And think they raise their own renown
By pulling of a neighbour's down;

Still lying on with most success,
Because they charity profefs,

And make the out-fide of religion,

Like Mahomet's infpiring pigeon,

To all their forgeries gain credit, 'Tis enough fure that

faid it.

But what can all this rambling mean?
Was ever such a hodge-podge seen ?
VENUS, CECILIA, Saints, and Whores,
Thomas, Vertù, Bells, Knockers, Doors,
Lords, Rogues, Relations, Ladies, Cits,
Stars, Flambeaus, Thunderbolts, Horns, Wits,
Vulcan, and Cuckold-maker, Scandal,
Mufic, and Footmen, Ear of Handel,
Weather, News, Envy, Politicks,

Intrigues, and Women's Thoufand Tricks,
Prudes, Methodists, and Devotees,

Faftings, Feafts, Pray'rs, and Charities,

Ceres,

Ceres, with her mysterious train,

and

Flesh, Spirit, Love, Hate, and Religion,

A Quail, a Raven, and a Pigeon,

All jumbled up in one large dish,

Red-Herring, Bread, Fowl, Flesh, and Fish.

Where's the connection, where's the plan? The devil fure is in the man.

All in an inftant we are hurl'd

From place to place all round the world,
Yet find no reafon for it- mum
There, my good critic, lies the hum
Well, but methinks, it wou'd avail

To know the end of this -A TALE.

ΑΝ

ཉ

An EPISTLE to C. CHURCHILL,

AUTHOR of the ROSCIA D.

I'

F at a Tavern, where you'd wish to dine,

They cheat your palate with adulterate wine,
Would you, refolve me, critics, for you can,
Send for the mafter up, or chide the man?
The man no doubt a knavish bufinefs drives,
But tell me what's the mafter who connives?
Hence you'll infer, and fure the doctrine's true,
Which fays, no quarter to a foul Review.
It matters not who vends the nauseous flop,
Master or prentice; we deteft the shop.

Critics of old, a manly liberal race, Approv❜d or cenfur'd with an open face : Boldly perfu'd the free decifive task,

Nor ftabb'd, conceal'd beneath a ruffian's mafk.

To

To works not men, with honeft warmth, fevere,
Th' impartial judges laugh'd at hope or fear :
Theirs was the noble fkill, with gen'rous aim,
To fan true genius to an active flame;
To bring forth merit in its strongest light,
Or damn the blockhead to his native night.

But, as all states are fubject to decay,
The ftate of letters too will melt away.
Smit with the harlot charms of trilling found,

Softness now wantons e'en on Roman ground;
Where Thebans, Spartans, fought their honour'd graves,
Behold a weak enervate race of flaves.

In claffic lore, deep fcience, language dead,
Tho' modern witlings are but scantly read,
Profeffors * fail not, who will loudly bawl
In praise of either, with the want of all.
Hail'd mighty critics to this present hour.
-The tribune's name furviv'd the tribune's pow'r.

Now

* The author takes this opportunity, notwithstanding all infinuations to the contrary, to declare, that he has no particular aim at a gentleman, whofe abilities he fufficiently acknowledges.

Now Quack and Critic differ but in name, Empirics frontlefs both, they mean the fame; This raw in Phyfic, that in Letters fresh, Both spring, like warts, excrefcence from the flesh. Half form'd, half bred in printers' hireling schools, For all profeffions have their rogues and fools, Tho' the pert witling, or the coward knave, Cafts no reflection on the wife or brave.

Yet, in these leaden times, this idle age,
When, blind with dulnefs, or as blind with rage,
Author 'gainst author rails with venom curst,
And happy He who calls out blockhead first,
From the low earth afpiring genius fprings,
And fails triumphant, born on eagle wings.
No toothless fpleen, no venom'd critic's aim,
Shall rob thee, Churchill, of thy proper fame;
While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous rhyme,
Fool lives, and fhines out fool to latest time.

Pity perhaps might wish a harmless fool To scape th' obfervance of the critic school;