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- you! whom Vanity's light bark conveys
On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise,
With what a shifting gale your course you ply,
For ever sunk too low, or borne too high!
Who pants for glory finds but short repose, 300
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
Farewell the stage! if just as thrives the play,
The filly bard grows 'fat, or falls away.

There still remains, to mortify a wit,
The many-headed monster of the pit :

305 A senseless, worthless, and unhonour'd croud'; Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud, Clatt'ring their sticks before ten lines are spoke, Call for the farce, the bear, or the Black-joke. What dear delight to Britons farce affords ! 310 Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords; (Tafte, that eternal wanderer, which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes) The play stands ftill; damn action and discourse, Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse; 315 Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, heralds, bishops, ermin, gold and lawn; The champion too! and, to complete the jest, Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast *. With laughter sure Democritus had dy'd,

320 Had he beheld an audience gape so wide. Let bear or elephant be e'er so white, The people, sure, the people are the fight ! Ah luckless poet! stretch thy lungs and roar, That bear or elephant shall heed thee more; 325 While all its throats the gallery extends, And all the thunder of the pit afcends! Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' stormy steept, Howl to the roarings of the Northern deep.

The coronation of Henry VIII. and queen Anne Boleyn, in which the playhouses vied with each other to represent all the pomp of a coronation. In this noble contention, the armour of one of the kings of England was borrowed from the Tower, to dress the champion. † Tbe farthest Northern Promontory of Scotland, opposite the Orcades.

Such

Such is the shout, the long-applauding note, 330
At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat';
Or when from court a birth-day fuit bestow'd,
Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.
Booth enters-hark! the universal peal !
« But has he spoken?” Not a syllable.

335
What fhook the stage, and made the people stare ?
Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacquer'd chair.

Yet lest you think I rally more than teach,
Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach,
Let me for once presume t'instruct the times,

340
To know the poet from the man of rhymes :
'Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains,
Can inake me feel each passion that he feigns ;
Iarage, compose, with more than magic art,
With pity, and with terror, tear my heart, 345
And snatch me, o'er the earth, or thro' the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.

But not this part of the poetic ftate
Alone, deserves the favour of the great ;
Think of those authors, Sir, who would rely

350
More on a reader's sense, than gazer's eye.
Or who shall wander where the Muses sing ?
Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring ?
How shall we fill a library * with wit,
When Merlin's cave t is half unfurnish'd yet? 355

My liege ! why writers little claim your thought,
I guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault :
We poets are (upon a poet's word)
Of all mankind, the creatures most absurd :
The season, when to come, and when to go, 360

To fing, or cease to fing, we never know;
And if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lose your patience, just like other men,

4

The Palatine Library then building by Augustus.

A building in the Royal Gardens of Richmond, where is a small, but choice collection of books.

Then too we hurt ourselves when to defend
A single verse, we quarrel with a friend ;

365
Repeat unask'd ; lament, the wit's too fine
For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line,
But most, when ftraining with too weak a wing,
We needs will write epiftles to the king;
And from the moment we oblige the town,

370 Expect a place, or pension from the crown; Or dubb’d historians by express command, T'enroll your triumphs o'er the seas and land, Be call’d to court to plan some work divine, As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine.

375 Yet think, great Sir! (so many virtues shown) Ah think, what poet beft may make them known? Or chufe at least some minister of grace, Fit to bestow the laureat's weighty place.

Charles, to late times to be transinitted fair, 380 Aflign’d his figure to Bernini's care ; And great Nafsau to Kneller's hand decreed To fix him graceful on the bounding steed; So well in paint and stone they judg’d of merit : But kings in wit may want discerning spirit. 385 The hero William, and the martyr Charles, One knighted Blackmore, and one pension’d Quarles; Which made old Ben, and furly Dennis swear, * No lord's anointed, but a Ruffian bear." Not with such majesty, such bold relief,

390 The forms august, of king, or conqu’ring chief, E’er swellid on marble ; as in verte have shin'd (In polish'd verse) the manners and the mind. Oh! could I mount on the Mæonian wing, Your arms, your actions, your repose to fing! 395 What seas you travers'd, and what fields you fought! Your country's peace, how oft, how dearly bought! How barb'rous rage subsided at your word, And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the sword! How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep, 400 Peace stole her wing, and wrapt the world in sleep;

*Till

405

410

'Till earth's extremes your

mediation

own,
And Alia's tyrants tremble at your throne-
But verse, alas! your majesty disdains;
And I'm not us’d to panegyric strains *:
The zeal of fools offends at any time,
But most of all, the zeal of fools in rhyme.
Besides, a fate attends on all I write,
That when I aim at praise, they say I bite,
A vile encomium doubly ridicules :
There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
If true, a woeful likeness; and if lyes,
« Praise undeferv'd is scandal in disguise :"
Well may he blush, who gives it, or receives ;
And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
(Like Journals, Odes, and such forgotten things
As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of kings)
Cloathe spice, line trunks, or flutt'ring in a row,
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

415

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Archbishop Tillotson hath said, “That satire and invective were the w casiest kind of wit, because almost any degree of it would serve to abuse " and find fault. For wil (says he) is a keen instrument, and every one “ can cut and gash with it. But to carve a beautiful image and polish it, re, " quires great art and dexterity. To praise a thing well, is an argument of. “ much more wit than to abuse : a little wit, and a great deal of ill nature, « will furnish a man for satire, but the greatest instance of wit is to comu mend well.” Thus far this candid prelate. And I, in my turn, might as well say, that fatire was the most difficult, and panegyric the most easy thing in nature ; for that any barber-surgeon can curl and shave, and give cosmetic washes for the skin; but it requires the abilities of an anatomiit to diffcct and lay open the whole interior of the human frame. But the truth is, these similitudes prove nothing, but the good fancy, or the ill judgement of the user. The one is just as easy to do ill, and as difficult to do well as the other. In our author's Essay on the Characters of Mcn, the encomium on Lord Cobham, and the fatire on Lord Wharton, are the equal efforts of the same great genius. There is one advantage indeed in satire over panegyric, which every body has taken notice of, that it is more readily received ; bua shis does not shew that it is more easily written.

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DEAR
EAR Colinel, COBHAM's and your country's friend!

You love a verse, tạke such as I can send. A Frenchman comes, presents you with his boy, Bows and begins" This lad, Sir, is of Blois *: “ Observe his shape how clean! his locks how curld ! 5 “ My only son, I'd have him see the world : 5. His French is pure; his voice t9q--you shall hear. i Sir, he's your slave, for twenty pound a year. Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease, “ Your barber, cook, upholst'rer, what you please : 19 “ A perfect genius at an op'ra song. To say too much, might do my honour wrong. 56 Take him with all his virtues, on my word; “ His whole ambition was to serve a lord : “ But, Sir, to you, with what would I not part? .15 ? Tho' faith, I fear, 'twill break his mother's heart. * A town in Beauce, where the French tongue is spoke in great purity. Vol. II.

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