But fiil their purse, our poets' work is done;
Alike to them, by Pathos or by Pun.

O 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;
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
Farewel the stage! if, just as thrives the play,
The silly bard grows fat, or falls away.

There still remains, to mortify a wit, The many-headed monster ofthe pit;

A seuseless, worthless, and unhonour'd crowd,|| 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! Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords (Taste, that eternal wanderer! which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes)!

The play stands still! damn action and discourse,

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 state
Alone deserves the favour of the great :
Think of those authors, Sir, who would rely
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 is half unfurnish'd yet?
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,

To sing or cease to sing, we never know;
And, if we will, recite nine hours in ten,
You lose your patience just like other men.
Then too we burt ourselves, when to defend
A single verse, we quarrel with a friend;

lawn;

The champion too! and, to complete the jest, Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast.

With laughter sure Democritus had died,
Had he beheld an audience gape so wide.
Let bear or elephant be e'er so white,
The people, sure the people, are the sight!
Ah, luckless poet! stretch thy lungs and roar,
That bear or elephant shall heed thee more;
While all its throats the gallery extends,
And all the thunder of the pit ascends !
Loud as the wolves, on Orcas'stormy steep,
Howl to the roarings of the northern deep,
Such is the shout, the long-applauding note,
At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat:
Or when from court a birth-day suit bestow'd,
Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.
Booth enters-hark! the universal peal!
"But has he spoken?" Not a syllable.
"What shook the stage, and made the people
stare?"

For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line.
But most, when, straining with too weak a
wing,

We needs will write epistles to the King;
And from the moment we oblige the town,
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.

Yet think, great Sir! (so many virtues shewn)

Ah think what Poet best may make thema known!

Or choose at least some minister of grace,
Fit to bestow the Laureat's weighty place.

Charles to late times to be transmitted fair,
Assign'd his figure to Bernini's care;
And great Nassau 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.
The hero William, and the martyr Charles,

Yet, lest you think I rally more than teach, Or praise maliguly arts I cannot reach, Let me for once presume t' instruct the times, To know the Poet from the man of rhymes: 'Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains, Can make me feel each passion that he feigus Enrage, compose, with more than magic art, With pity and with terror tear my heart;

Quarles;

Which made old Ben and surly Dennis swear,
"No Lord's anointed, but a Russian bear."
Not with such majesty, such bold relief,
The forms august of King or conq'ring chief,
E'er swell'd on marble, as in verse 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 sing!

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 Peace stole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in sleep;

Till earth's extremes your mediation own,
And Asia's tyrants tremble at your throne.
But verse, alas! your Majesty disdains;
And I'm not used 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 lies,
"Praise undeserv'd is satire 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)
Clothe spice, line trunks, or flutt'ring in a row
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

"The fault he has 1 fairly shall reveal; "(Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to steal." If, after this, you took the graceless lad, Could you complain, my friend, he prov`d so bad?

'Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute, I think Sir Godfrey should decide the suit; Who sent the thief, that stole the cash, away, And punish'd him that put it in his way.

Consider then, and judge me in this light; I told you, when I went, I could not write; You said the same; and are you discontent With laws to which you gave your own assent? Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time! D'ye think me good for nothing but for rhyme? In Anna's wars, a soldier poor and old Had dearly earn'd a little purse of gold : Tir'd with a tedious march, one luckless night He slept, poor dog! and lost it to a doit. This put the man in such a desp'rate mind, Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd,

Against the foe, himself, and all mankind, He leap'd the trenches, scal'd a castle wall, Tore down a standard, took the fort and all. "Prodigious well!" his great commander cried; [side. Gave him much praise, and some reward beNext pleas'd his excellence a town to batter ; (Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter) "Go on, my friend (he cried) see yonder wails! "Advance and conquer ! go where glory calls! "More honours, more rewards, attend the brave."

Don't you remember what reply be gave?

D'ye think me, noble Gen'ral, such a sot? "Let him take castles who has ne'er a groat." Bred up at home, full early I begun To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son. Besides my father taught me, from a lad, The better art to know the good from bad : (And little sure imported to remove,

To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove.)
But knottier points we knew not half so well
Depriv'd us soon of our paternal cell;
And certain laws, by suff'rers thought unjust,
Denied all posts of profit or of trust;
Hopes after hopes of pious Papist fail'd,
While mighty William's thund'ring arm pre-
vail'd.

For right hereditary tax'd and fin'd,
He stuck to poverty with peace of mind;
And me the muses help to undergo it;

Convict a Papist he, and I a Poet.

But (thanks to Homer!) since I live and thrive,

Indebted to no prince or peer alive,

Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes, If I would scribble rather than repose.