THE

DUNCIA D.

ARGUMENT TO BOOK THE SECOND.

THE King being proclaimed, the solemnity is graced with public games and sports of various kinds; not instituted by the Hero, as by Æneas in Virgil, but for greater honour by the Goddess in person (in like manner as the games Pythia, Isthmia, &c. were anciently said to be by the Gods, and as Thetis herself appearing, according to Homer Odyss. 24, proposed the prizes in honour of her son Achilles). Hither flock the Poets and Critics, attended, as is but just, with their Patrons and Booksellers. The Goddess is first pleased for her disport to propose games to the Booksellers, and setteth up the phantom of a Poet, which they contend to overtake. The Races described, with their divers accidents: next, the Game for a Poetess: then follow the exercises for the Poets, of tickling, vociferating, diving: the first holds forth the arts and practices of Dedicators, the second of Disputants and fustian Poets, the third of profound, dark, and dirty Authors. Lastly, for the Critics, the Goddess proposes (with great propriety) an exercise not of their parts, but their patience; in hearing the works of two voluminous

authors, one in verse and the other in prose, deliberately read, without sleeping: the various effects of which, with the several degrees and manners of their operation, are here set forth: till the whole number, not of critics only, but of spectators, actors, and all present, fall fast asleep, which naturally and necessarily ends the games.

BOOK II.

HIGH on a gorgeous seat, that far out-shone Henley's gilt tub, or Fleckno's Irish throne, Or that, where on her Curls the public pours, All-bounteous, fragrant grains, and golden show'rs: Great Tibbald nods: the proud Parnassian sneer, 5 The conscious simper, and the jealous leer, Mix on his look. All eyes direct their rays On him, and crowds grow foolish as they gaze. Not with more glee, by hands pontific crown'd, With scarlet hats, wide waving, circled round, Rome in her capitol saw Querno sit, Thron'd on sev'n hills, the Antichrist of wit.

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To grace this honour'd day, the Queen proclaims

By herald hawkers, high heroic games.

She summons all her sons: an endless band

Pours forth, and leaves unpeopled half the land
A motley mixture! in long wigs, in bags,

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In silks, in crapes, in garters, and in rags,
From drawing-rooms, from colleges, from garrets,
On horse, on foot, in hacks, and gilded chariots, 20
All who true dunces in her cause appear'd,

And all who knew those dunces to reward.

Amid that Area wide she took her stand,

Where the tall May-pole once o'erlook'd the Strand. But now, so ANNE and Piety ordain,

A church collects the saints of Drury-lane.

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With authors, Stationers obey'd the call,
The field of glory is a field for all ;

Glory, and gain, th' industrious tribe provoke ;
And gentle Dulness ever loves a joke.

A Poet's form she plac'd before their eyes,
And bade the nimblest racer seize the prize;
No
meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin,
In a dun night-gown of his own loose skin,

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But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, 35
Twelve starveling bards of these degen'rate days.
All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair,
She form'd this image of well-bodied air,
With pert flat eyes she window'd well its head,
A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead,

And empty words she gave, and sounding strain,
But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain!
Never was dash'd out, at one lucky hit,

A fool, so just a copy of a wit;

So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore,
A Wit it was, and call'd the phantom More.

All gaze with ardour: some, a poet's name,
Others, a sword-knot and lac'd suit inflame.
But lofty Lintot in the circle rose;

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"This prize is mine; who tempt it, are my foes: With me began this genius, and shall end." . 51 He spoke, and who with Lintot shall contend!

Fear held them mute. Alone untaught to fear Stood dauntless Curl, "Behold that rival here! The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won; So take the hindmost, Hell-He said, and run. Swift as a bard the bailiff leaves behind, He left huge Lintot, and outstripp'd the wind.

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As when a dab-chick waddles thro' the copse,
On feet, and wings, and flies, and wades, and hops;
So lab'ring on, with shoulders, hands, and head, 61
Wide as a windmill all his figure spread,

With legs expanded Bernard urg'd the race,
And seem'd to emulate great Jacob's pace.

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Full in the middle way there stood a lake,
Which Curl's Corinna chanc'd that morn to make:
(Such was her wont, at early dawn to drop
Her evening cates before his neighbour's shop,)
Here fortun'd Curl to slide; loud shout the band,
And Bernard! Bernard! rings thro' all the Strand.
Obscene with filth the miscreant lies bewray'd, 71
Fall'n in the plash his wickedness had laid:
Then first (if poets aught of truth declare)
The caitiff Vaticide conceiv'd a prayer.

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Hear Jove! whose name my bards and I adore, As much at least as any God's, or more; 76 And him and his if more devotion warms, Down with the Bible, up with the Pope's Arms. A place there is, betwixt earth, air, and seas, Where from Ambrosia, Jove retires for ease. There in his seat two spacious vents appear, On this he sits, to that he leans his ear, And hears the various vows of fond mankind, Some beg an eastern, some a western wind: All vain petitions, mounting to the sky, With reams abundant this abode supply; Amus'd he reads, and then returns the bills Sign'd with that Ichor which from Gods distils. In office here fair Cloacina stands, And ministers to Jove with purest hands ;

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