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Senfe may they seek, and lefs engage
In papers fill'd with party-rage.
But if their riches fpoil their vein,
Ye Muses, make them poor again.
Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
my tuneful pens are made.
I ftrike the scales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The facred altar floats with red,
And now he dies, and now he's dead.
How like the son of Jove I stand,
This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To see what dangers threat the year :
Ye Gods! what fonnets on a wench?
What lean translations out of French?
'Tis plain, this lobe is so unfound,
prints, before the months go round. But hold, before I close the scene, The facred altar should be clean.
Oh had I Shadwell's fecond bays,
Or Tate! thy pert and humble lays !
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never miss'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the fhrine,
(That only way you please the Nine)
But fince I chance to want these two,
I'll make the fongs of Durfey do.
Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,
I hang the scales that brac'd it in ;
I hang my studious morning gown,
And write my own inscription down.
"This trophy from the Python won,
"This robe, in which the deed was done,
"These, Parnell, glorying in the feat,
Hung on these shelves, the Mufes feat. "Here ignorance and hunger found "Large realms of wit to ravage round; "Here ignorance and hunger fell;
"Two foes in one I fent to hell..
"Ye Poets, who my labours fee,
"Come share the triumph all with me!
"Ye Critics! born to vex the Muse,
"Go mourn the grand ally you lose.
An ALLEGORY on MAN.
Thoughtful Being, long and fpare,
Our race of mortals call him Care :
(Were Homer living, well he knew
What name the Gods have call'd him too)
With fine mechanic genius wrought,
And lov'd to work, tho' no one bought.
This Being by a model bred
In Jove's eternal sable head,
Contriv'd a shape impow'r'd to breathe,
And be the worldling here beneath.
The Man rose staring, like a stake;
Wond'ring to see himself awake!
Then look'd fo wife, before he knew
The bus'nefs he was made to do;
That pleas'd to fee with what a grace
He gravely fhew'd his forward face,
Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
An Under-fomething of the sky.
But ere he gave the mighty nod,
Which ever binds a Poet's God:
(For which his curls ambrofial shake,
And mother Earth's obliged to quake :)
He faw old mother Earth arise,
She ftood confefs'd before his eyes;
But not with what we read fhe wore,
A caftle for a crown before,
Nor with long ftreets and longer roads
Dangling behind her, like commodes:
As yet with wreaths alone fhe dreft,
And trail'd a landskip-painted veft.
Then thrice she rais'd, as Ovid said,
And thrice she bow'd, her weighty head.
Her honours made, great Jove, fhe cry'd,
This thing was fashion'd from my fide;
His hands, his heart, his head are mine;
Then what haft thou to call him thine ?
Nay rather afk, the Monarch faid,
What boots his hand, his heart, his head,
Were what I gave remov'd away?
Thy part's an idle fhape of clay.
Halves, more than halves! cry'd honest Care,
Your pleas wou'd make your titles fair,
You claim the body, you the foul,
But I who join'd them, claim the whole.
Thus with the Gods debate began,
On such a trivial caufe, as Man.
And can celestial tempers rage?
Quoth Virgil, in a later age.
As thus they wrangled, Time came by;
(There's none that paint him fuch as I,
For what the fabling Ancients fung
Makes Saturn old, when Time was young.)
yet his winters had not shed
Their filver honours on his head;