To these inscribe my rude, but honest lays,
And feel the pleasures of my conscious praise.
Not that I mean to court each letter'd name,
And poorly glimmer from reflected fame,
But that the Muse, who owns no fervile fear,
Is proud to pay her willing tribute here.

PRO

PROLOGUE,

Intended to have been spoken at Drury-lane theatre, on His Majesty's Birth-Day, 1761.

ENIUS, neglected, mourns his wither'd bays; But foars to heav'n from virtue's generous praise. When Kings themselves the proper judges fit O'er the bleft realms of fcience, arts and wit, Each eager breast beats high for glorious fame, And emulation glows with active flame: Thus, with Auguftus rofe imperial Rome, For arms renown'd abroad, for arts at home. Thus, when Eliza fill'd Britannia's throne, What arts, what learning was not then our own? Then finew'd Genius, ftrong and nervous rofe, In Spenser's numbers, and in Raleigh's prose ; On Bacon's lips then every science hung,

And Nature spoke from her own Shakespeare's tongue.

Her

Her patriot fimiles fell, like refreshing dews,
To wake to life each pleasing useful Muse,
While every virtue which the Queen profess'd,
Beam'd on her fubjects, but to make them blest.
O glorious times! — O theme of praise divine!
Be happy, Briton, then fuch times are thine.

Behold e'en now ftrong science imps her wing,
And arts revive beneath a Patriot King.

The Mufes too burst forth with double light,
To fhed their luftre in a Monarch's fight.
His cheering fmiles alike to all extend

Perhaps this Spot may boast a Royal Friend.
And when a Prince, with early judgment grac'd,
Himself shall marshal out the way to taste,
Caught with the flame perhaps e'en here may rise
Some powerful genius of uncommon size,
And, pleas'd with nature, nature's depths explore,
And be what our great Shakespeare was before.

GENIUS,

GENIUS, ENVY, and TIME,

A

FA B LE;

Addrefs'd to WILLIAM HOGARTH, Efq.

N all profeffionary skill,

There never was, nor ever will

Be excellence, or exhibition,

But fools are up in oppofition;

Each letter'd, grave, pedantic dunce
Wakes from his lethargy at once,

Shrugs, shakes his head, and rubs his eyes,
And, being dull, looks wond'rous wife,
With folemn phiz, and critic fcowl,

The wisdom of his brother owl.

MODERNS! He hates the very name; Your Antients have prescriptive claim :But let a century be past,

And We have taste and wit at last ;

For

For at that period Moderns too
Juft turn the corner of Virtù.

But merit now has little claim
Το any meed of present fame,
For 'tis not worth that gets you friends,
'Tis excellence that most offends.

If, Proteus-like, a GARRICK's art,
Shews taste and skill in every part;
If, ever just to nature's plan,
He is in all the very man,

E'en here fhall envy take her aim,

The JEALOUS WIFE, tho' chaftly writ,

With no parade of frippery wit,

Shall fet a fcribbling, all at once,

Both giant wit, and pigmy dunce;
While Critical Reviewers write,

Who fhew their teeth before they bite,
And facrifice each reputation,
From wanton false imagination.
These observations, rather ftale,
May borrow fpirit from a tale.

GENIUS,