Nor let false friends feduce thy Mind to Fame,
By arrogating Johnson's Hoftile name.
Let Father Flecknoe fire thy Mind with praise,
And Unkle Ogleby thy Envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Johnson has no part ;
What fhare have we in Nature or in Art?
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
And rail at Arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or fwept the duft in Psyche's humble strain?
Where fold he Bargains, Whip-stitch, kiss my Arse,
Promis'd a Play, and dwindled to a Farce?
When did his Mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridg doft transfuse to thine?
But fo transfus'd as Oyl and Waters flow,
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy Province, this thy wondrous way,
New Humours to invent for each new Play:
This is that boafted Byafs of thy mind,
By which one way, to dulnefs, 'tis inclin❜d.
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And in all changes that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A Tun of Man in thy large Bulk is writ,
But fure thou'rt but a Kilderkin of wit.
Like mine thy gentle numbers feebly creep,
Thy Tragick Muse gives fmiles, thy Comick fleep.
With whate'er gall thou fett'ft thy felf to write,
Thy inoffenfive Satyrs never bite.
In thy fellonious heart, though Venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish Pen, and dyes.
Thy Genius calls thee not to purchase Fame
In keen Iambicks, but mild Anagram:
Leave writing Plays, and chufe for thy command
Some peaceful Province in Acroftick Land.
There thou may'st Wings display and Altars raise,
And Torture one poor word Ten thousand ways.