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Look how the folks press on before, And throng impatient at the door.

MRS. SCOT.

Perdigious! I can hardly stand, Lord bless me, Mrs. Brown, your hand; And you, my dear, take hold of hers, For we must stick as close as burrs, Or in this racket, noise and pother, We certainly shall lose each other. -Good God! my cardinal and sack Are almost torn from off my back. Lard, I shall faint-Oh Lud-my breastI'm crush'd to atoms, I protest. God bless me I have dropt my fan, -Pray did you see it, honest man?

MAN.

I, madam! no,—indeed, I fear You'll meet with some misfortune here. -Stand back, I say-pray, sir, forbearWhy, don't you see the ladies there? Put yourselves under my direction, Ladies, I'll be your safe protection.

MRS. SCOT.

You're very kind, sir; truly few Are half so complaisant as you. We shall be glad at any day This obligation to repay, And you'll be always sure to meet A welcome, sir, in-Lard! the street Bears such a name, I can't tell how To tell him where I live, I vow. -Mercy! what's all this noise and stir? Pray is the king a coming, sir?

MAN.

No don't you hear the people shout? 'Tis Mr. Pitt, just going out.

MRS. BROWN.

Aye, there he goes, pray heav'n bless him! Well may the people all caress him. -Lord, how my husband us'd to sit, And drink success to honest Pitt, And happy o'er his evening cheer, Cry," you shall pledge this toast, my dear."

MAN.

Hist-silence-don't you hear the drumming? Now, ladies, now, the king's a coming. There, don't you see the guards approach?

MRS. BROWN.

Which is the king?

MRS. SCOT.

Which is the coach?

SCOTCHMAN.

Which is the noble earl of Bute, Geud-faith, I'll gi him a salute. For he's the Laird of aw our clan, Troth, he's a bonny muckle man.

MAN.

Here comes the coach, so very slow As if it ne'er was made to go,

In all the gingerbread of state,
And staggering under its own weight.

MRS. SCOT.

Upon my word, it's monstrous fine! Would half the gold upon't were mine! How gaudy all the gilding shows! It puts one's eyes out as it goes. What a rich glare of various hues, What shining yellows, scarlets, blues! It must have cost a heavy price; 'Tis like a mountain drawn by mice.

MRS. BROWN.

So painted, gilded, and so large, Bless me! 'tis like my lord mayor's barge. And so it is-look how it reels! 'Tis nothing else-a barge on wheels.

MAN.

Large! it can't pass St. James's gate, So big the coach, the arch so strait, It might be made to rumble through And pass as other coaches do. Could they a body-coachman get So most preposterously fit,

Who'd undertake (and no rare thing)

Without a head to drive the king.

MRS. SCOT.

Lard! what are those two ugly things There with their hands upon the springs, Filthy, as ever eyes beheld,

With naked breasts, and faces swell'd?
What could the saucy maker mean,

To put such things to fright the queen?

MAN.

Oh! they are gods, ma'am, which you see, Of the Marine Society,

Tritons, which in the ocean dwell,
And only rise to blow their shell.

MRS. SCOT.

Gods, d'ye call those filthy men? Why don't they go to sea again? Pray, tell me, sir, you understand, What do these Tritons do on land?

MRS. BROWN.

And what are they? those hindmost things, Men, fish, and birds, with flesh, scales, wings?

MAN.

Oh, they are gods too, like the others,
All of one family and brothers,
Creatures, which seldom come a-shore,
Nor seen about the king before.

For show, they wear the yellow hue,
Their proper colour is true-blue.

MRS. SCOT.

Lord bless us! what's this noise about?

Lord, what a tumult and a rout!

How the folks hollow, hiss, and hoot!
Well-Heav'n preserve the earl of Bute!
I cannot stay, indeed, not I,

If there's a riot I shall die.
Let's make for any house we can,
Do-give us shelter, honest man.

MRS. BROWN.

I wonder'd where you was, my dear, I thought I should have died with fear. This noise and racketing and hurry Has put my nerves in such a flurry! I could not think where you was got, I thought I'd lost you, Mrs. Scot; Where's Mrs. Tape, and Mr. Grin? Lard, I'm so glad we're all got in.

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN THE AUTHOR AND HIS FRIEND.

FRIEND.

You
say, "it hurts you to the soul
To brook confinement or controul."
And yet will voluntary run

To that confinement you would shun,
Content to drudge along the track,
With bells and harness on your back.
Alas! what genius can admit
A monthly tax on spendthrift wit,
Which often flings whole stores away,
And oft has not a doit to pay!
-Give us a work, indeed-of length-
Something which speaks poetic strength;
Is sluggish fancy at a stand?
No scheme of consequence in hand?
I, nor your plan, nor book condemn,
But why your name, and why A. M.?

AUTHOR.

Yes it stands forth to public view
Within, without, on white, on blue,
In proper, tall, gigantic letters,

Not dash'd-emvowell'd-like my betters.
And though it stares me in the face,
Reflects no shame, hints no disgrace.
While these unlabour'd trifles please,
Familiar chains are worn with ease.
-Behold! to yours and my surprise,
These trifles to a volume rise.
Thus will you see me, as I go,
Still gath'ring bulk like balls of snow,
Steal by degrees upon your shelf,
And grow a giant from an elf.
The current studies of the day,
Can rarely reach beyond a play:
A pamphlet may deserve a look,
But Heav'n defend us from a book!
A libel flies on scandal's wings,
But works of length are heavy things.
-Not one in twenty will succeed-
Consider, sir, how few can read.

FRIEND.

I mean a work of merit

AUTHOR.

True.

FRIEND.

A man of taste must buy.

AUTHOR.

Yes; You

And half a dozen more, my friend,

Whom your good taste shall recommend.
Experience will by facts prevail,

When argument and reason fail;
The nuptials now-

FRIEND.

Whose nuptials, sir?

AUTHOR.1

A poet's- -did that poem stir? No-fixt-tho' thousand readers pass, It still looks through its pane of glass, And seems indiguant to exclaim "Pass on ye sons of taste, for shame!"

While duly each revolving Moon,
Which often comes, God knows too soon,
Continual plagues my soul molest,
And magazines disturb my rest,
While scarce a night I steal to bed,
Without a couplet in my head.
And in the morning, when I stir,
Pop comes a devil," Copy, sir."
I cannot strive with daring flight
To reach the bold Parnassiau height;
But at it's foot, content to stray,
In easy unambitious way,

Pick up those flowers the Muses send,
To make a nosegay for my friend.
In short, I lay no idle claim
To genius strong, and noisy fame.
But with a hope and wish to please,
I write, as I would live, with ease.

FRIEND.

But you must have a fund, a mine, Prose, poems, letters,

AUTHOR.

Not a line.

And here, my friend, I rest secure;
He can't lose much, who's always poor.
And if, as now, through numbers five,
This work with pleasure kept alive
Can still its currency afford,
Nor fear the breaking of its hoard,
Can pay you, as at sundry times,
For self per Mag, two thousand rhymes,
From whence should apprehension grow,
That self should fail, with richer co?

No doer of a monthly grub,
Myself alone a learned club,

I ask my readers to no treat

Of scientific hash'd-up meat,

Nor seek to please theatric friends,

With scraps of plays, and odds and ends.

FRIEND.

Your method, sir, is plain enough;

And all the world has read your Puff1.
'Th' allusion's neat, expression clean,
About your travelling machine,
But yet it is a magazine.

AUTHOR.

Why let it be, and wherefore shame? As Juliet says, what's in a name?

I See the Puff,

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I seek not, with satyric stroke,
To strip the pedant of his cloak;
No let him cull and spout quotations,
And call the jabber, demonstrations,
Be his the great concern to show,
If Roman gowns were tied or no 3;
Whether the Grecians took a slice
Four times a-day, or only twice,
Still let him work about his hole,
Poor, busy, blind, laborious mole;
Still let him puzzle, read, explain,
Oppugn, remark, and read again.

Such, though they waste the midnight oil
In dull, minute, perplexing toil,
Not understanding, do no good,
Nor can do harm, not understood.

By scholars, apprehend me right,
I mean the learned, and poiite,
Whose knowledge unaffected flows,
And sits as easy as their clothes;
Who care not though an ac or sed
Misplac'd, endanger Priscian's head;
Nor think his wit a grain the worse,
Who cannot frame a Latin verse,
Or give the Roman proper word
To things the Romans never heard.
"Tis true, except among the great,
Letters are rather out of date,
And quacking genius more discerning,
Scoffs at your regulars in learning.
-Pedants, indeed, are learning's curse,
But ignorance is something worse:
All are not blest with reputation,
Built on the want of education,
And some, to letters duly bred,

Mayn't write the worse, because they've read.
Though books had better be unknown,
Than not one thought appear our own;
As some can never speak themselves,
But through the authors on their shelves,
Whose writing smacks too much of reading,
As affectation spoils good breeding.

FRIEND.

True; but that fault is seldom known,
Save in your bookish college drone.
Who, constant (as I've heard them say)
Study their fourteen hours a-day,

And squatting close, with dull attention,
Read themselves out of apprehension;
Who scarce can wash their hands or face,
For fear of losing time, or place,
And give one hour to meat and drink,
But never half a one to think.

AUTHOR.

Lord! I have seen a thousand such,
Who read, or seem to read, too much.
So have I known, in that rare place,
Where classics always breed disgrace,
A wight, upon discoveries hot,
As whether flames have heat or not,
Study himself, poor sceptic dunce,
Into the very fire at once,
And clear the philosophic doubt,
By burning all ideas out.

With such, eternal books, successive
Lead to no sciences progressive,
While each dull fit of study past,
Just like a wedge drives out the last.

From these I ground no expectation
Of genuine wit, or free translation;
But you mistake me, friend. Suppose,
(Translations are but modern clothes)
1 dress my boy-(for instance sake
Maintain these children which I make)
I give him coat and breeches-

FRIEND.

True

But not a bib and apron too!
You would not let your child be seen,
But drest consistent, neat, and clean.

AUTHOR.

So would I clothe a free translation,
Or as Pope calls it, imitation;
Not pull down authors from my shelf,
To spoil their wit, and plague myself,
My learning studious to display,
And lose their spirit by the way.

FRIEND.

Your Horace now-e'en borrow thence
His easy wit, his manly sense,
But let the moralist convey
Things in the manners of to day,
Rather than that old garb assume,
Which only suits a man at Rome.
AUTHOR.

Originals will always please,
And copies too, if done with ease.
Would not old Plautus wish to wear,
Turn'd English host, an English air,
If Thornton, rich in native wit,
Would make the modes and diction fit?
Or, as I know you hate to roam,
To fetch an instance nearer home;
Though in an idiom most unlike,

2 The first restorer of Greek learning in Eng- A similarity must strike,

land.

3 See Sigonius and Manutius.

Where both, of simple nature fond,
In art and genius correspond;

And naive both (allow the phrase Which no one English word conveys) Wrapt up their stories neat and clean, Easy as

FRIEND.

Denis's you mean✦. -The very man-not mere translation, But La Fontaine by transmigration.

AUTHOR.

Authors, as Dryden's maxim runs, Have what he calls poetic sons, Thus Milton, more correctly wild, Was richer Spenser's lawful child: And Churchill, got on all the nine, Is Dryden's heir in ev'ry line. Thus Denis proves his parents plain, The child of Ease, and La Fontaine.

FRIEND.

His muse, indeed, the work secures, And asks our praise as much as yours; For, if delighted, readers too

May pay their thanks, as well as you.

But you, my friend, (so folks complain) For ever in this easy vein,

This prose in verse, this measur'd talk,
This pace, that's neither trot nor walk,
Aim at no flights, nor strive to give
A real poem fit to live.

AUTHOR.

(To critics no offence, I hope) Prior shall live as long as Pope,

Each in his manner sure to please,

While both have strength, and both have ease;
Yet though their various beauties strike,
Their ease, their strength is not alike.
Both with consummate horseman's skill,
Ride as they list, about the hill;
But take, peculiar in their mode,
Their favourite horse, and favourite road.
For me, once fond of author-fame,
Now forc'd to bear its weight and shame,
I have no time to run a race,
A traveller's my only pace.
They, whom their steeds unjaded bear
Around Hydepark, to take the air,

May frisk and prance, and ride their fill,
And go all paces which they will;
We, hackney tits-nay, never smile,
Who trot our stage of thirty mile,
Must travel in a constant plan,
And run our journey, as we can.

FRIEND.

A critic says, upon whose sleeve Some pin more faith than you'll believe, That writings which as easy please, Are not the writings wrote with ease, From whence the inference is plain, Your friend Mat Prior wrote with pain.

AUTHOR.

With pain perhaps he might correct, With care supply each loose defect,

Yet sure, if rhyme, which seems to flow,
Whether its master will or no,

If humour, not by study sought,
But rising from immediate thought,
Are proofs of ease, what hardy name
Shall e'er dispute a Prior's claim!

But still your critic's observation
Strikes at no poet's reputation,
His keen reflection only hits
Your rhyming fops and pedling wits.
As some take stiffness for a grace,
And walk a dancing-master's pace,
And others, for familiar air
Mistake the slouching of a bear;
So some will finically trim,
And dress their lady-muse too prim,
Others, mere slovens in their pen
(The mob of lords and gentlemen)
Fancy they write with ease and pleasure,
By rambling out of rhyme and measure.
And, on your critic's judgment, these
Write easily, and not with ease.

There are, indeed, whose wish pursues,
And inclination courts the Muse;
Who, happy in a partial fame,

A while possess a poet's name.
But read their works, examine fair,
-Show me invention, fancy there:
Taste I allow; but is the flow
Of genius in them? Surely, no.
"Tis labour from the classic brain.
Read your own Addison's Campaign.
E'en he, nay, think me not severe,
A critic fine, of Latin ear,
Who toss'd his classic thoughts around
With elegance on Roman ground,
Just simmering with the Muse's flame
Woos but a cool and sober dame;
And all his English rhymes express
But beggar-thoughts in royal dress.
In verse his genius seldom glows,
A poet only in his prose,
Which rolls luxuriant, rich, and chaste,
Improv'd by fancy, wit, and taste.

FRIEND.

I task you for yourself, my friend,
A subject you can ne'er defend,
And you cajole me all the while
With dissertations upon style.
Leave others' wits and works alone,
And think a little of your own,

For Fame, when all is said and done,
Though a coy mistress, may be won;
And half the thought, and pains, and time,
You take to jingle easy rhyme,

Would make an ode, would make a play,
Done into English, Malloch's way.
-Stretch out your more heroic feet,
And write an elegy complete.
Or, not a more laborious task,
Could you not pen a classic masque?

AUTHOR.

With will at large, and unclogg'd wings,
I durst not soar to such high things.
For 1, who have more phlegm than fire,
Must understand, or not admire,

♦ Charles Denis, the author of Fables and other But when I read with admiration,

poetical pieces, now forgot. C.

Perhaps I'll write in imitation.

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WELL-shall I wish you joy of fame,
That loudly echoes Churchill's name,
And sets you on the Muses' throne,
Which right of conquest made your own?
Or shall I (knowing how unfit
The world esteems a man of wit,
That wheresoever he appears,
They wonder if the knave has ears)
Address with joy and lamentation,
Condolence and congratulation,
As colleges, who duly bring
Their mess of verse to every king,
Too economical in taste,

Their sorrow or their joy to waste:
Mix both together, sweet and sour;
And bind the thorn up with the flow'r?

Sometimes 'tis elegy, or ode.
Epistle now's your only mode.
Whether that style more glibly hits,
The fancies of our rambling wits,
Who wince and kick at all oppression,
But love to straggle in digression;
Or, that by writing to the great
In letters, honours, or estate,
We slip more easy into fame,
By clinging to another's name,

And with their strength or weakness yoke,
As ivy climbs about an oak;
As tuft-hunters will buzz and purr
About a fellow-commoner,

Or crows will wing a higher flight,
When sailing round the floating kite.

Whate'er the motive, 't is the mode,
And I will travel in the road,
The fashionable track pursue,
And write my simple thoughts to you,
Just as they rise from head or heart,
Not marshall'd by the herald art.

By vanity or pleasure led,
From thirst of fame, or want of bread,
Shall any start up sons of rhyme
Pathetic, easy, or sublime?

-You'd think, to hear what critics say,
Their labour was no more than play:

And that, but such a paltry station
Reflects disgrace on education,
(As if we could at once forsake
What education helps to make)
Each reader has superior skill,

And can write better when he will.

In short, howe'er you toil and drudge,
The world, the mighty world, is judge,
And nice and fanciful opinion

Sways all the world with strange dominion;
Opinion! which on crutches walks,
And sounds the words another talks.
Bring me eleven critics grown,
Ten have no judgment of their own:
But like the Cyclops watch the nod
Of some informing master god:
Or when near his latest breath,
The patient fain would juggle Death,
When doctors sit in consultation

as,

(Which means no more than conversation, A kind of comfortable chat

'Mongst social friends, on this and that,
As whether stocks get up or down,
And tittle-tattle of the town;

Books, pictures, politics, and news,
Who lies with whom, and who got whose)
Opinions never disagree,

One doctor writes, all take the fee.

But eminence offends at once
The owlish eye of critic dunce,
Dullness alarm'd, collects her force,
And Folly screams till she is hoarse.
Then far abroad the libel flies
From all th' artillery of lies,
Malice, delighted, flaps her wing,
And Epigram prepares her sting.
Around the frequent pellets whistle
From satire, ode, and pert epistle;
While every blockhead strives to throw
His share of vengeance on his foe:
As if it were a Shrove-tide game,
And cocks and poets were the same.

Thus should a wooden collar deck
Some woeful 'squire's embarrass'd neck,
When high above the crowd he stands
With equi-distant sprawling hands,
And without hat, politely bare,
Pops out his head to take the air;
The mob his kind acceptance begs
Of dirt, and stones, and addle-eggs.

O Genius! though thy noble skill
Can guide thy Pegasus at will;
Fleet let him bear thee as the wind-
Dullness mounts up and clings behind.
In vain you spur, and whip, and smack,
You cannot shake her from your back.
Ill-nature springs as merit grows,
Close as the thorn is to the rose.
Could Herculaneum's friendly earth
Give Mævius' works a second birth,
Malevolence, with lifted eyes,
Would sanctify the noble prize.
While modern critics should behold
Their near relation to the old,
And wondring gape at one another,
To see the likeness of a brother.

But with us rhyming moderas here,
Critics are not the only fear;
The poet's bark meets sharper shocks
From other sands, and other rocks.

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