Or damn to all eternity at once,
One fimile, that folitary thines
In the dry defert of a thoufand lines,
Or lengthen'd thought that gleams thro' many
a page,
Has fanctified whole poems for an age.
If time improve our wits as well as wine, Say at what age a poet grows divine? Shall we, or fhall we not, account him fo, Who died, perhaps, an hundred years ago? End all dispute, and fix the year precife When British bards begin t'immortalize? I lofe my patience, and I own it too, "Who lafts a century can have no flaw; When works are cenfur'd not as bad, but news "I hold that wit a claffic, good in law.” While, if our elders break all reafon's laws, Suppofe he wants a year, will you compound? Thefe fools demand not pardon, but applause. And thall we deem him ancient, right, and On Avon's bank, where flow'rs eternal blow, If I but afk if any weed can grow; One tragic fentence if I dare deride, Which Betterton's grave action dignified, Orwell-mouth'd Booth with emphalis proclaims (Tho' but, perhaps, a muster-roll of names,) How will our fathers rife up in a rage, And fwear all thame is loft in George's age! You'd think no fools difgrac'd the former reign, Did not fome grave examples yet remain, Who fcorn a lad fhould teach his father skill, And, having once been wrong, will be fo ftill. He, who to feem more deep than you or I, Extols old bards, or Merlin's prophecy, Miftake him not; he envies, not admires; And, to debafe the fons, exalts the fires. Had ancient times confpir'd to difallow What then was new, what had been ancient Or what remain'd fo worthy to be read [now? By learned critics of the mighty dead?
At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce?
"We shall not quarrel for a year or two;
"By courtesy of England, he may do." [bare,
Then, by the rule that made the horie-tail
I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair,
And melt down ancients like a heap of fnow,
While you, to measure merits, look in Stowe;
And, eftimating authors by the year,
Beftow a garland only on a bier.
[bill
Shakespear (whom you and ev'ry playhoufe
Style the divine, the matchlefs, what you will)
For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight,
And
grew immortal in his own defpite.
Ben, old and pour, as little feem'd to heed
The life to come, in ev'ry poet's creed.
Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet,
His moral pleafes, not his pointed wit;
Forgot his epic, nay Pindaric art!
But till I love the language of his heart.
"Yet furely, furely, thefe were famous men!
"What boy but hears the fayings of old Ben?
"In all debates where critics bear a part,
"Not one but nods, and talks of Jonfon's art,
Of Shakespear's nature, and of Cowley's wit,
"How Beaumont's judgment check'd what
"Fletcher writ;
"How Shadwell hafty, Wycherly was flow;
"But, for the paffions, Southern fure and Rowe.
"Thefe, only thefe, fupport the crowded ftage,
"From eldeft Heywood down to Cibber's age."
All this may be; the people's voice is odd;
It is, and it is not, the voice of God.
To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays,
And yet deny the Careless Hufband praife,
Or fay, our fathers never broke a rule;
Why then, I fay, the public is a fool.
But let them own that greater faults than we
They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree.
Spenfer himself affects the obfolete,
And Sydney's verfe halts ill on Roman feet:
Milton's ftrong pinion nownotheavencanbound,
Now, ferpent-like, in profe he fweeps the ground;
In quibbles, angel and archangel join,
And God the Father turns a fchool-divine.
Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book,
Like flathing Bentley, with his defp'rate hook;
Or damn all Shakespear, like th' affected fool
At court, who hates whate'er he read at fchool.
But for the wits of either Charles's days,
The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease;
Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more
(Like twinkling stars the mifcellanies o'er),
In days of eafe, when now the weary fword
Was fheath'd, and luxury with Charles reftor'd
In ev'ry taste of foreign courts improv'd,
"All, by the king's example, liv'd and lov'd."
Then peers grew proud in horfemanfhip t'ex-
Newmarket's glory rofe, as Britain's fell; [cel;
The foldier breath'd the gallantries of France,
And ev'ry flow'ry courtier writ Romance.
Then marble, foften'd into life, grew warm;
And yielding metal flow'd to human form:
Lely on animated canvas stole
The fleepy eye that fpoke the melting foul.
No wonder then, when all was love and sport,
The willing Mufes were debauch'd at court:
On each enervate ftring they taught the note
To pant or tremble thro' an eunuch's throat.
But Britain, changeful as a child at play,
Now calls in princes, and now turns away.
Now Whig, now Tory, what we lov'd we hate;
Now all for pleasure, now for church and state;
Now for prerogative, and now for laws;
Effects unhappy! from a noble caufe.
Time was, a fober Englishman would knock
His fervants up, and rife by five o'clock,
Inftruct his family in ev'ry rule,
And fend his wife to church, his fon to school.
To worship like his Fathers, was his care;
To teach their frugal virtues to his heir;
prove, that luxury could never hold;
And place, on good fecurity, his gold.
Now times are chang'd, and one poetic itch
Has feiz'd the court and city, poor and rich:
Sons, fires, and grandfires, all will wear the bays,
Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays,
To theatres and to rehearsals throng;
And all our grace at table is a fong!
I, who so oft renounce the Mufes, lie;
Not
's felf e'er tells more fibs than I:
When, fick of mufe, our follies we deplore,
And promife our best friends to rhyme no more.
We wake next morning in a raging fit,
And call for pen and ink to fhew our wit.
He ferv'd a 'prenticeship who fets up fhop; Ward tried on puppies, and the poor, his drop; Even Radcliff's doctors travel firit to France, Nor dare to practife till they 've learn'd to dance. Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile? (Should Ripley venture, all the world would file.)
But thofe who cannot write, and thofe who can, All rhyme, and fcrawl, and fcribble to a man.
Yet, fir, reflect, the mifchief is not great; Thefe madmen never hurt the church or ftate; Sometimes the folly benefits mankind; And rarely av'rice taints the tuneful mind. Allow him but his plaything of a pen, He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men: Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind; And knows no lofles while the mufe is kind. To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter, The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre; Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; And then-a perfect hermit in his diet.
Of little ufe the man you may fuppofe, Who fays in verfe what others fay in profe: Yet let me fhew, a poet's of fome weight, And (tho' no foldier) ufeful to the state. What will a child learn fooner than a fong? What better teach a foreigner the tongue, What's long, or fhort, each accent where to place, And fpeak in public with fome fort of grace? I fcarce can think him fuch a worthlefs thing, Unless he praife fome monfter of a king; Or virtue or religion turn to sport, To please a lewd or unbelieving court. Unhappy Dryden in all Charles's days, Rofcommon only boafts unfpotted bays; And in our own (excufe from courtly stains) No whiter page than Additon's remains. He from the tafte obfcene reclaims our youth, And fets the paffions on the fide of truth; Forms the foft bofom with the gentleft art, And pours each human virtue in the heart. Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her caufe, Her trade fupported, and supplied her laws; ` And leave on Swift this grateful verfe engrav'd: "The rights a court attack'd, a poet fav`d.” Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure, Stretch'd to relieve the idiot and the poor, Froud vice to brand, or injur'd worth adorn, And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn. Not but there are who merit other palms; Hopkins and Sternholdglad the heart with palms: The boys and girls whom charity maintains, Implore your help in thefe pathetic strains: How could devotion touch the country pews, Unless the Gods beftow'd a proper mufe?
Verfe cheers their leisure, verfe affifts their work, Verfe prays for peace, or fings down Pope and Turk.
The filenc'd preacher yields to potent ftrain, And feels that grace his ory'r befought in vain; The bleffing, thril's thro' gil the lab'ring throng, And heaven is won by violence of fong.
Our rural ancestors, with little bleft, Patient of labour when the end was reft, Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain With feats and oir rings, and a thankful firain: The joy their wives, the fons, and fervants fhare, Fafe of their toil, and partners of their care: The laugh, the jeft, attendants on the bowl, Smooth'd ev'ry brow, and open'd ev'ry foul: With growing years the pleasing licente grew, And taunts alternate innocently flew. But times corrupt, and nature ill-inclin'd, Produc'd the point that left the fting behind; Till frien 1 with friend, and families at ftrife, Triumphant malice rang'd thro' private life. Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took th' alarm, Appeal'd to law, and juftice lent her arm. At length by wholefome dread of statutes bound, The poets learn`d to pleafe, and not to wound: Moft warp'd to flattery's fide; but fome, more Preferv'd the freedom, and forbore the vice.[nice, Hence fatire rofe, that juft the medium hit, And heals with morals what it hurts with wit. We 'conquer'd France, but feit our captive's
Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms;
Britain to foft retinements leis a foe,
Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow.
Waller was fimooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verfe, the full refounding line,
The long majeftic march, and energy divine.
Tho' fill feme traces of our rustic ven
And splayfoot verte remain'd and will remain.
Late, very late, correctnets grew our care,
When the tir'd nation breath'd from civil war.
Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble tire,
Shew'd us that France had fomething to admire :
Not but the tragic fpirit was our own,
And full in Shakespear, fair in Otway fhone:
But Otway fail'd to polith or refine,
And fluent Shakespear fcarce effac'd a line.
Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The laff and greatest art, the art to blot.
Some doubt if equal pains or equal fire
The humbler mufe of comedy require.
But, in known images of life, I gues
The labour greater, as the indulgence lefs.
Obferve how feldom even the left fucceed:
Tell me if Congreve's Fools are fools indeed?
What pert low dialogue has Farquhar writ!
How Van wants grace who never wanted wit!
The ftage how loosely does Aftrea tread,
Who fairly puts all characters to bed!
And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
To make poor Pinkey cat with valt applaufe!
But fill their purse, our poets' work is done;
Alike to them, by Pathos or by Pun.
O you!
The feafon when to come and when to go,
O you! whom vanity's light bark conveys
On fame's mad voyage by the wind of praife,To ing or ceafe to fing, we never know;
With what a shifting gale your courfe you ply,
For ever funk too low, or borne too high !
Who pants for glory finds but thort repole;
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
Farewel the stage! if, juft a thrives the play,
The filly bird grows fit, or falls away.
And, if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lofs your patience juft like other men.
Then too we lurt ourfelves, when, to defend
'A' Cngle venie, we quarrel with a friend;
¡Revert und; ment, the wit's too fine
For vulgar eyes, ani point out ev'ry line.
But moit when, ftraining with too weak a wing,
We needs will write cpilles to the King;
And from the moment we oblige the town,
Expect a place, or pension from the Crown;
Or dubb'd Hiftorians by exprefs command,
Tenroll your triumphs o'er the feas and land;
Be call'd to Court to plan fome work divine,
As once, for Louis, Boileau and Racine.
Yet think, great Sir! (fo many virtues fhewn)
Ah think what Poctbest may make them known!
Or choose at least some Minister of Grace,
Fit to beltow the Laureat's weighty place.
Charles, to late times to be tranfmitted fair,
Align'd his figure to Bernini's care;
There still remains, to mortify a wit,
The many-headed monfter of the Pit;
A fenfeleis, worthlefs; and unhonour'd crowd,
Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud,
Clatt ring their flicks before ten lines are (poke,
Call for the Farce, the Bear, or the Black Joke.
What dear delight to Britons farce affords!
Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords
(Taite, that eternal wanderer! which flies
From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes)!
The play ftands ftill! dann action and difcourfe,
Back fly the fcenes, and enter foot and horse;
Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn,
Peers, heraids, bishops, eruin, gold, and lawn;
The champion too! and, to complete the jeft,And great Nailau to Kneller's hand decreed
Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breaft.
With laughter fure Democritus had died,
Had he beheld an audience gape to wide.
Let bear or elephant be e'er fo white,
The people, fure the people, are the fight!
Ah, lucklefs poet! ftretch thy lungs and roar,
That bear or elephant thall heed thee more;
While all its throats the gallery extends,
And all the thunder of the pit afcends!
Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' ftormy steep,
Howl to the roarings of the northern deep,
Such is the fhout, the long-applauding note,
At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat:
Or when from Court a birth-day suit beslow'd
Sinks the loft Actor in the tawdry load.
Booth enters-hark! the univerfal peal!
"But has he spoken ?" Not a fyllable.
"What hook the ftage, and made the people ftare?
Cato slongwig, flower dgown and lacquer dehair.
Yet left you think I rally more than teach,
Or praife malignly arts I cannot reach,
Let me for once prefume t' inftruct the times,
To know the Poet from the man of rhymes:
'Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains,
Can make me feel each pailion that he feigas;
Enrage, compofe, with more than magic art,
With pity and with terror tear my heart;
And thatch me o'er the earth, or thro' the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.
But not this part of the poetic ftate
Alone deferves the favour of the Great:
Think of thofe Authors, Sir, who would rely
More on a Reader's fenie, than Gazer's eye.
Or who fhall wander where the Mufes fing?
Who climb their mountain, or who tafte their
How shall we fill a library with wit, [fpring?
When Merlin's Cave is half unfurnish'd yet?
My Liege! why writers little claim your thought,
I gues; and, with their leave, will tell the fault:
We Peets are (upon a Poet's word)
Of all mankind the creatures moft abfurd:
To fix him graceful on the bounding steed;
So well in paint and ftone they judg'd of merit:
But Kings in Wit may want difcerning Spirit.
The Hero William, and the Martyr Charles,
One knighted Blackmore, and one penfion'd
Quarles;
Which made old Ben and furly Denis fwear,
"No Lord's anointed, but a Ruffian Bear."
Not with fuch majefty, fuch bold relief,
The forms auguft of King or conq'ring Chief
L'er fwell'd on marble, as in verfe live thin'd
(In polith'd verfe) the Manners and the Mind.
Oh! could I mount on the Machian wing,
Your Arms, your Actions, your Repole to fing!
What feas you travers'd, and what fields you
fought!
Your country's peace how oft,howdearlybought!
How barb'rous rage fubfided at your word,
And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the
fword!
How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep
Feace fole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in
feep;
Till earth's extremes your mediation own,
And Ala's Tyrants tremble at your Throne.
Ent Verfe, alas! your Majefty dildains;
And I'm not us'd to Panegyric strains:
The Zeal of Fools onends at any time,
But most of all the Zeal of Fools in rhyme.
Befides, a fate attends on all I write;
That, when I aim at praife, they fty I bite.
A vile Encomium doubly ridicules:
There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
If true, a woeful likenefs; and if lies,
" Praife undeferv'd is fatire in difguife:"
Well may he bluth who gives it or receives;
And, when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
(Like Journals, Odes, and fuch forgotten things
As Eufden, Philips, Settie, writ of Kings)
Clothe pice, line trunks, or flutt'ring in a row
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Scho.
T 2
DEAR colonel, Cobham's and your country's You love a verte, take fuch as I can fend, [friend! A Frenchinan comes, prefents you with his boy, Bows and begins-"This lad, Sir, is of Blois : "Obferve his fhape how clean, his locks how "curl'd!
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My only fon, I'd have him fee the world:
"His French is pure; his voice too--you fhall
“hear,
"Sir, he's your flave, for twenty pounds a year.
"Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with cafe,
"Your barber, cook,upholft'rer,what you pleate:
"A perfect genius at an opera fong-
"To fay too much, might do my honour wrong
"Take him with all his virtues, on my word;
"His whole ambition was to ferve a lord:
"But, Sir, to you, with what would I not part?
"Tho' faith, I fear, 'twill break his mother'sheart.
"Once(and but once) I caught him in a lie,'
"And then, unwhipp'd,he had the grace to cry:
«The fault he has I fairly fhall reveal;
"(Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to fteal."
If, after this, you took the graceless lad,
Could you complain, my friend,he prov'd fo bad?,
"Faith, in fuch cafe, if you thould profecute,
I think Sir Godfrey thould decide the fuit;
Who fent the thief, that ftole the cash, away,
And punish'd him that put it in his way.
Confider then, and judge me in this light;
I told you, when I went, I could not write;
You faid the fame; and are you discontent
With laws to which you gave your own affent?
Nay worfe, to afk for verfe at fuch a time!
D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme?
In Anna's wars, a foldier poor and old
Had dearly earn'd a little purfe of gold:
Tir'd with a tedious march, one luckless night
He flept, poor dog! and loft it to a doit.
This put the man in fuch a defp`rate mind,
Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd,
Against the foe, himself, and all mankind,
He leap'd the trenches, fcal'd a caftle wall,
Tore down a ftandard, took the fort and all.
"Prodigious well!" his great commander cried;
Gave him much praife, and fome reward befide.
Next pleas'd his, excellence a town to batter;
(Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter)
"Go on, my friend (he cried) fee yonder walls!
"Advance and conquer! go where glory calls!
"More honours, more rewards,attend thebrave."
Don't you remember what reply he gave?
"D'ye think me, noble Gen'ral, fuch a fot?
"Let han take cafties who has ne'er agroat."
Bred up at home, full early I begun
To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus" fon.
Befides my father taught me, from a lad,
The better art to know the good from bad:
(And little fure imported to remove,
To bunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove),
But knettier points we knew not half fo well
Deprived us foon of our paternal cell,
And certain laws, by fuff'rers thought unjust,
Denied all pofts of profit or of trust;
Hopes after hopes of pious Papift fail'd,
While mighty William's thund'ring arm pre-
For Right Hereditary tax'd and fin'd, [vail'd.
He ftuck to poverty with peace of mind;
And me the Mufes help to undergo it;
Convict a Papift he, and I a Poet.
But (thanks to Homer)! fince I live and thrive,
Indebted to no prince or peer alive,
Sure I fhould want the care of ten Monroes,
If I would fcribble rather than repose.
Years following yearsfteal fomethingev'ryday,
At laft they teal us from ourselves away;
In one our frolics, one amufements end,
In one a mistress drops, in one a friend:
This fubtle thief of life, this paltry Time,
What will it leave me, if it fnatch my rhyme?
If ev'ry wheel of that unwearied mill,
That turn'd ten thousand verfes how stand still?
But, after all, what would you have me do,
When out of twenty I can please not two;
When this Heroics only deigns to praife,
Sharp Satire that, and that Pindaric lays?
One likes the pheafant's wing, and one the leg;
The vulgar boil, the learned roaft, an egg,
Hard talk! to hit the palate of fuch guests,
When Oldfield loves what Dartincuf deteits:
But grant I may relapfe, for want of grace,
Again to rhyme: can London be the place?
Who there his Mufe, or felf, or foul attends,
In crowds and courts, law, bufinefs, feafts, and
friends?
My counfel fends to execute a deed:
A Poet begs me I will hear him read:
In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me there—
At ten for certain, Sir, in Bloomsbury-square--
Before the Lords at twelve my Caufe comes on-
There's a Rehearsal, Sir, exact at one.
"Oh! but a Wit can ftudy in the streets,
"And raife his mind above the mob he meets."
Not quite fo well however as one ought;
A hackney-coach may chance to spoila thought;
And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead,
God knows, may hurt the very ableft head.
Have you not feen, at Guildhall's narrow país,
Two Aldermen difpute it with an Afs;
And Peers give way, exalted as they are,
Even to their own S-r-v--nce in a car?
Go, lofty Poet! and in fuch a crowd
Sing thy fonorous verfe—but not aloud.
Alas! to grottos and to groves we run;
To eafe and filence ev'ry Mufe's fon:
Blackmore himself, for any grand effort,
Would drinkand doze at Tooting or Earl's-court.
How thall I rhyme in this eternal roar? [before?
How match the bards whom none e'er match'd
The man who, ftretch'd in Ifis' calm retreat,
To books and study gives feven years complete,
See! ftrew'd with fearned duft, his nightcap on,
He walks, an object new beneath the fun!
The boys flock round him, and the people stare:)
So ftiff, fo mute! fome ftatue, you would fwear,
Stept from its pedeítal to take the air!
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And here, while town, and court, and city roars,
With mobs, and duns, and foldiers, at their doors,
Shall I in London act this idle part?
Compofing fongs, for fools to get by heart?
The Temple late two brother Serjeants faw,
Who deem'd each other Oracles of Law;
With equal talents, thefe congenial fouls, [Rolls
One lull'd th' Exchequer, and one stunn'd the
Each had a gravity would make you split,
And thook his head at Murray, as a wit.
'Twas, "Sir, your law"-and Sir, your elo-
quence;'
[bot's fenfe.
"Yours, Cowper's manners;" and Yours, Tal-
Thus we difpofe of all poetic merit;
Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's fpirit.
Call TibbaldShakespear, and he'll fwear the Nine,
Dear Cibber! never match'd one Ode of thine.
Lord! how we strut thro' Merlin's Cave to feeTo rules of Poetry no more confin'd,
No poets there but Stephen, you, and me.
Walk with refpect behind, while we at ease.
Weave laurel Crowns, and take what names we
My dear Tibullus !" if that will not do, [please.
"Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you :
"Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's ftrains,
"And you thall rife up Otway for your pains."
Much do I fuffer, much to keep in peace
This jealous, wafpifh, wrong-head, rhyming race;
And much muft flatter, if the whim fhould bite
To court applause, by printing what I write:
But, let the fit pafs o'er, I'm wife enough
To top my ears to their confounded stuff.
Who, tho' the Houfe was up, delighted fate,
Heard, noted, anfwer'd, as in full debate:
In all but this, a man of fober life,
Fond of his Friend, and civil to his Wife;
Not quite a madman 'tho' a pafty fell,
And much too wife to walk into a well.
Him the damn dDoctors and his Friends immur'd,
They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in short,
they cur'd:
Whereat the gentleman began to ftare-
My friends! he cried, p-x take you for your care.
That from a Patriot of diftinguifh'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a fimple Vote.
Well, on thew hole, plain profe must be my fate:
Wifdom, curfe on it! will come foon or late.
There is a time when Poets will grow duil :
I'll e'en leave verfes to the boys at fchool:
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I'll learn to fimooth and harmonize my mind;
Teach ev'ry thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal measure of the foul.
Soon as I enter at my country door,
My mind refumes the thread it dropp'd before;
Thoughts which at Hyde-park-corner I forgot,
Meet and rejoin me in the penfive Grot;
There all alone, and compliments apart,
ask thefe fober queftions of my heart:
If, when the more you drink, the more you
You tell the Doctor; when the more you have,
The more you want, why not with equal cafe
Confefs as well your Folly, as Difeafe?
The heart refolves this matter in a trice:
Men only feel the Smart, but not the Vice."
When golden Angels 'ceafe to cure the Evil,
You give all royal Witchcraft to the Devil;
When fervile Chaplains cry that birth and place
Endue a Peer with honour, truth, and grace,
Look if that breast, most dirty D-! be fair
Say, can you find out one fuch lodger there?
Yet ftill, not heeding what your heart can teach,
You go to Church to hear thefe flatt'rers preach.
Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit,
A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit,
The wifeft man might bluth, I must agree,
If D*** lov'd fixpence more than he.
In vain badRhymers all mankind reject, [fpect:
They treat themfelves with most profound re-
'Tis to fmall purpose that you hold your tongue;"
Each, prais'd within, is happy all day long:
But how feverely with themselves proceed
The men who write fuch Verfe as we can read!
Their own ftrict Judges, not a word they fpare
That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care.
Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place,
Nay tho' at Court (perhaps) it may find grace:
Such they'll degrade; and fometimes, in its ftead,
In downright charity revive the dead;
Mark where a bold expreffive phrase appears,
Bright thro' the rubbish of fome hundred years;
Command oldwords that long have flept,to awake,
Words that wife Bacon or brave Raleigh spake;
Or bid the new be English, ages hence,
(For Ufe will father what's begot by Senfe)
Pour the full tide of eloquence along,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely ftrong, .
Rich with the treafures of each foreign tongue;
Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
But fhew no mercy to an empty line:
Then polish all with fo much life and ease,
You think 'tis Nature, and a knack to please:
"But eafe in writing flows from art, not chance;
"As thosemove easiest whohave learn`dtodance."
If fuch the plague and pains to write by rule,
Better (fay 1) be pleas'd, and play the fool:
Call, if you will, bad rhyming a difeafe;
It gives men happinefs or leaves them eafe.
There liv'd in primo Georgii (they record)
A worthy member, no finall fool, a Lord;
If there be truth in Law, and Ufe can give
A Property, that's yours on which you live.
Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford
Their fruits to you, confeffes you its lord;
All Worldly's hens, nay partridge, fold to town,
His ven'fon too, a guinea makes your own:
He bought at thoufands what with better wit
You purchafe as you want, and bit by bit;
Now, or long fince, what difference will be found?
You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.
Heathcote himself, and fuch large-acred men
Lords of fat E'fham, or of Lincoln-fen,
Buy ev'ry stick of wood that lends them heat :
Buy ev'ry pullet they afford to cat.
Yet thefe are Wights who fondly call their own
Half that the Devil o'erlooks from Lincoln town
The Laws of God, as well as of the land,
Abhor a Perpetuity thould ftand:
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