Born to look downward on the ground! Type of the fall of Greece and Rome ! While more than mathematic Gloom, Envelopes all around!
In Imitation of HORACE'S ART OF POETRY.
By the late Rev. CHRISTOPHER PITT.
Pendent opera interrupta.
HOULD fome fam'd Hand, in this fantastic age,
Draw RICH, as RICH appears upon the Stage, With all his Poftures, in one motley plan,
The God, the Hound, the Monkey and the Man
Here o'er his Head high-brandishing a Leg,
And there juft hatch'd, and breaking from his Egg;
While Monster crowds on Monfter through the Piece,
Who could help laughing at a fight like this?
Or as a Drunkards dream together brings
A Court of Coblers and a mob of Kings ;
Such is a fermon, where confus'dly dark,
Join Hoadly, Sharp, South, Sherlock, Wake, and Clarke,
So Eggs of different parishes will run
To batter, when you beat fix yolks to one;
So fix bright chymic Liquors if you mix,
In one dark fhadow vanish all the fix.
This Licence Priefts and Painters ever had,
To ruti bold lengths, but never to run mað ;
For these can't reconcile God's Grace to Sin,
Nor thofe paint Tygers in an Afs's Skin;
No common dauber in one piece would join
A Fox and Goole,-- -Unlefs upon a fign.
Some steal a Page of sense from Tillotson.
And then conclude divinely with their own;
Like Oil on water mounts the Prelate up,
His Grace is always fure to be at Top;
That Vein of Mercury it's Beams will spread,
And shine more ftrongly through a mine of Lead.
With fuch low Arts your hearers never bilk,
For who can bear a Futian lin'd with Silk?
Sooner than preach fuch ftuff, I'd walk the Town,
Without my Scarf in Whifton's draggled Gown;
Ply at the Chapter and at Child's to read
For Pence, and bury for a Groat a Head.
Some eafy Subject chufe, within your power,
Or you will ne'er hold out for half an hour.
Still to your Hearers all your Sermons fort;
Who' preach against corruption at the Court?
Against church pow'r at Vifitations bawl?
Or talk about Damnation at Whitehall?
Harangue the Horfe-guards on a Cure of Souls?
Condemn the Quirks of Chancery at the Rolls?
Or rail at hoods and organs at St. Paul's?
Or be, like David Jones, fo indiscreet,
To rave at Ufurers in Lombard-ftreet?
Begin with Care, nor, like that Curate vile,
Set out in this high prancing ftumbling Style:
"Whoever with a piercing Eye can Jee,
"Through the paft Records of Futurity"-
All gape, no Meaning: the puft orator
Talks much, and says just nothing for an hour,
Truth and the Text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away :
So frugal Dames infipid Water pour,
Till Green, Bohea, or Coffee are no more.
His Arguments in giddy circles run
Still round and round, and end where they begun :
So the poor turnfpit, as the Wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he lofes ground.
No Parts diftinct, or general Scheme we find,
But one wild shapeless Monster of the Mind:
So when old Bruin teems, her Children fail
Of Limbs, Form, Figure, Features, Head or Tail,
Nay, though the licks the Ruins, all her Cares
Scarce mend the Lumps, and bring them but to Bears.
Ye Country Vicars, when you preach in Town
A Turn at Paul's, to pay your Journey down,
If you would fhun the Sneer of every Prig,
Lay by the little Band, and rufty Wig:
But yet be fure, your proper Language know,
Nor talk as born within the Sound of Bow.
Speak not the Phrafe that Drury-lane affords,
Nor from 'Change-alley steal a cant of words.
Coachmen will criticife your Style, nay further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful Murder:
The Dregs of the Canaille will look askew
To hear the Language of the Town from you;
Nay, my Lord May'r, with Merriment poffeft,
Will break his Nap, and laugh among the rest,
And jog the Aldermen to hear the jeft.
RIFFIN, Bullard, Turkey, Capon,
Let other hungry Mortals gape on ;
And on the bones their Stomach fall hard,
But let all Souls-men have their Mallard.
Oh! by the Blood of King Edward,
Oh! by the Blood of King Edward,
It was a fwopping, fwopping Mallard.
The Romans once admir'd a Gander
More than they did their chief Commander :
Because he fav'd, if some don't fool us,
The place that's call'd from the Head of Tolus.
Oh! by the Blood, &c.
The Poet's feign'd fove turn'd a Swan,
But let them prove it, if they can :
As for our Proof 'tis not at all hard,
For it was a fwopping, fwopping MALLARD.
Swopping he was from Bill to Eye;
Swopping he was from Wing to Thigh;
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