Your man of habit, who's wound up To eat and drink, and dine and fup, But has not either will or pow'r
To break out of his formal hour;
Who lives by rule, and ne'er outgoes it
Moves like a clock, and hardly knows i
Who is a kind of breathing being,
Which has but half the pow'r of feeing
Who ftands for ever on the brink,
Yet dare not plunge enough to think,
Nor has one reason to supply
Wherefore he does a thing, or why,
But what he does proceeds fo right,
You'd think him always guided by't;
Joins poetry and vice together
Like fun and rain in April weather,
Holds rake and wit as things the fame,
And all the difference but a NAME.
A Rake! Alas! how many wear The brow of mirth, with heart of care The defperate wretch reflection flies, And fhuns the way where madness lies,
Dreads each increafing pang of grief,
And runs to FOLLY for relief.
There, 'midst the momentary joys
Of giddy mirth and frantic noise,
FORGETFULNESS, her eldeft born,
Smooths the World's hate, and blockhead's fcorn,
Then PLEASURE wins upon the mind,
Ye CARES, go whistle to the wind;
Then welcome frolic, welcome whim!
The world is all alike to him.
Diftrefs is all in apprehenfion;
It ceases when 'tis past prevention :
And happiness then preffes near,
When not a hope's left, nor a fear.
But you've enough, nor want my preaching,
And I was never form'd for teaching:
Male prudes we know, (those driv❜ling things) Will have their gibes, and taunts, and flings. How will the fober Cit abuse,
The fallies of the Culprit mufe;
To her and Poet fhut the door
And whip the beggar, with his whore ?
What is his verse, but cooping sense
Within an arbitrary fence?
At best, but ringing that in rhime,
Which profe would fay in half the tim
Measure and numbers! what are those
But artificial chains for profe?
Which mechanism quaintly joins
In parallels of fee-faw lines.
And when the frisky wanton writes
In PINDAR'S (what d'ye call 'em)—flig
Th' uneven measure, fhort and tall,
Now rhiming twice, now not at all,
In curves and angles twirls about,
Like Chinese railing, in and out.
Thus when you've labour'd hours on
Cull'd all the sweets, cull'd all the flow
The churl, whofe dull imagination
Is dead to every fine sensation,
Too gross to relish nature's bloom,
Or tafte her fimple rich perfume,
Shall caft them by as ufelefs ftuff,
And fly with keeness to his-fnuff.
Look round the world, not one in ten Thinks Poets good, or honest men.
'Tis true their conduct, not o'er nice,
Sits often loose to easy vice.
Perhaps their Temperance will not pafs
The due rotation of the glass;
And gravity denies 'em pow'r
T' unpeg their hats at such an hour.
Some vices must to all appear
As conftitutional as FEAR;
And every Moralift will find
A ruling paffion in the mind:
Which, tho' pent up and barricado'd
Like winds, where olus bravado'd;
Like them, will fally from their den,
And raise a tempeft now and then;
Unhinge dame PRUDENCE from her plan,
And ruffle all the world of man.
Can authors then exemption draw From nature's, or the common law? They err alike with all mankind, Yet not the fame indulgence find.
Till every error seems to rife
TO SINS of moft gigantic fize.
Thus fares it ftill, however hard,
With every wit, and ev'ry bard.
His publick writings, private life,
Nay more, his mistress, or his wife,
And ev'ry social, dear connection,
Muft bear a critical diffection;
While friends connive, and rivals hate,
Scoundrels traduce, and blockheads bai
Perhaps you'll readily admit
There's danger from the trading wit,
And dunce and fool, and fuch as those,
Must be of courfe the poet's foes:
But fure no fober man alive,
Can think that friends would e'er conniv
From juft remarks on earliest time, In the first infancy of rhime,
It may be fairly understood
There were two fects-the Bad, the G Both fell together by the ears,
And both beat up for volunteers.
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