To dance, dress, sing, and serenade the fair,' "Conduct a singer, or reclaim a hair,"

O'er baleful tea with females taught to blame,
And spread a slander o'er a virgin's fame;
Form'd for these softer arts shall Hervey strain
With stubborn politics his tender brain!
For ministers laborious pamphlets write,
In senates prattle, and with patriots fight!
Thy fond ambition, pretty youth, give o'er,
Preside at balls, old fashions lost restore;
So shall each toilette in thy cause engage,
And Hey shine a Pre of the age.

Behold a star emblazon C- -n's coat!
Not that the knight has merit, but a vote.
And here, O goddess, num'rous wrongheads trace,
Lur'd by a pension, ribbon, or a place.

ร

To murder science, and my cause defend, Now shoals of Grub-street garreteers descend; From schools and desks the writing insects crawl, Unlade their dulness, and for Appius bawl.

Lo! to thy darling Osborne turn thine eyes, See him o'er politics superior rise: While Caleb feels the venom of his quill, And wond'ring ministers reward his skill: Unlearn'd in logic, yet he writes by rule, And proves himself in syllogism-a fool; Now flies obedient, war with sense to wage, And drags th' idea through the painful page; Unread, unanswer'd, still he writes again, Still spins the endless cobweb of his brain; Charm'd with each line, reviewing what he writ, Blesses his stars, and wonders at his wit.

Nor less, O Walsingham, thy worth appears! Alike in merit, though unlike in years: Ill-fated youth! what stars malignant shed Their baneful influence o'er thy brainless head, Doom'd to be ever writing, never read!

For bread to libel liberty and sense,

And damn thy patron weekly with defence.
Drench'd in the sable flood, O hadst thou still
O'er skins of parchment drove thy venal quill,
At Temple ale-house told an idle tale,
And pawn'd thy credit for a mug of ale;
Unknown to Appius then had been thy name,
Unlac'd thy coat, unsacrific'd his fame;
Nor vast unvended reams would Peele deplore,
As victims destin'd to the common shore.

As dunce to dunce in endless numbers breed,
So to Concanen see a Ralph succeed;
A tiny witling of these writing days,

Full-fam'd for tuneless rhymes, and short-liv'd plays. Write on, my luckless bard, still unasham'd,

Though burnt thy journals, and thy dramas damn'd;
'Tis bread inspires thy politics and lays,
Not thirst of immortality or praise.

These, goddess, view, the choicest of the train,
While yet unnumbered dunces still remain;
Deans, critics, lawyers, bards, a motley crew,
To dullness faithful, as to Appius true.
Enough, the goddess cries, enough I've seen;
While these support, secure my son shall reign;
Still shall thou blund'ring rule Britannia's fate,
Still Grub-street hail thee minister of state.

ADVICE AND REPROOF:

Two Satires.

BY TOBIAS SMOLLET, M. D.

-Sed podice levi

Cæduntur tumidæ medico ridente Mariscæ.-
O Proceres! censore opus est an haruspice nobis?

-nam quis

Peccandi nem posuit sibi? quando recepit
Ejectum semel attrita de fronte ruborem?

Juvenai.

Ibid.