This truth once known, our poets take the hint,
Get drunk or mad, and then get into print :
To raise their flames indulge the mellow fit,
And lofe their fenfes in the fearch of wit:
And when with claret fir'd they take the pen,
Swear they can write, because they drink, like Ben.
Such mimic Swift or Prior to their coft,
For in the rash attempt the fools are lost.
When once a genius breaks through common rules,
He leads an herd of imitating fools.
If Pope, the prince of poets, fick a-bed,
O'er fteaming coffee bends his aching head,
The fools in public o'er the fragrant draught
Incline thofe heads, that never ach'd or thought.
This must provoke his mirth or his disdain,
Cure his complaint,-or make him fick again.
I too, like them, the poet's path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus ever in my view;
But in a diftant view-yet what I write,
In these loose sheets, muft never fee the light;
Epiftles, odes, and twenty trifles more,
Things that are born and die in half an hour.
What! you must dedicate, fays fneering Spence,
This year fome new performance to the prince :
Though money is your fcorn, no doubt in time
You hope to gain fome vacant ftall by rhyme;
Like other poets, were the truth but known,
You too admire whatever is your own.
These wife remarks my modesty confound,
While the laugh rifes, and the mirth goes round;
Vext at the jet, yet glad to fhun a fray,
I whisk into my coach, and drive away.
Prefixed to the ESSAY on POPE'S ODYSSEY.
"TIS done-Refor'd by thy immortal pen,
The critic's noble name revives again; Once more that great, that injur'd name we see Shine forth alike in Addison and thee.
Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feast,
And feed on fcraps refus'd by every guest ;
From the old Thracian* dog they learn'd the way
To fnarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey.
As though they grudg'd themselves the joys they feel,
Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will.
Such their inverted tafte, that we expect
For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect;
So the fell fnake rejects the fragrant flowers,
But every poifon of the field devours.
Like bold Longinus of immortal fame,
You read your poet with a poet's flame;
With his, your generous raptures ftill afpire;
The critic kindles, when the bard 's on fire.
But when fome lame, fome limping line demands
The friendly fuccour of your healing hands;
*Zoilus, fo called by the ancients.
The feather of your pen drops balm around,
And plays, and tickles, while it cures the wound.
While Pope's immortal labour we furvey, - smh
We stand all dazzled with excess of day, at 5.5
Blind with the glorious blaze;-to vulgar fight 1/
'Twas one bright mafs of undiftinguifh'd light
But, like the towering eagle, you alone
Discern'd the spots and fplendors of the fun. T
To point out faults, yet never to offend;
To play the critic, yet preserve the friend;
A life well spent, that never loft a day;
An eafy fpirit, innocently gay;
A ftrict integrity, devoid of art;
The sweetest manners, and fincerest heart;
A foul, where depth of sense and fancy meet; mo!
A judgment brighten'd by the beams of wit,
Were ever yours;-be what you were before,
Be ftill yourself; the world can ask no more.
Well-known vase of sovereign use I fing, Pleafing to young and old, and Jordan hight, The lovely queen, and eke the haughty king ma Snatch up this veffel in the murky night : PE Ne lives there poor, ne lives there wealthy wight, But uses it in mantle brown or green; SIL . Sometimes it ftands array'd in gloffy white ; ́'T And eft in mighty dortours may be feen
Of China's fragile earth, with azure flowrets fheen."
II. The
Here gently sheds the softly-whispering rill;,...
The frannion, who ne shame ne blushing knows,
At once the potter's gloffy vase does fill;
It whizzes like the waters from a mill.
Here frouzy housewives clear their loaded reins; A
The beef-fed justice, who fat ale doth swill,
Grafps the round-handled jar, and tries, and strains,
While flowly dribbling down the scanty water drains.
III.
The dame of Fraunce fhall without shame convey
This ready needment to its proper place;
Yet fhall the daughters of the lond of Fay
Learn better amenaunce and decent grace;
Warm blushes lend a beauty to their face,
For virtue's comely tints their cheeks adorn;
Thus o'er the diftant hillocks you may trace
The purple beamings of the infant morn :
Sweet are our blooming maids-the sweetest creatures
None but their hulbands or their lovers true
They trust with management of their affairs
Nor even these their privacy may view,
When the soft beavys feek the bower by pairs:
Then from the fight accoy'd, like timorous hares,
From mate or bellamour alike they fly;
Think not, good fwain, that these are scornful airs,
Think not for hate they fhun thine amorous eye,
Soon fhall the fair return, nor done thee, youth, to dye.
V. While
While Belgic frows across a charcoal stove
(Replenish'd like the Veftal's lasting fire)
Bren for whole years, and fcorch the parts of love,
No longer parts that can delight inspire,
Erft cave of blifs, now monumental pyre;
O British maid, for ever clean and neat,
For whom I aye will wake my fimple lyre,
With double care preferve that dun retreat,
Fair Venus' myftic bower, Dan Cupid's feather'd feat.
So may your hours foft-fliding steal away,
Unknown to gnarring flander and to bale,
O'er feas of blifs peace guide her gondelay,
Ne bitter dole impeft the paffing gale.
O! fweeter than the lilies of the dale,
In foft breafts the fruits of joyance grow.
Ne fell defpair be here with visage pale,
Brave be the youth from whom your bosoms glow, Ne other joy but you the faithful ftriplings know.
EPISTLE to J. PITT, Efq.
In Imitation of HORACE, Epift. IV. Book I,
To all my trifles you attend,
But drop the critic to indulge the friend,
And with most chriftian patience lose your time,
To hear me preach, or pefter you with rhyme.
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