No lightning flashes here, no thunders roll;
No guards to fwell the monarch's train are shewn ;
The monarch here must be a hoft alone.
No folem pomp, no flow proceffions here;
No Ammon's entry, and no Juliet's bier.
By need compell'd to prostitute his art,
The varied actor Alies from part to part;

And, ftrange difgrace to all theatric pride!
His character is fhifted with his fide.
Queftion and Anfwer he by turns must be,
Like that small wit* in Modern Tragedy;
Who, to patch up his fame,- -or fill his purfe,—
Still pilfers wretched plans and makes them worfe;
Like giplies, left the ftolen brat be known,
Defacing first, then claiming for his own.
In shabby ftate they ftrut, and tatter'd robe;
The fcene a blanket, and a barn the globe.
No high conceits their mod'rate wishes raise,
Content with humble profit, humble praise.
Let dowdies fimper, and let bumpkins ftare,
The ftrolling pageant hero treads in air :
Pleas'd for his hour, he to mankind gives law,
And fnores the next out on a trufs of fraw.

But if kind Fortune, who we fometimes know
Can take a hero from a puppet-how,
In mood propitious fhould her fav'rite call
On royal ftage in royal pomp to bawl,
Forgetful of himfelf he rears the head,
And fcorns the dunghill where he first was bred.
Converfing now with well-drefs'd kings and

queens,

With gods and goddeffes behind the scenes,
He fweats beneath the terror-nodding plume,
Taught by mock honours real pride t' affume.
On this great ftage the world, no monarch e'er
Was half fo haughty as a monarch play'r.

Doth it more move our anger or our mirth,
To fee thefe Things, the lowest sons of earth,
Prefume, with felf-fufficient knowledge grac'd,
To rule in Letters, and prefide in Tafte?
The Town's decisions they no more admit,
Themfelves alone the arbiters of Wit;
And fcorn the jurifdiction of that court,
To which they owe their being and support.
Actors, like monks of old, now facred grown,
Must be attack'd by no fools but their own.

Let the vain tyrant fit amidst his guards,
His puny Green-room Wits and Venal Bards,
Who meanly tremble at the puppet's frown,
And for a playhouse freedom lofe their own;
In fpite of new-made laws, and new-made kings,
The free-born Mufe with lib'ral fpirit fings.
Bow down, ye flaves; before these idols fall;
Let Genius ftoop to them who've none at all;
Ne'er will I flatter, cringe, or bend the knee
To those who, flaves to All, are flaves to Me.
Actors, as actors, are a lawful game;
The poet's right, and who fhall bar his claim?
And if, o'er-weening of their little fkill,
When they have left the ftage, they're actors ftill;
If to the fubject.world they still give laws,
With paper crowns and fceptres made of straws;
If they in cellar or in garret roar,

And kings one night, are kings for evermore;
Shall not bold Truth, e'en there, purfue her theme,
And 'wake the coxcomb from his golden dream?
Or if, well worthy of a better fate,
They rife fuperior to their prefent state;
If, with each focial virtue grac'd, they blend
The gay companion and the faithful friend ;
If they, like Pritchard, join in private life
The tender parent and the virtuous wife;

* Mr. Foote,

Shall not our verfe their praife with pleasure speak,
Though mimics bark, and Envy fplits her cheek?
No honeft worth's beneath the Mufe's praise ;
No greatness can above her cenfure raise ;
Station and wealth to her are trifling things;
She ftoops to actors, and fhe foars to kings.
Is there a man, in vice and folly bred,
To fenfe of honour as to virtue dead;
Whom ties nor human, nor divine can bind;
Alien to God, and foe to all mankind;
Who fpares no character; whofe ev'ry word,
Bitter as gall, and fharper than the sword,
Cuts to the quick; whofe thoughts with rincour fwell;
Whofe tongue, on earth, performs the work of hell;
If there be fuch a moniter, the Reviews
Shall find him holding forth against abuse.
"Attack profeflion!-'tis a deadly breach!-
"The Chriftian laws another leffon teach :-
"Unto the end fhall charity endure,

"And Candour hide thofe faults it cannot cure."
Thus Candour's maxims flow from Rancour's
throat,

As devils, to ferve their purpose, Scripture quote.
The Mufe's office was by Heav'n defign'd
To pleafe, improve, inftruct, reform mankind;
To make dejected Virtue nobly rife
Above the tow'ring pitch of fplendid Vice;
To make pale Vice, abafh'd, her head hang down,
And trembling crouch at Virtue's awful frown.
Now arm'd with wrath, the bids eternal shame,
With ftricteft juftice, brand the villain's name :
Now in the milder garb of ridicule

She fports, and pleases while the wounds the fool.
Her fhape is often varied; but her aim,
To prop the caufe of Virtue, ftill the fame.
In praise of mercy let the guilty bawl,
When Vice and Folly for correction call,
Silence the mark of weakness justly bears,
And is partaker of the crimes it fpares.

But if the Mufe, too cruel in her mirth,
With harsh reflections wounds the man of worth;
If wantonly the deviates from her plan,
And quits the Actor to expofe the Man;
Afham'd, fhe marks that paffage with a blot,
And hates the line where Candour was forgot.

But what is Candour, what is Humour's vein,
Tho' Judgment join to confecrate the strain,
If curious numbers will not aid afford,
Nor choiceft mufic play in ev'ry word?
Verfes must run, to charm a modern ear,
From all harsh, rugged interruptions clear.

Soft let them breathe, as Zephyr's balmy breeze z
Smooth let their current flow, as fummer feas;
Perfect then orly deem'd when they difpenfe
A happy tuneful vacancy of fenfe.
Italian fathers thus, with barb'rous rage,
Fit helplefs infants for the fqueaking stage,
Deaf, to the calls of pity, Nature wound,
And mangle vigour for the fake of found.
Henceforth farewell then fev'rish thirst of fame;
Farewell the longings for a poet's name;
Perish my Mufe ;-a with 'bove all fevere
To him who ever held the Mufes dear-

If e'er her labours weaken to refine

The gen'rous roughness of a nervous line.

Others affect the ftiff and fwelling phrafe ;

Their Mufe muft walk in ftilts, and ftrut in ftays:

The fenfe they murder, and the words tranfpofe,
Left poetry approach too near to profe.
See tortur'd Reafon how they pare and trim,
And, like Procruftes, ftretch or lop the limb.
Waller, whose praise succeeding bards rehearse
Parent of harmony in English verse,
Whofe tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows,
In couplets first taught straggling sense to close.
In polish'd numbers, and majestic found,
Where fhall thy rival, Pope, be ever found?
But whilft each line with equal beauty flows,
E'en excellence, unvaried tedious grows.
Nature, thro' all her works, in great degree,
Borrows a bleffing from Variety.
Mufic itself her needful aid requires

To rouze the foul, and wake our dying fires.
Still in one key, the Nightingale would teize:
Still in one key, not Brent would always please.

Here let me bend, great Dryden, at thy fhrine,
Thou dearest name to all the tuneful Nine.
What if fome dull lines in cold order creep,
And with his theme the poet seems to sleep,
Still, when his fubject rifes proud to view,
With equal strength the poet rifes too.
With strong invention, nobleft vigour fraught,
Thought ftill fprings up and rifes out of thought;
Numbers ennobling numbers in their course;
In varied sweetness flow, in varied force;
The pow'rs of Genius and of Judgment join,
And the whole art of Poetry is thine.

But what are numbers, what are bards to me,
Forbid to tread the paths of poefy?

"A facred Mufe fhould confecrate her pen;
"Priefts must not hear nor fee like other men ;
"Far higher themes fhould her ambition claim;
"Behold where Sternhold points the way to

fame."

Whilft with mistaken zeal dull bigots burn,
Let Reafon for a moment take her turn.
When coffee-fages hold difcourfe with kings,
And blindly walk in paper-leading strings,
What if a man delight to pafs his time
In fpinning Reafon into harmless rime
Or fometimes boldly venture to the play!
Say, Where's the crime?-great Man of Prudence
fay?

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No two on earth in all things can agree ;
All have fome darling fingularity;

Women and men, as well as girls and boys,
In gew-gaws take delight, and figh for toys.
Your fceptres, and your crowns, and such like
things,

Are but a better kind of toys for kings.
In things indiff'rent Reason bids us chufe,
Whether the whim's a Monkey, or a Mufe.
What the grave triflers on this busy scene,
When they make ufe of this word Reason, mean,
I know not; but, according to my plan,
"Tis Lord Chief-Juftice in the Court of Man,
Equally form'd to rule in age or youth,
The friend of Virtue, and the guide to Truth.
To Her I bow, whofe facred pow'r I feel;
To Her decifion make my last appeal;
Condemn'd by Her, applauding worlds in vain
Should tempt me to take up the pen again:
By Her abfolv'd, my courfe I'll ftill pursue:
If Reafon's for me, GoD is for me too.

1

1

NIG H T.

AN EPISTLE то

ROBERT

WH

LLOY D.

HEN foes infult, and prudent friends difpenfe, In pity's ftrains, the worst of infolence, Oft with thee, LLOYD, I fteal an hour from grief, And in thy focial converfe find relief. The mind, of folitude impatient grown, Loves any forrows rather than her own.

Let flaves to bufinefs, bodies without foul, Important blanks in Nature's mighty roll, Solemnize nonfenfe in the day's broad glare, We NIGHT prefer, which heals or hides our care. Rogues juftified, and by success made bold, Dull fools and coxcombs fanctified by gold," Freely may bafk in Fortune's partial ray, And fpread their feather's op'ning to the day; But thread-bare Merit dares not fhew the head "Till vain Profperity retires to bed. Misfortunes, like the owl, avoid the light; The fons of Care are always fons of Night.

The wretch bred up in Method's drowsy school, Whose only merit is to err by rule,

Who ne'r thro' heat of blood was tripping caught,
Nor guilty deem'd of one eccentric thought,
Whofe foul directed to no ufe is feen,
Unless to move the body's dull machine,
Which, clock-work like, with the fame equal pace,
Still travels on thro' life's infipid space;
Turns up his eyes to think that there fhould be
Among God's creatures two fuch things as we:
Then for his night-cap calls, and thanks the pow'rs
Which kindly gave him grace to keep good hours.

Good hours-Fine words!-But was it ever seen
That all men could agree in what they mean?
Florio, who many years a courfe hath run
In downright oppofition to the fun,
Expatiates on good hours, their cause defends
With as much vigour as our prudent friends.
Th' uncertain term no fettled notion brings,
But still in diff'rent mouths mean diff'rent things.
Each takes the phrafe in his own private view.
With Prudence it is ten, with Florio two.
Go on, ye fools, who talk for talking fake,
Without diftinguishing distinctions make,
Shine forth in native folly, native pride,
Make yourselves rules to all the world befide;
Reason, collected in herself, difdains
The flavish yoke of arbitrary chains;
Steady and truc, each circumstance the weighs,
Nor to bare words inglorious tribute pays.
Men of fenfe live exempt from vulgar awe,
And Reason to herself alone is law.

That freedom she enjoys with lib'ral mind,
Which she as freely grants to all mankind.
No idol titled name her rev'rence stirs,
No hour the blindly to the rest prefers;
All are alike, if they're alike employ'd,
And all are good if virtuously enjoy'd.

Let the fage Doctor (think him one we know)
With scraps of ancient learning overflow,
In all the dignity of wig declare
The fatal confequence of midnight air,
How damps and vapours, as it were by stealth,
Undermine life, and fap the walls of health,

For me let Galen moulder on the fhelf,
I'll live, and be physician to myself.
While foul is join'd to body, whether fate
Allot a longer or a fhorter date;

I'll make them live as brother fhould with brother,
And keep them in good-humour with each other.
The fureft road to health, fay what they will,
Is never to fuppofe we shall be ill.
Moft of thofe evils we poor mortals know,
From doctors and imagination flow.
Hence to old women with your boasted rules,
Stale traps, and only facred now to fools;
As well may fons of phyfic hope to find
One med'cine, as one hour, for all mankind.

If Rupert after ten is out of bed,

The fool next morning can't hold up his head.
What reafon this which me to bed must call,
Whofe head (thank heaven) never aches at all!
In diff'rent courfes diff'rent tempers run,
He hates the Moon, I ficken at the Sun.
Wound up at twelve at noon, his clock goes right,
Mine better goes, wound up at twelve at night.

Then in Oblivion's grateful cup I drown
The galling fneer, the fupercilious frown,
The ftrange referve, the proud affected state
Of upftart knaves grown rich, and fools grown great:
No more that abject wretch disturbs my rest,
Who meanly overlooks a friend diftreft.
Purblind to poverty the wordling goes,
And scarce fees rags an inch beyond his nofe:
But from a crowd can fingle out his grace,
And cringe and creep to fools who strut in lace.

Whether those claffic regions are furvey'd
Where we in earliest youth together stray'd,
Where hand in hand we trod the flow'ry shore,
Tho' now thy happier genius runs before,
When we confpir'd a thankless wretch to raise,
And taught a ftump to fhoot with pilfer'd praife,
Who once for Rev'rend merit famous grown,
Gratefully ftrove to kick his Maker down;
Or if more gen'ral arguments engage,
The court or camp, the pulpit, bar or ftage;
If half-bred furgeons, whom men doctors call,
And lawyers, who were never bred at all,
Thofe mighty letter'd monsters of the earth,
Our pity move, or exercife our mirth;
Or if in tittle-tattle, tooth-pick way,
Our rambling thoughts with easy freedom itray;
A gainer ftill thy friend himself must find,
His grief fufpended, and improv'd his mind.

Whilft peaceful flumbers blefs the homely bed,
Where Virtue, felf-approv'd, reclines her head;
Whilft Vice beneath imagin'd horrors mourns,
And Confcience plants the villain's couch with thorns;
Impatient of restraint, the active Mind,

No more by fervile prejudice confin'd,
Leaps from her feat, as waken'd from a trance,
And darts through Nature at a fingle glance.
Then we our friends, our foes, ourselves, furvey,
And fee by Night what fools we are by Day.

Stript of her gaudy plumes and vain disguise,
See where Ambition mean and loathsome lies;
Reflection with relentless hand pulls down
The tyrant's bloody wreath and ravish'd crown.
In vain he tells of battles bravely won,
Of nations conquer'd, and of worlds undone :
Triumphs like these but ill with manhood suit,
And fink the conqueror beneath the brute,

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But if, in fearching round the world, we find
Some gen'rous youth, the friend of all mankind,
Whofe anger, like the bolt of Jove, is fped
In terrors only at the guilty head,

Whofe mercies, like Heaven's dew, refreshing fall
In gen'ral love and charity to all,

Pleas'd we behold fuch worth on any throne,
And doubly pleas'd we find it on our own.
Through a falfe medium things are fhewn by Day,
Pomp, wealth, and titles, judgment lead aftray.
How many from appearance borrow state,
Whom Night difdains to number with the Great!
Muft not we laugh to fee.yon lordling proud
Snuff up vile incenfe from a fawning crowd?
Whilft in his beam furrounding clients play,
Like infects in the fun's enliv'ning ray,
Whilft, Jehu-like, he drives at furious rate,
And feems the only charioteer of ftate,
Talking himself into a little God,
And ruling empires with a fingie nod;
Who would not think, to hear him law difpenfe,
That he had int'reft, and that they had fenfe?
Injurious thought! Beneath Night's honeft fhade,
When pomp is buried and falíe colours fade,
Plainly we fee at that impartial hour

Them dupes to pride, and him the tool of pow'r.
God help the man, condemn'd by cruel fate
To court the feeming, or the real great.
Much forrow fhall he feel, and fuffer more
Than any flave who labours at the oar.
By flavish methods must he learn to please,
By smooth-tongu'd flatt'ry, that curft court-difeafe,
Supple to ev'ry wayward mood strike fail,
And shift with shifting humour's peevish gale.
To Nature dead, he must adopt vile Art,
And wear a smile with anguish in his heart.
A sense of honour would destroy his schemes,
And Confcience ne'er would speak unless in dreams.
When he hath tamely borne for many years
Cold looks, forbidding frowns, contemptuous fneers;
When he at last expects, good eafy man,
To reap the profits of his labour'd plan,
Some cringing Lacquey, or rapacious Whore,
To favours of the great the fureft door,
Some Catamite, or Pimp, in credit grown,
Who tempts another's wife, or fells his own,
Steps cross his hopes, the promis'd boon denies,
And for fome Minion's Minion claims the prize.
Foe to restraint, unpractis'd in deceit,
Too refolute, from Natures active heat,
To brook affronts, and tamely pass them by ;
Too proud to flatter, too fincere to lye,
Too plain to please, too honeft to be great;
Give me, kind Heav'n, an humbler, happier state;
Far from the place where men with pride deceive,
Where rafcals promife, and where fools believe;
Far from the walk of folly, vice and strife,
Calm, independent, let me fteal thro' life,
Nor one vain wish my steady thoughts beguile
To fear his lordship's frown, or court his smile.
Unfit for Greatnefs, I her inares defy,
And look on riches with untainted eye.
To others let the glitt'ring bawbles fall,
Content fhall place us far above them all.
Spectators only on this bustling stage,
We fee what vain defigns mankind engage;
Vice after vice with ardour they pursue,
And one old folly brings forth twenty new,

Perplex'd with trifles thro' the vale of life,
Man ftrives 'gainst man, without a caufe for ftrife;
Armies embattled meet, and thousands bleed
For fome vile spot where fifty cannot feed.
Squirrels for nuts contend, and, wrong or right,
For the world's empire kings ambitious fight;
What odds?-To us 'tis all the felf-fame thing,
A Nut, a World, a Squirrel, and a King.

Britons, like Roman fpirits fam'd of old,
Are caft by nature in a Patriot mould;
No private joy, no private grief they know,
Their foul's ingrofs'd by public weal or woe.
Inglorious eafe, like ours, they greatly scorn:
Let care with nobler wreaths their brows adorn.
Gladly they toil beneath the statesman's pains,
Give them but credit for a ftatefman's brains.
All would be deem'd, e'en from the cradle, fit
To rule in politics as well as wit.

The grave, the gay, the fopling, and the dunce,
Start up (God bless us !) ftatefmen all at once.

His mighty charge of fouls the priest forgets,
The court-bred lord his promifes and debts,
Soldiers their fame, mifers forget their pelf,
The rake his miftrefs, and the fop himself;
Whilft thoughts of higher moment claim their care,
And their wife heads the weight of kingdoms bear.
Females themselves the glorious ardour feel,
And boaft an equal, or a greater zeal ;
From nymph to nymph the state-infection flies,
Swells in her breast, and sparkles in her eyes.
O'erwhelm'd by politics lie malice, pride,
Envy, and twenty other faults befide.
No more their little flutt'ring hearts confefs
A paffion for applause, or rage for drefs;
No more they pant for Public Raree-shows,
Or lofe one thought on monkeys or on beaux.
Coquettes no more pursue the jilting plan,
And luftful prudes forget to rail at man,
The darling theme CECILIA's felf will chufe,
Nor thinks of fcandal whilft fhe talks of news.
The CIT, a Common-Council-Man by place,
Ten thousand mighty nothings in his face,
By fituation as by nature great,

With nice precision parcels out the state;
Proves and difproves, affirms, and then denies,
Objects himself, and to himself replies;
Wielding aloft the politician rod,
Makes Pitt by turns a devil and a god;
Maintains, e'en to the very teeth of pow'r,
The fame thing right and wrong in half an hour.
Now all is well, now he suspects a plot,
And plainly proves, WHATEVER IS, IS NOT.
Fearfully wife, he shakes his empty head,
And deals out empires as he deals out thread.
His ufelefs fcales are in a corner flung,
And Europe's balance hangs upon his tongue.
Peace to fuch triflers; be our happier plan
To pafs thro' life as eafy as we can.
Who's in or out, who moves this grand machine,
Nor ftirs my curiofity, nor spleen.
Secrets of ftate no more I wish to know
Than fecret movements of a Puppet-show;
Let but the puppets move, I've my defire,
Unfeeen the hand which guides the Master-wire.
What is't to us, if taxes rife or fall,
Thanks to our fortune we pay none at all.
Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal,
Lament thofe hardships which we cannot feel,

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