But if low malice, leagu'd with folly, rife,
Arm'd with invectives, and hedg'd round with lies;
Should wakeful dulnefs, if fhe ever wake,
Write fleepy nonsense but for writing fake,
And, stung with rage, and pioufly fevere,
Wifh bitter comforts to your dying ear;
If fome small wit, fome fix-lin'd verseman, rakes
For quaint reflections in the putrid jakes,
Talents ufurp'd demand a cenfor's rage,
A dunce is dunce profcrib'd in ev'ry age.
Courtier, phyfician, lawyer, parfon, cit,
All, all are objects of theatric wit.
Are ye then, Actors, privileg'd alone,
To make that weapon, ridicule, your own?
Profeffions bleed not from his juft attack,
Who laughs at pedant, coxcomb, knave, or quack ;
Fools on and off the stage are fools the fame,
And every dunce is fatire's lawful game.
Freely you thought, where thought has free'ft room,
Why then apologize? for what? to whom?
Though Gray's-Inn wits with author fquires unite,
And felf-made giants club their labour'd mite,
Though pointless satire make its weak escape,
In the dull babble of a mimic ape,
Boldly pursue where genius points the way,
Nor heed what monthly puny critics say.
Firm in thyself with calm indifference smile,
When the wife Vet'ran knows you by your ftile,
With critic fcales weighs out the partial wit,
What I, or You, or He, or no one writ;
Denying thee thy just and proper worth,
But to give falfhood's fpurious iffue birth ;
And all felf-will'd with lawless hand to raise
Malicious flander on the base of praise.
Difgrace eternal wait the wretch's name
Who lives on credit of a borrow'd fame ;
Who wears the trappings of another's wit,
Or fathers bantlings which he could not get!
But fhrewd Sufpicion with her fquinting eye,
To truth declar'd, prefers a whifper'd lye.
B b 2
With greedy mind the proffer'd tale believes,
Relates her wishes, and with joy deceives.
The World, a pompous name, by custom due To the fmall circle of a talking few, With heart-felt glee th' injurious tale repeats, And fends the whisper buzzing through the ftreets. The prude demure, with fober faint-like air, Pities her neighbour for fhe's wondrous fair. And when temptations lie before our feet, Beauty is frail, and females indifcreet. She hopes the nymph will every danger shun, Yet prays devoutly that the deed were done. Mean time fits watching for the daily lie, As spiders lurk to catch a fimple fly.
Yet is not fcandal to one sex confin'd, Though men would fix it on the weaker kind. Yes, this great lord, creation's master, man, Will vent his malice where the blockhead can, Imputing crimes, of which e'en thought is free, For inftance now, your Rofciad all to me.
If partial friendship, in thy fterling lays,
Grows all too wanton in another's praise,
Critics, who judge by ways themselves have known,
Shall fwear the praise, the poem is my own;.
For 'tis the method in these learned days
For wits to fcribble first, and after praise.
Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched ftuff,
And help out nonsense by a monthly puff,
Exalt to giant's forms weak puny elves,
And defcant sweetly on their own dear felves;
For works per month by learning's midwives paid,
Demand a puffing in the way of trade.
Referv'd and cautious, with no partial aim
My Mufe e'er fought to blast another's fame.
With willing hand cou'd twine a rival's bays,
From candour filent where fhe cou'd not praise.
But if vile rancour, from (no matter who)
Actor, or mimic, printer, or Review,
Lies, oft o'erthrown, with ceafelefs venom spread
Still hifs out fcandal from their Hydra head,
If the dull malice boldly walk the town,
Patience herself wou'd wrinkle to a frown.
Come then with justice draw the ready
Give me the works, I wou'd not know the men.
All in their turns might make reprisals too,
Had all the patience but to read them through.
Come, to the utmost, probe the desperate wound,
Nor fpare the knife where'er infection's found!
But Prudence, Churchill, or her fifter, Fear, Whispers forbearance to my fright'ned ear. Oh! then with me forfake the thorny road, Left we should flounder in fome Fleet-Ditch Ode, And funk for ever in the lazy flood
Weep with the Naiads heavy drops of Mud.
Hail mighty Ode! which like a picture frame, Holds any portrait, and with any name; Or, like your nitches, planted thick and thin, Will ferve to cram the random hero in.
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