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To let no noble flave come near,
And scare lord Fannies from his ear :
Then might a royal youth, and true,
Enjoy at least a friend or two;
A treasure, which, of royal kind,
Few but himself deserve to find;
Then Bounce ('tis all that Bounce can crave)
Shall
wag

her tail within the grave.
And though no doctors, Whig or Tory ones,
Except the feet of Pythagoreans,
Have immortality assign'd
To any beast but Dryden's hind *:
Yet master Pope, whom Truth and Sense
Shall call their friend fome ages hence,
Though now on loftier themes he fings,
Than to bestow a word on kings,
Has sworn by Styx t, the poet's oath,
And dread of dogs and poets both,
Man and his works he 'll soon renounce,
And roar in numbers worthy Bounce.
i "* A milk-white hind, immortal and unchang'd.”

Hind and Panther, ver. 1. + Orig. Sticks; purposely mis-spelt, to make it "the *** dread of dogs."

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THE

HE vulgar notion of poetic fire

Is, that laborious Art can ne'er aspire,
Nor constant studies the bright bays acquire;
And that high flights the unborn Bard receives,
And only Nature the due laurel gives :
But you, with innate shining flames endow'd,
To wide Castalian springs point out the God;

* Dr. William Coward, a physician of some eminence. He was author of a great variety of treatises on various subjects, medical, poetical, and religious. The latter having been principally of a sceptical nature, he is generally ranked amongst the Deistical writers. N.

Through

Through your Perspective we can plainly fee,
The new-discover'd road of Poetry ;
To steep Parnassus you direct the way
So smooth, that venturous travellers cannot stray,
But with unerring steps rough ways disdain,
And, by you led, the beauteous summit gain,
Where polish'd lays shall raise their growing fames,
And with their tuneful guide enroltheir honourd names.

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ANACREONTIC. WHEN Fame did o’er the spacious plains

The lays she once had learn’d, repeat; And listen’d to the tuneful strains,

And wonder'd who could fing so sweet : "I was thus. The Graces held the lyre,

Th’harınonious frame the Muses strung, The Loves and Smiles compos’d the choir;

And Gay transcrib'd what Phoebus sung,

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AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED TREATISE IN FOLIO, CALLED

THE LAND-TAX BILL.

WHEN

CHEN Poets print their works, the scribbling crew

Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Christmas-pew: Can meagre poetry such fame deserve ? Can poetry, that only writes to starve ? And shall no laurel deck that famous head, In which the Senate's annual law is bred ? That hoary head, which greater glory fires, By nobler ways and means true fame acquires. O had I Virgil's force, to sing the man, Whose learned lines can millions raise per ann. Great Lownds's praise should swell the trump of fame, And rapes and wapentakes resound his name!

If the blind Poet gain’d a long renown By singing every Grecian chief and town; Sure Lownds’s prose much greater fame requires, Which sweetly counts five thousand knights and

squires, Their seats, their cities, parishes, and thires. VOL. I.

P

Thy Thy copious preamble so smoothly runs, Taxes no more appear like legal duns ; Lords, Knights, and Squires, th’ Asessor's power obey, We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.

Ah! why did Coningsby thy works defame ! That author's long harangue betrays his name. After his speeches can his pen

fucceed?
Though forc'd to hear, we 're not oblig'd to read.

Under what science shall thy works be read ?
All know thou wert not Poet born and bred.
Or dost thou boast th' Historian's lasting pen,
Whose annals are the acts of worthy men ?
No. Satire is thy talent; and each lash
Makes the rich Miser tremble o'er his cash.
What on the Drunkard can be more severe,
Than direful taxes on his ale and b:er ?

Ev'n Button's wits are nought, compar'd to thee,
Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his tea;
While thou through Britain's distant ille fhalt spread,
In every hundred and division read.
Criticks in Classics oft' interpolate,
But every word of thine is fix'd as Fate.
Some works come forth at morn, but die at night,
In blazing fringes round a tallow-light.
Some may perhaps to a whole week extend,
Like Steele (when unaslisted by a friend):
But thou shalt live a year, in spite of Fate ;
And where's your author boasts a longer date?
Poets of old had such a wondrous power,
That with their verses they could raise a tower:

But

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