Of that most ravenous, that devouring beast,
Yclep'd a Poet. What new Halifax,
What Somers, or what Dorset canst thou find,
Thou hungry mortal? break, wretch, break thy quill,
Blot out the studied image; to the flames
Commit the Stag'rite; leave this thankless trade;
Erect some peddling stall, with trinkets stock'd,
There earn thy daily half-pence, nor again
Trust the false Muse: So shall the cleanly meal
Repel intruding hunger.-Oh! 'tis vain,
The friendly admonition's all in vain ;
The scribbling itch has seiz'd him, he is lost
To all advice; and starves for starving's sake.
Thus sung the sportful Muse, in mirthful mood,
Indulging gay the frolic vein of youth;
But, oh! ye Gods, avert th' impending stroke,
This luckless omen threatens! hark! methinks,
I hear my better angel cry, Retreat,
Rash youth! in time retreat! let those poor Bards,
Who slighted all, all! for the flatt'ring Muse,
Yet curs'd with pining want, as land-marks stand,
To warn thee from the service of th' ingrate.
EPIGRAM FROM THE LATIN.
On two beautiful Sisters who were drowned at Sea. WHAT to the faithless Ocean now is due! It gave one Venus, and has taken two!
EREWHILE, alive to Love's alarms,
My breast beat high to Beauty's charms,
I woo'd, I won the fair;
But now the pleasing conflict's o'er,
My arms I quit, my lute no more
Warbles the wanton air.
In sea-born Venus' sacred shrine,
My love's artillery I resign,
Here, here, my levers lie;
Torches and sabres, bearing fate
To many a proud opposing gate,
Which durst access deny.
Oh! thou, that o'er the Cyprian isle,
And Memphis, ray'st thy beamy smile,
Repressing winter's frown;
Oh, Goddess! hear my sole request,
Let youthful Chloe's haughty breast,
For once thy rigours own.
Consider it warrilie, read aftener than ane is,
Weel at ae blink slie poetrie not taen is.
FAM'D Aristotle long ago
Was at some pains, as poets know,
To leave them sev'ral hints that might
Be useful when they meant to write;
And useful doubtless they have been,
Since to this very day 'tis seen,
That learned critics, o'er their bottle,
With rapture speak of Aristotle.-
"Tis known the method that he took
Was, not to scribble in a book
Such rules as he himself thought best.
Or what his fancy might suggest,
But to con over, at his leisure,
Such poems as had giv'n him pleasure.
And met with gen'ral approbation
From men of taste and education;
And with a penetrating eye
Discern the wherefore and the why;
And by what rules they had been written, That made the world so with them smitten ;
And then record, in classic pages,
The grand receipt for after ages.
Now, gentle reader, that I may
Be also useful in my day,
I'll leave a short receipt behind
For all who feel themselves inclin'd
By writing blank verse to obtain
Renown and more substantial gain;
And lest, should I my precepts cull
From out the inside of my skull,
I might a set of rules produce,
That would be found of little use;
I mean to follow, if I can,
Great Aristotle's prudent plan,
And give no rule, but what in fact is
Of ev'ry Bard the faith and practice,
Who has scrawl'd blank verse since the day
That old John Milton led the way.
Good reader, if you'll but give heed,
Two rules or three are all you need;
And if aright you but apply them,
I'll hold a groat you'll profit by them.
Then ye, in blank verse who would shine,
And charm the world with strains divine,
Whatever thoughts you have to write,
Just set them down in black and white;
You need not take up time to dress them,
But just as they occur express them:
Observe to let the lines contain
Ten syllables apiece, and then
You have olank verse at any time,
Altho' you cannot write in rhyme.
To make your work the more admir'd As written by a Bard inspir'd,
Give of sublime a proper dose,
And shew your poetry's not prose.
Now, to accomplish this, you may
Turn half the lines the other way;
Reverse them, make their heads their tails,
For that's a plan that never fails;
By this you give them at a start
A grace beyond the reach of art,
Beyond all reason, prose or rhyme,
Incomprehensibly sublime.
It may not be amiss to throw
Into each twentieth line, or so,
Some stiff old word quite out of date,
To give a dignity and state;
Or else some new one, piping hot,
Just from the Greek or Latin got,
Our heads to puzzle, and oblige us
To think your learning most prodigious.
"Tis like your lines will not be full
Of harmony, to make them dull;
Should here and there a word however
Read smooth by chance, if you be clever,
Or, what is much the same you know,
Would have the world esteem you so,
You will not let them thus remain,
To fix upon your work a stain;
But make them, if the words permit,
As unharmonious as you're fit,
Lest critic ears should be offended,
And all their learned praise suspended.
Now, reader, if you wish your name
Recorded in the rolls of Fame,
Engrave these precepts on your mind;
And when the wise scholastics find
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