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Such, fuch emotions should in Britons rise,
When prefs'd by want and weakness Dennis lies
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their Quibbles routed, and defy'd their Puns;
A defperate Bulwark, fturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothic Sons of frozen verse:


How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan, 15
And shook the stage with Thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain Pretender's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in fcorn;
If there's a Critic of diftinguish'd rage;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;}
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.






WHEN Learning, after the long Gothic night,

Fair, o'er the Western world, renew'd its light, With arts arifing, Sophonisba rofe:

The Tragic Mufe, returning, wept her woes.

I have been told by Savage, that of the Prologue to Sophonisba the first part was written by Pope, who could not be perfuaded to finish it; and that the concluding lines were written by Mallet. Dr. JOHNSON.

With her th' Italian scene first learn'd to glow;
And the first tears for her were taught to flow.
Her charms the Gallic Mufes next infpir'd:
Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir’d.

What foreign theatres with pride have shown,
Britain, by juster title, makes her own.
When Freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight;
And hers, when Freedom is the theme, to write.
For this a British Author bids again
The heroine rife, to grace the British scene.
Here, as in life, the breathes her genuine flame:
She asks, what bofom has not felt the fame?
Afks of the British Youth-Is filence there?
She dares to afk it of the British Fair.

To-night, our home-fpun author would be true,
At once, to nature, history, and you.

Well-pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but difdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his British heart he trufts for fame.

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If France excel him in one free-born thought,


The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

Nature! informer of the Poet's art,

Whofe force alone can raife or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each paffion, every line,

Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breaft,
Thy filent whisper is the facred test.






HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet's Fortune in the Town,
"Twas all th' Ambition his high soul could feel,
To wear red ftockings, and to dine with Steel.
Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford;
And gave the harmless fellow a good word:
Set up with thefe, he ventur'd on the Town,
And with a borrow'd. Play out-did poor Crown.
There he stopp'd short, nor fince has writ a tittle,
But has the Wit to make the most of little:
Like ftunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got
Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.

Now he begs Verfe, and what he gets commends,
Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.



So fome coarse Country Wench, almost decay'd, 15
Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid;
Awkward and fupple, each devoir to pay,
She flatters her good Lady twice a-day;
Thought wondrous honeft, though of mean degree,
And strangely lik'd for her Simplicity:

In a tranflated Suit, then tries the Town,
With borrow'd Pins, and Patches not her own:
But just endur'd the Winter fhe began,

And in four Months a batter'd Harridan.


Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk, 25 To bawd for others, and go fhares with Punk.



AUTHOR of the celebrated WORM-POWDER.

OW much, egregious Moore, are we


Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All Humankind are Worms.

Man is a very Worm by birth,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
'Then fhrinks to earth again.

That Woman is a Worm, we find
E'er fince our Grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient Worm, the Devil.

The learn'd themselves we Book-worms name,
The Blockhead is a Slow-worm;
The Nymph whofe tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm :

The Fops are painted Butterflies,

That flutter for a day;

First from a Worm they take their rise,

And in a Worm decay.

The Flatterer an Earwig grows;

Thus Worms fuit all conditions;

Mifers are Muck-worms, Silk-worms Beaus,

And Death-watches Phyficians.


That Statesmen have the Worm, is feen

By all their winding play;

Their Confcience is a Worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.

Ah Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,

If thou couldft make the Courtier void
The Worm that never dies!

O learned Friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who fett'ft our entrails free;
Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain,
Since Worms fhall eat ev'n thee.

Our Fate thou only canft adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms fhall turn,
Who Maggots were before.


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