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•long had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind:
The modern scribbling kind, who write,
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite:
Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Took's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair;
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius;
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side—mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.

1 Printed among the Essays (the xxviith).

* I long had rack'd my brains to find.
A brain of leather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed;
A just comparison,—proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air:
And here my simile unites,
For in the modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand; By classic authors term'd caduceus, And highly fam'd for several uses. To wit—most wondrously endued, No poppy water half so good; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such, Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore. Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then; His wand's a modern author's pen; The serpents round about it twin'd

Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This difference only as the God
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goosequill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it—stealing;
In which all modern bardsb agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?


b our scribbling bards.


Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,
Both mungrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

1 See Vicar of Wakefield, c. xvii.

In the Citizen of the World, vol. ii. lett. lxvi. is a paper on the ' Epidemic Terror, the dread of Mad Dogs, which now prevails; the whole nation is now actually groaning under the malignity of its influence.'

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends.

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To every christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied,

The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

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