You should not rhyme in fpite of nature ? Yet fure 'tis greater trouble, if you do;
And if 'tis lab'ring only, men profefs,
Who writes the hardeft, writes with moft fuccefs.
Thus for myself, and friends, I do my part;
Promoting doubly the pains-taking art:
First to myself, 'tis labour to compofe;
To read fuch lines, is drudgery to those.
On SCRIBLING against GENIUS.
No fingle rule's more frequently enjoin'd,
Than this; "Obferve the byafs of your mind."
However juft by ev'ry one confefs'd,
There's not a rule more frequently tranfgrefs'd,
For mortals, to their int'reft blind, pursue
The thing they like, not that they're fit to do.
This Verro's fault: by frequent praises fir'd, He several parts had try'd, in each admir'd." That Verro was not ev'ry way compleat,
'Twas long unknown, and might have been so yet:
But mufick-mad, th' unhappy man purfu'd
That only thing heav'n meant he never shou'd;
And thus his proper road to fame neglected,
He's ridicul'd for that he but affected.
Wou'd men but act from nature's fecret call,
Or only, where that fails, not act at all;
If not their skill, they'd shew at least good sense,—
They'd get no fame-nor wou'd they give offence.
Not that where fome one merit is deny'd,
Men must be ev'ry way unqualify'd;
Nor hold we, like that wrong-concluding wight,
A man can't fish- because he cou'd not write.
View all the world around: each man defign'd
And furnish'd for fome fav'rite part you find.
That, fometimes low: yet this, fo fmall a gift,
Proves nature did not turn him quite adrift.
The phlegmatick, dull, aukward, thick, grofs-witted,
Have all fome clumsy work for which they're fitted.
'Twas never known, in men a perfect void,
Ev'n I and Tld might be well employ'd ;
Wou'd we our poverty of parts furvey,
And follow as our genius led the way.
What then? obedient to that turn of mind
Shou'd men jog on to one dull path confin'd;
From that small circle never dare depart,
To strike at large, and fnatch a grace from art?
At least with care forbidden paths pursue ?
Who quits the road, should keep it still in view:
From genius fome few 'scapes may be allow'd;
But ever keep within its neighbourhood.
But Cľ, faithlefs to his byass fee,
With giant-fin oppofing heav'n's decree.
Still fond where he fhou'd not, he blunders on
With all that hafte fools make to be undone :
Want of fuccefs his paffion but augments;
Like eunuchs rage of love, from impotence.
'Mongst all the inftances of genius croft,
The rhyming tribe are those who err the most.
Each piddling wretch who hath but common sense,
Or thinks he hath, to verse shall make pretence :
Why not? 'tis their diverfion, and 'twere hard
If men of their eftates fhou'd be debarr'd.
Thus wealth with them gives every thing befide;
As people worth so much are qualify'd :
They've all the requifites for writing fit,
-fome little fhare of wit.
Give way, ye friends, nor with fond pray'rs proceed
To stop the progress of a pen full speed.
'Tis heav'n, incens'd by fome prodigious crime,
Thus for men's fins determines them to rhyine.
Bad men, no doubt; perhaps 'tis vengeance due
For fhrines they've plunder'd, or fome wretch they flew.
Whate'er it be, fure grievous is th' offence,
And grievous is (heaven knows!) its recompence.
At once in want of rhyme, and want of rest ;
Plagues to themselves, and to mankind a jeft:
Seduc'd by empty forms of falfe delight
Such, in fome men, their deadly luft to write!
Ev'n I, whofe genius feems as much forgot,
(Mine when I write, as your's when you do not;)
Who gravely thus can other's faults condemn,
My felf allowing, what I blame in them;
With no pretence to Phoebus' aid divine,
Nor the leaft int'reft in the tuneful Nine,
With all the guilt of impotence in view,
Griev'd for paft fins, but yet committing new;
Whate'er the wits may fay, or wife may think,
Am fooling ev'ry way with pen and ink.
When all who wish me beft, begin t' advise,
That being witty, is not being wife;
That if the voice of int'reft might be heard,
For one who wears a gown,-wou'd be prefer'd
Incorrigibly deaf, I feign a yawn;
And mock their juft conclufions, ere they're drawn.
If to my practice, they oppos'd my theme;
And pointed, how I fwam against the stream:
With all the rancour of a bard in rage,
I'd quote 'em half the writers of the age;
Who in a wrath of verfe, with all their might
Write on, howe'er unqualify'd to write.
HE Mimick's ductile features claim my lays,
Chang'd to a thoufand fhapes, a thoufand ways:
Who with variety of arts puts on
All other perfons, and throws off his own ;
Whose looks well difciplin'd his will obey,
Bloom at command, or at command decay:
Nor blush, my Mufe, thofe changes to impart,
Which ask an Ovid's or Apollo's art.
But who, Apollo, all the arts can trace,
All the deceits of that delufive face?
For lo! in fight the various artift comes;
Lo! how in beauty and in health he blooms:
Its smoothest charms triumphant youth supplies,
Laughs in his cheeks, and fparkles in his eyes.
But fudden fee, the scene is fnatch'd away,
See each inverted feature in decay;
His muscles all relax'd, his face o'ergrown,
Rough and emboss'd with wrinkles not his own.
He trails his dangling legs: the wond'ring train
Laugh at the folemn conduct of his cane,
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