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When this heroics only deigns to praise,
But grant I may relapse, for want of grace,
Oh! but a wit can study in the streets, And raise his mind above the mob he meets.' Not quite so well, however, as one ought : A hackney.coach may chance to spoil a thonght; And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead, God knows, may hurt the very ablest head. Have yon not seen, at Guildhall's narrow pass, Two aldermen dispute it with an ass ? And peers give way, exalted as they are, Ev'n to their own s-r-verence in a car?
Go, lofty poet! and in such a crowd . Sing thy sonorous verse-but not aloud. Alas! to grottos and to groves we run, To ease and silence every Muse's son: Blackmore himself, for any grand effort, Would drink and dose at Tooting or Earl's-court. How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar? . [fore? How match the bards whom none e'er match'd beThe man who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat, To books and study gives sev'n years complete, See! strow'd with learned dust, his nightcap on, He walks an object new beneath the sun! The boys flock round him, and the people stare :) So stiff, so mute! some statue you would swear Stept from its pedestal to take the air ! And here, while town, and conrt, and city, roars, With mobs, and duns, and soldiers, at their doors, Shall I, in London, act this idle part, Composing songs for fools to get hy heart?
The Temple late two brother sergeants saw, Who deem'd each other oracles of law; With equal talents these congenial souls, One lali'd the’Exchequer, and one stup'd the Rolls; Each had a gravity would make yon split, And shook his head at Murray as a wit. 'Twas, “ Sir, your law-and. Sir, your eloquence,' • Your's Cowper's manner-and · Your's Talbot's
Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, [sense.' Your's Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit. Call Tibbald Shakspeare, and he'll swear the Nine, Dear Cibber! never match'd one ode of thine. Lord! how we strut through Merlin's cave, to see No poets there but Stephen', you, and me. Walk with respect behind, while we at ease Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we • My dear Tibullus ! (if that will not do) [please. Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you : Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains, And you shall rise up Otway for your pains.' Mnich do I suffer, much, to keep in peace This jealous, waspish, wrong-bead, rhyming race;
1 Stephen Duck.
And much must flatter, if the whim should bite,
In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject,
If such the plague and pains to write by rule,
There liv'd in primo Georgii (they record)
My friends! (he cry'd) p-x take you for your care!
Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate :
Soon as I enter at my country door,
Thoughts, which at Hyde-park Corner I forgot,
If, when the more you drink the more you crave,
When golden angels cease to cure the evil, You give all royal witchcraft to the devil: When servile chaplains cry, that birth and place Endue a peer with honour, truth, and grace, Look in that breast, most dirty dean! be fair, Say, can you find out one such lodger there? Yet still, not heeding what your beart can teach, You go to church to hear these flatterers preach.
Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit, A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit, The wisest man might blush, I must agree, If D*** lov'd sixpence more than he.
If there be truth in law, and use can give A property, that's your's on which you live. Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford Their fruits to you, confesses you its lord : All Worldly's hens, nay, partridge, sold to town, His ven'son too a guinea makes your own : He bought at thousands what with better wit You purchase as you want, and bit by bit: Now, or long since, what difference will be found? You pay a penny, and be paid a pound.
Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men, Lords of fat E'sham, or of Lincoln Fen, Buy every stick of wood that lends them heat, Buy every pallet they afford to eat. Yet these are wights who fondly call ther own Half that the devil o'erlooks from Lincoln town. The laws of God, as well as of the land, Abhor a perpetuity should stand : Estates have wings, and hang in fortune's pow'r, Loose on the point of every wavering hour, Ready by force, or of your own accord, By sale, at least by death, to change their lord.