So fhall thy Strains in purer Dukes flow,
And Laurels wither on a C-bb-'s Brow.
Say, can the Statesman wield the Poet's Quill,
And quit the Senate for Parnassus' Hill?
Since there no venal Vote a Penfion fhares,
Nor wants Apollo Lords Commiffioners.
Firm in thy Caufe, and to thy Appius true?
Lo! from their Labours what Reward betides !
One pays my Army, one my Navy guides.
To dance, drefs, fing, and ferenade the Fair,
"Conduct a Finger, 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 thefe fofter Arts fhall H---ey strain
With ftubborn Politicks his tender Brain!
For Ministers laborious Pamphlets write,
In Senates prattle, and with Patriots fight!
Thy fond Ambition, pretty Youth, give o'er,
Prefide at Balls, old Fashions loft restore;
As this is the only living Inftance of the furprizing Genius and Abilities of thefe Wits, I could not forbear mentioning
So fhall each Toilet in thy Caufe engage,
And H---ey 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 Goddefs, num'rous Wrongheads trace,
Lur'd by a Penfion, Ribband, or a Place.
To murder Science, and my Cause defend,
Now Shoals of Grubstreet Garretteers descend;
From Schools and Desks the writing Infects crawl,
Unlade their Duinefs, and for Appius bawl.
Lo! to thy darling Osborne turn thine Eyes,
See him o'er Politicks fuperior rife;
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 Syllogifm -a Fool;
Now flies obedient, War with Senfe to wage,
And drags th' Idea thro' the painful Page:
Unread, unanswer'd, ftill he writes again,
Still fpins the endless Cobweb of his Brain;
Charm'd with each Line, reviewing what he writ, Bleffes his Stars, and wonders at his Wit.
Nor lefs, O Walfingham, thy Worth appears! Alike in Merit, tho' unlike in Years:
Ill-fated Youth! what Stars malignant fhed
Their baneful Influence o'er thy brainless Head,
Doom'd to be ever writing, never read!
For Bread to libel Liberty and Senfe,
And damn thy Patron weekly with Defence.
Drench'd in the fable Flood, O hadft thou ftill,
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, unfacrific'd his Fame;
Nor vaft unvended Reams would Peele deplore,
As Victims deftin'd to the Common-Shore.
As Dunce to Dunce in endless Numbers breed, So to Concanen fee a Ralph fucceed,
A tiny Witling of thefe Writing Days,
Full fam'd for tuneless Rhimes, and short-liv'd Plays.
Write on, my luckless Bard, ftill unafham'd,
Tho' burnt thy Journals, and thy Drama's damn'd
'Tis Bread infpires thy Politicks and Lays,
Not Thirft of Immortality or Praise.
Thefe, Goddefs, view the choiceft of the Train,
While yet unnumber'd Dunces ftill remain,
Deans, Critics, Lawyers, Bards, a motley Crew,
To Dulness faithful, as to Appius true,
Enough, the Goddess cries, Enough I've seen; While these fupport, fecure my Son fhall reign, Still halt thou blund'ring rule Britannia's Fatė, Still Grubstreet hail Thee Minifter of State.
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