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THE ART OF PREACHING.
In Imitation of HORACE's Art of Poetry.
Pendent opera interr rupta.
HOULD fome fam'd hand, in this fantastic age,
Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the stage,
With all his postures 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 monfter crowds on monfter through the piece,
Who could help laughing at a fight like this?
Or, as a drunkard's dream together brings
"A court of coblers, or a mob of kings
Such is a fermon, where, confus'dly dark,
Join Sharp, South, Sherlock, Barrow, Wake, and
So eggs of different parishes will run [Clarke;
To batter, when you beat fix yolks to one;
So fix bright chemic liquors when you mix,
In one dark fhadow vanish all the fix.
Full licence priests and painters ever had To run bold lengths, but never to run mad; For these can't reconcile God's grace to fin, Nor those paint tigers in an afs's skin.
Another copy reads,
"Join Hoadly, Sharp, South, Sherlock, Wake, and Clarke.”
No common dauber in one piece would join
The fox and goofe-unless 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 its beams will spread,
And shine more strongly through a mine of lead.
With fuch low arts your audience never bilk;
For who can bear a fuftian lin'd with filk ?
Sooner than preach such stuff, I'd walk the town,
Without my scarf, in Whiston's draggled gown;
Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's, to read
For pence, and bury for a groat a head.
Some easy subject chufe, within your power,
Or you can never hold out half an hour.
One rule obferve: this Sunday split your text;
Preach one part now, and t'other half the next.
Speak, look, and move, with dignity and ease,
Like mitred Secker, you'll be fure to please.
But, if you whine like boys at country schools,
Can you be faid to ftudy Cambray's rules?
Begin with care, nor, like that curate vile,
Set out in this high prancing ftumbling ftyle,
"Whoever with a piercing eye can fee
"Through the paft records of futurity-"
All gape-no meaning-the puff'd orator
Talks much, and fays juft 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, and coffee, are no more.
His arguments in filly circles run
Still round and round, and end where they begun:
So the poor turn-spit, as the wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he lofes ground.
Surpris'd with folitary self-applause,
He fees the motley mingled scene he draws:
Dutch painters thus at their own figures ftart,
Drawn with their utmost uncreating art.
Thus when old Bruin teems, her children fail
Of limbs, form, figure, features, head, or tail;
Nay, though the licks her cubs, her tender cares
At beft can bring the bruins but to bears.
Still to your hearers all your fermons fort;
Who'd preach against Corruption at the Court?
Against Church-power at Vifitations bawl,
Or talk about Damnation at Whitehall?
Harangue the Horfe-guards on a Cure of fouls,
Condemn the quirks of Chancery at the Rolls,
Or rail at Hoods and Organs at St. Paul's?
Or be, like David Jones, fo indifcreet,
To rave at Ufurers in Lombard-street?
Ye Country-vicars, when you preach, in town,
A turn at Paul's to pay your journey down,
If you would fhun the fneer 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 found of Bow;
Speak not the phrase that Drury-lane affords,
Nor from 'Change-alley fteal a cant of words:
Coachmen will criticife your ftyle; nay, further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful murther:
The dregs of the Canaille will look askew,
To hear the language of the town from you:
Nay, my Lord-mayor, with merriment poffeft,
Will break his nap, and laugh among the rest,
And jog the Aldermen to hear the jeft.
INVITATION TO MR. DODINGTON*.
In Allufion to HORACE, Book I. EP. V.
F Dodington will condefcend
To vifit a poetic friend,
And leave a numerous bill of fare,
For four or five plain dishes here;
No coftly welcome, but a kind
He and his friends will always find;
A plain, but clean and fpacious room,
The mafter and his heart at home,
A cellar open as his face,
A dinner fhorter than his grace;
Your mutton comes from Pimpern-down,
Your fish (if any) from the town;
Our rogues, indeed, of late, o'eraw'd,
By human laws, not thofe of God,
Created Lord Melcombe in 1761.
No venifon steal, or none they bring.
Or fend it all to master King *;
And yet, perhaps, fome venturous spark
May bring it, now the nights are dark.
Punch I have ftore, and beer befide,
And port that's good, though frenchified.
Then, if you come, I'm fure to get
From Eaftbery +-a defert-of wit.
One line, good Sir, to name the day,
And your petitioner will pray, &c.
MR. R. PITT, to his Brother C. PITT. On his having a Fit of the Gout.
MONG the well-bred natives of our isle,
your Sir, is
In humbler manner, as my fate is low,
I beg to kifs your venerable toe,
Not Old Infallibility's can have
Profounder reverence from its meaneft flave.
What dignity attends the folemn Gout!
What conscious greatness if the heart be ftout!
Methinks I fee you o'er the house prefide,
In painful majesty and decent pride,
With leg toft high, on stately sofa sit,
More like a fultan than a modern wit;
*The Blandford carrier.
Mr. Dodington's feat at that time.