Though in an idiom moft unlike,
A fimilarity must strike,
Where both of fimple nature fond,
In art and genius correspond;
And naïve both (allow the phrase
Which no one English word conveys)
Wrapt up their ftories neat and clean,
-The very man-not mere tranflation,
But LA FONTAINE by tranfmigration.
Authors, as DRYDEN's maxim runs,
Have what he calls poetic fons.
Thus MILTON, more correctly wild,
Was richer SPENSER'S lawful child.
And CHURCHILL, got on all the nine,
IS DRYDEN's heir in ev'ry line.
Thus DENIS proves his parents plain,
The child of EASE, and LA FONTAINE,
His mufe, indeed, the work fecures, And asks our praise as much as yours; For, if delighted, readers too
May pay their thanks, as well as you.
But You, my friend (fo folks complain)
For ever in this easy vein,
This profe in verfe, this meafur'd talk,
This pace, that's neither trot nor walk,
Aim at no flights, nor ftrive to give
A real poem fit to live.
(To critics no offence, I hope) PRIOR fhall live as long as POPE,
Each in his manner fure to please,
While both have strength, and both have ease;
Yet though their various beauties strike,
Their ease, their strength is not alike.
Both with confummate horseman's skill,
Ride as they lift, about the bill;
But take, peculiar in their mode,
Their favourite horfe, and favourite road,
For me, once fond of author-fame,
Now forc'd to bear its weight and shame,
I have no time to run a race,
A traveller's my only pace.
They, whom their steeds unjaded bear
Around Hyde-park, to take the air,
May frisk and prance, and ride their fill,
And go all paces which they will;
We, hackney tits-nay, never smile,
Who trot our ftage of thirty mile,
Muft travel in a conftant plan,
And run our journey, as we can.
A critic fays, upon whose fleeve
Some pin more faith than you'll believe,
That writings which as easy please,
Are not the writings wrote with ease.
From whence the inference is plain,
Your friend MAT PRIOR Wrote with pain.
With pain perhaps he might correct,
With care fupply each loofe defect,
Yet fure, if rhime, which feems to flow,
Whether its mafter will or no,
If humour, not by study fought,
But rifing from immediate thought,
Are proofs of eafe, what hardy name
Shall e'er difpute a PRIOR's claim !
But ftill your critic's obfervation Strikes at no POET's reputation, His keen reflection only hits
Your rhiming fops, and pedling wits.
As fome take stiffness for a grace,
And walk a dancing-master's pace,
And others, for familiar air
Miftake the flouching of a bear;
So fome will finically trim,
And dress their lady-mufe too prim,
Others, mere flovens in their pen
(The mob of Lords and Gentlemen)
Fancy they write with ease and pleasure,
By rambling out of rhime and measure.
And, on your critic's judgment, these
Write easily, and not with EASE.
There are, indeed, whose wish pursues,
And inclination courts the muse;
Who, happy in a partial fame,
A while poffefs a poet's name,
But read their works, examine fair,
-Shew me invention, fancy there,
Tafte I allow; but is the flow
Of genius in them? Surely, no.
'Tis labour from the claffic brain.
Read your own ADDISON'S CAMPAIGN.
E'en he, nay, think me not fevere,
A critic fine, of Latin ear,
Who tofs'd his claffic thoughts around
With elegance on Roman ground,
Juft fimmering with the mufe's flame
Woos but a cool and fober dame;
And all his English rhimes exprefs
But beggar-thoughts in royal dress.
In verfe his genius feldom glows,
A POET only in his profe,
Which rolls luxuriant, rich, and chafte,
Improved by Fancy, Wit, and Taste.
I task you for yourself, my friend,
A fubject you can ne'er defend,
And you cajole me all the while.
With differtations upon ftile.
Leave others wits and works alone,
And think a little of your own,
For FAME, when all is faid and done,
Tho' a coy mistress, may be won;
And half the thought, and pains, and time,
You take to jingle easy rhime,
Would make an ODE, would make a PLAY,
Done into English, MALLOCH's way,
-Stretch out your more Heroic feet,
And write an ELEGY complete.
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