But if low malice, leagu'd with folly, rife,
Arm'd with invectives, and hedg'd round with lies;
Should wakeful dulnefs, if fhe ever wake,
Write fleepy nonfenfe but for writing's fake,
And, ftung with rage, and piously severe,
Wish bitter comforts to your dying ear;
If fome fmall wit, fome filk-lin'd verseman, rakes,
For quaint reflections in the putrid jakes,
Talents ufurp'd demand a cenfor's rage,
A dunce is dunce profcrib'd in ev'ry age.
Courtier, phyfician, lawyer, parfon, cit,
All, all are objects of theatric wit.
Are ye then, actors, privileg'd alone,
To make that weapon, ridicule, your own?
Profeffions bleed not from his juft attack,
Who laughs at pedant, coxcomb, knave, or quack;
Fools on and off the stage are fools the fame,
And every dunce is fatire's lawful game.
Freely you thought, where thought has freeft room,
Why then apologize? for what? to whom?
Though Gray's-Inn wits with author fquires unite,
And felf-made giants club their labour'd mite,
Though pointless satire make its weak escape,
In the dull babble of a mimic ape,
Boldly pursue where genius points the way,
Nor heed what monthly puny critics fay.
Firm in thyfelf, with calm indifference fmile,
When the wife Vet'ran knows you by your ftile,
With critic fcales weighs out the partial wit,
What I, or You, or He, or no one writ;
Denying thee thy just and proper worth,'
But to give falfhood's fpurious iffue birth;
And all felf-will'd with lawless hand to raise
Malicious flander on the base of praise.
Difgrace eternal wait the wretch's name
Who lives on credit of a borrow'd fame;
Who wears the trappings of another's wit,
Of fathers bantlings which he could not get!
But fhrewd Sufpicion with her fquinting eye,
To truth declar'd, prefers a whisper'd lye.
With greedy mind the proffer'd tale believes,
Relates her wishes, and with joy deceives.
The World, a pompous name, by custom due
To the fmall circle of a talking few,
With heart-felt glee th' injurious tale repeats,
And fends the whifper buzzing through the streets.
The prude demure, with fober faint-like air,
Pities her neighbour for fhe's wond'rous fair.
And when temptations lie before our feet,
Beauty is frail, and females indiscreet :
She hopes the nymph will every danger shun,
Yet prays devoutly-that the deed were done.
Mean time fits watching for the daily lie,
As fpiders, lurk to catch a fimple fly.
Yet is not fcandal to one sex confin'd,
Though men would fix it on the weaker kind.
Yet, this great lord, creation's master, man,
Will vent his malice where the blockhead can,
Imputing crimes, of which e'en thought is free,
For inftance now, your Rofciad, all to me.
If partial friendship, in thy fterling lays, Grows all too wanton in another's praise, Critics, who judge by ways themselves have known, Shall fwear the praise, the poem is my own ; For 'tis the method in thefe learned days For wits to fcribble firft, and after praife. Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched stuff, And help out nonsense by a monthly puff, Exalt to giant forms weak puny elves, And defcant sweetly on their own dear felves; For works per month by learning's midwives paid, Demand a puffing in the way of trade.
Referv'd and cautious, with no partial aim
My mufe e'er fought to blast another's fame.
With willing hand cou'd twine a rival's bays,
From candour filent where she cou'd not praise :
But if vile rancour, from (no matter who)
Actor or mimic, printer, or Review;
Lies, oft o'erthrown, with ceafeless venom spread
Still hifs out fcandal from their Hydra head;
If the dull malice boldly walk the town,
Patience herself wou'd wrinkle to a frown.
Come then with justice draw the ready pen,
Give me the works, I wou'd not know the men :
All in their turns might make reprisals too,
Had all the patience but to tread them through.
Come, to the utmost, probe the desperate wound,
Nor fpare the knife where'er infection's found!
But, prudence, Churchill, or her fifter, Fear,
Whispers forbearance to my fright'ned ear.
Oh! then with me forfake the thorny road,
Left we should flounder in fome Fleet-Ditch Ode,
And funk for ever in the lazy flood
Weep with the Naiads heavy drops of Mud.
Hail mighty Ode! which like a picture frame,
Holds any portrait, and with any name;
Or, like your nitches, planted thick and then,
Will ferve to cram the random hero in.
Hail mighty Bard too-whatfo'er thy name,
or Durfy, for it's all the fame.
To brother bards fhall equal praife belong,
For wit, for genius, comedy and fong?
No coftive Mufe is thine, which freely rakes
With ease familiar in the well-known jakes,
Happy in skill to foufe through foul and fair,
And tofs the dung out with a lordly air.
So have I feen, amidst the grinning throng,
The fledge proceffion flowly dragg'd along,
Where the mock female fhrew and hen-peck'd male
Scoop'd rich contents from either copious pail,
Call'd burfts of laughter from the roaring rout,
And dafh'd and fplafh'd the filthy grains about.
Quit then, my friend, the Mufes' lov'd abode,
Alas! they lead not to preferment's road.,
Be folemn, fad, put on the priestly frown,
Be dull! 'tis facred, and becomes the gown.
Leave wit to others, do a Christian deed,
Your foes fhall thank you, for they know their need. Broad is the path by learning's fons poffefs'd,
A thousand modern wits might walk abreaft,
Did not each poet mourn his luckless doom,
Joftled by pedants out of elbow room.
I, who nor court their love, nor fear their hate,
Muft mourn in filence o'er the Mufe's fate.
No right of common now on Pindus' hill,
While all our tenures are by critic's will;
Where, watchful guardians of the lady muse,
Dwell monstrous giants, dreadful tall REVIEWS,
Who, as we read in fam'd romance of yore,
Sound but a horn, prefs forward to the door :
But let fome chief, fome bold advent'rous knight,
Provoke these champions to an equal fight,
Strait into air to spacelefs nothing fall
The castle, lions, giants, dwarf and all.
Ill it befits with undiscerning rage,
To cenfure Giants in this polish'd age.
No lack of genius ftains these happy times,
No want of learning, and no dearth of rhymes,
The fee-faw Mufe that flows by meafur'd laws,
In tuneful numbers, and affected paufe,
With found alone, found's happy virtue fraught,
Which hates the trouble and expence of thought,
Once, every moon throughout the circling year,
With even cadence charms the critic ear.
While, dire promoter of poetic fin,
A Magazine muft hand the lady in.
How Moderns write, how nervous, ftrong and well,
The ANTI-ROSCIAD's decent Mufe does tell :
Who, while she strives to cleanse each actor hurt,
Daubs with her praise, and rubs him into dirt.
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