Back in the dark, by Brompton park, Mean while duke Guife did fret and fume, Then, wet and weary, home he far'd, "Mean time on every piffing-poft Now God preserve our gracious king, May learn this leffon from duke Nic. * Fragment F meagre Gildon draws his venal quill, I wish the man a dinner, and fit ftill: If dreadful Dennis raves in furious fret, I'll anfwer Dennis, when I am in debt. 'Tis hunger, and not malice, makes them print; And who'll wage war with bedlam or the mint? Should fome more fober criticks come abroad, If wrong, I fmile; if right, I kifs the rod. Pains, reading, ftudy, are their juft pretence; And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and sense. Commas and points they fet exactly right; And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite: Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds, From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds, Who thinks he reads, when he but/cans and Spells; A word-catcher, that lives on fyllables. Pretty in amber to obferve the forms worms! The Thething, we know, is neither rich norrare; And wonder how the devil it got there. Are others angry? I excufe them too: Well may they rage; I gave them but their duet Each man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's fecret standard in his mind, That cafting-weight pride adds to emptiness, This who can gratify? for who can guess? The wretch whom pilfer'd paftorals re a nown, Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown, Juft writes to make his barrenness appear, And ftrains from hard-bound brains fix lines a year; In fenfe ftill wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left: Johnson, who now to sense, now nonfense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: C And he, whofe fuftian's fo fublimely bad, It is not poetry, but profe run mad ; Should modeft fatire bid all these translate, And own that nine fuch poets make a Tate; a Philips. Author of the Victim, and Cobler of Prefton. Verfe of Dr. Ev. How How wou'd they fume, and ftamp, and roar, and chafe!!" How wou'd they fwear not Congreve's felf was fafe! Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires Apollo kindled, and fair fame infpires; Bleft with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne; View himwith fcornful, yetwith fearful eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife; Damn with faint praise, affent with civil leer, And without fneering teach the reft to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Juft hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend, A tim'rous foe, and a fufpicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers befieg'd, And fo obliging that he ne'er oblig'd; Who, if two wits on rival themes conteft, Approves of each, but likes the worst the best; Like Cato, gives his little fenate laws, And fits attentive to his own applaufe; While While wits and templars ev'ry fentence raife, And wonder with a foolish face of praise-What pity, heav'n! if fuch a man there be, Who would not weep, if Addifon were he! W MA CER. HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown, First fought a poet's fortune in the town; 'Twas all th' ambition his great foul could feel, Towear red ftockings, and to dine with Steel. Some ends of verfe his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word. up with these, he ventur'd on the town, Andina borrow'd play out-did poor Crown. There he stopt fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle, Set But has the wit to make the most of little; Like ftunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs verfe, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends. He requested by publick advertisements the aid of the ingenious to make up a mifcellany in 1713. So |