2 Book-binder has fpoil'd it; he has made it begin at the End. In fome Grounds every Thing degenerates. Wheat runs into Barley, Artichokes turn to Thiftles, Grapes give nothing but Verjuice. And thus the best Subject grows flat and infipid in fome Hands, that have the Reverfe of Midas's Talent, and turn every Thing into Lead. He that writes abundance of Books, and gets abundance of Children, may, in fome Senfe, be faid to be a Benefactor to the Publick, becaufe he furnishes it with Bum-fodder and Soldiers; but 'tis impoffible he should bestow enough upon them to make them appear handfomely in the World. 'Tis a Sign of the laft Neceffity in an Author, when he is forc'd to steal for himself. 'Tis worse than robbing the Spittle. Mr. Shadwell, in one of his laft Plays, is so honeft as to own, that he had ftole a few Hints out of a French Comedy, but pretends 'twas rather out of Laziness than Want. This Confeffion, inftead of mending Matters, would have hang'd him at the Old Baily; and why ic should fave him in Parnaffus, I can't tell. 'Tis ftrange that an Author fhould have a Gamester's Fate, and not know when to give over. Had the City Bard ftopp'd his Hand at Prince Arthur, he had mifs'd Knighthood, 'tis true, but he had gone off with fome Applaufe. Cleander, don't give your felf the Trouble to write against Nevius; ftay but a while, and you'll find he'll fcribble himself out of his little Reputation. A fubftantial One would almoft fwear, that fome Authors had ferv'd an Apprenticeflip to a faggot-maker. Stick or two on the Outfide, a promifing Title, a tolerable Preface, and all Rubbish within. Never was there fuch a Shoal of Verfifiers, and so few Poets. Some Books, like the City of London, fare the better for being burnt. Plays Plays and Romances fell as well as Books of Devotion; but with this Difference, more People read the former than buy them; and more buy the latter, than read them. 'Tis natural for every Man to be fond of his own Country, and what it produces. In the Parish-Church of Soeft, in Weftphalia, there is a Representation of the Laft Supper in a Glafs-Window, where our Saviour and the Apostles fit down before a Gammon of Bacon, the topping Dish of the Country, instead of the Pafcal Lamb. Two hundred Years ago, perhaps in the Days of Popery, an English Painter would have made it a Surloin of Beef. Dr. B How "Tho' Life is fo fhort, we fpend it as unprofitable as if we had Methusela's Age to fquander away. many tiresome Dutch Volumes and, tedious Nights, has y gone through, to acquire all that ufeful Learning about Theriolian Cups, an Sicilian Groats! 'Twas a merry Saying of Rabelais, That a Man ought to buy all the bad Books that come out, because they will never be printed again. Mr. Mr. BROWN'S Dialogues of the DEA D. In Imitation of LUCIA N. The Scene HELL. The Trial of CUCKOLDS. Lucifer. Hold Old! Porter, fhut the Gates of this our august Court, that we may not be thus throng'd. Let no more come in, 'till we have clear'd the Bench of thefe Numbers we have before us already. Porter. Mighty Emperor, your Commands fhall be obey'd. Lucif. Now, my noble Lords, fet we our felves to fearch and examine what of late Years brings daily fuch Gluts and Spring-Tides of Souls to our infernal Mansions, 'fpecially at this Time, when neither War, Famine, nor Plague, are abroad in the upper World, or at least in that Part of it from whence I obferve most of this Gang arrive; Europe I mean If there were War, 'twould be no Wonder fo many were damn'd; the Liberties of the Sword furprize enough in their Sins to throng our Courts of Juftice: Nor is the Plague with out |