TO POETS Wine is inspiration,
Blockheads get drunk in Imitation.
As different Liquors different ways
Affect the body, fometimes raife
The fancy to an Eagle's fight,
And make the heart feel wondrous light;
At other times the circling mug,
Like LETHE's draught, or opiate drug,
Will ftrike the fenfes on a heap,
When Folks talk wife, who talk afleep;
A whimfical imagination,
Might form a whimsical relation,
How every Author writes and thinks
Analagous to what he drinks,
While quaint Conjecture's lucky hit,
Finds out his bev'rage in his Wit.
Ye goodly dray-nymph Mufes, hail!
MUM, PORTER, STINGO, MILD and STALE,
And chiefly thou of boasted fame,
Of ROMAN and IMPERIAL name.
O Purl! all hail! thy vot'ry steals,
His ftockings dangling at his heels,
To where fome pendent head invites
The Bard to fet his own to rights,
Who feeks thy influence divine,
And pours libations on thy fhrine,
In wormwood draughts of inspiration,
To whet his foul for defamation.
Hail too, your Domes! whofe Masters skill,
Takes up illuftrious folks at will,
And careless or of place or name,
Beheads and hangs to public fame
Fine garter'd Knights, blue, red, or green,
Lords, Earls and Dukes, nay King, or Queen,
And sometimes pairs them both together,
To dangle to the wind and weather
Or claps fome mighty General there,
Who has not any head to spare.
Or if it more his fancy fuit,
Pourtrays or fish, or bird, or brute,
And lures the gaping, thirsty guest,
To SCOTT's entire, or TRUEMAN's best.
Ye chequer'd Domes thrice hail! for hence
The fire of Wit, the froth of Sense,
Here gentle Puns, ambiguous Joke,
Burft forth oracular in fmoke,
And Inspiration pottle deep,
Forgets her fons, and falls afleep.
' VOL. II.
Hence iffue Treatifes and Rhymes,
The Wit and Wonder of the Times,
Hence Scandal, Piracies and Lies,
Defenfive Pamphlets on EXCISE,
The murd'rous Articles of News,
And pert THEATRICAL REVIEWS.
Hither, as to their Urns, repair,
Bard, Publisher, and minor Play'r,
And o'er the Porter's foaming head
Their venom'd malice nightly fhed,
And aim their batteries of dirt
At Genius, which they cannot hurt.
Smack not their works, if verfe or profe
Offend your eye, or ear, or nose,
So frothy, vapid, ftale, hum drum,
Of STINGO, PORTER, PURL and MUM?
And when the mufe politely jokes,
Cannot you find the Lady fmokes?
And spite of all her inspiration,
Betrays her alehouse education?
Alas! how very few are found,
Whose style tastes neat and full and found!
In WILLMOT's loofe ungovern'd vein
There is, I grant, much burnt CHAMPAIGN,
But when, obedient to the mode
Of panegyric, courtly ode,
The bard beftrides his annual hack,
In vain I taste, and fip and fmack,
I find no flavour of the SACK.
But while I ramble and refine
On flavour, Style, and Wit and Wine,
Your Claret, which I would not waste,
Recalls me to my proper taste;
So ending, as 'tis more than time,
At once my Letter, glass and rhyme,
I take this bumper off to you,
'Tis SHEPERD's health-dear friend, adie
No author ever fpar'd a brother:
"Wits are game cocks to one another."
But no antipathy fo ftrong,
Which acts fo fiercely, lafts fo long
As that which rages in the breast
Of critic, and of wit profeft:
When, eager for fome bold emprize,
WIT, Titan-like, affects the fkies,
When, full of energy divine,
The mighty dupe of all the nine,
Bids his kite foar on paper wing,
The critic comes, and cuts the string;
Hence dire contention often grows
'Twixt man of verfe, and man of profe;
While profe-man deems the verfe-man fool,
And measures wit by line and rule,
And, as he lops off fancy's limb,
Turns executioner of whim;
While genius, which too oft disdains
To bear e'en honourable chains;
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