Miscellaneous Work in Verse and Prose :: :: University of Virginia Library

Miscellaneous Work in Verse and Prose

By Mr. Miller: Volume the first

Miller, James (1706-1744)

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HARLEQUIN-HORACE:

OF POLITENESS.

SEASONABLE REPROOF:

POEMS ON Several Occasions.

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HARLEQUIN-HORACE:

OR, THE ART OF MODERN POETRY.

Tempora mutantur nos & mutamur in illis.

Shou'd some great Artist, in whose Works conspire
Raphael's high Grace, and Titian's Native Fire,
Blend in the Portrait of one fav'rite Fair,
Shaftsb'ry's grand Mien, and Harvey's pleasing Air;
A Shape that might with lovely Queensb'ry's vie,
Hertford's bright Soul effulgent in the Eye;
Thy Symmetry, sweet Richmond! if e'er Art
Cou'd such sweet Symmetry as thine impart;
A Vanbrugh's Smile illumining the Face,
And, Royal Orange! thy Majestick Grace,
Till the whole Piece should a fam'd Venus shine,
One finish'd Form, in ev'ry Part divine:
Tho' thus with each ador'd Perfection fraught,
Our modern Men of Taste would scorn the Draught.

Such Treatment, Pope, you must expect to find,
Whilst Wit and Judgment in your Works are join'd;
'Tis not to Think with Strength, and Write with Ease,
No—'tis the Ægri Somnia now must please;
Things without Head, or Tail, or Form, or Grace,
A wild, forc'd, glaring, unconnected Mass.
Well! Bards, you'll say, like Painters, Licence claim,
To dare do any thing for Bread, or—Fame.
'Tis true—Why then, in Sense and Nature's Spite,
Still please the booby Crowd in all you write;
A Thousand jarring Things together yoke,
The Dog, the Dome, the Temple, and the Joke,
Consult no Order, nor pursue no End,
But Rant and Farce, the Sock and Buskin blend;
Now make us dance, then doze, now weep, then smile,
It suits the various Temper of our Isle.
What tho' the few of Sense may cry it down?
'Twill charm that Universal Fool, the Town.

To grand Beginnings full of Pomp and Show,
Big Things profest, and Brags of what you'll do,
Still some gay, glitt'ring, foreign Gewgaws join,
Which, like gilt Points on Peter's Coat, may shine;
Descriptions which may make your Readers stare,
And marvel how such pretty Things came There.
Whilst old Dinarchus tosses on his Bed,
Taught by dire Visions that his Daughter bled,
A Friend comes in, and with Reflexion deep,
Descants upon the Sweetness of his Sleep;
When up the Sire starts trembling from his Dream
And straight presents you with a purling Stream,
Describes the Riv'let roving 'midst the Trees,
The dancing Sun-beams, and refreshing Breeze.

Thus ne'er regard Connexion, Time, or Place,
For dear Variety has every Grace.

Suppose you're skill'd in the Parnassian Art,
To purge the Passions, and correct the Heart,
To paint Mankind in ev'ry Light, and Stage,
Their various Humours, Characters, and Age;

To fix each Portion in its proper Place,
And give the Whole one Method, Form, and Grace;
What's that to us who pay our Pence to see
The sweet Productions of Profundity?
Shipwrecks, and Monsters, Conjurors, and Gods,
Where every Part is with the Whole at odds.

We still are bubbl'd when we aim at right,
Surprizing Novelties alone delight.
Now write obscure, and let your Words move slow,
Then with full Light, and rapid Ardor glow:
In one Scene make your Hero cant, and whine,
Then roar out Liberty in every Line;
Vary one Thing a thousand pleasant Ways,
Shew Whales in Woods, and Dragons in the Seas.

To shun a Fault's the ready Way to fall,
Correctness is the greatest Crime of all.

What tho' in Pope's harmonious Lays combine
All that is lovely, noble, and divine;
Tho' every Strain with Wit, and Nature glows,
And from from each Line a sweet Instruction flows;
Tho' thro' the whole the Loves, and Graces smile,
Polish the Manners, and adorn the Style?
Whilst Virtue's Friend, He turns the tuneful Art
From Sounds to Things, from Fancy to the Heart;
Yet, slavishly to Truth and Sense ty'd down,
He impotently toils to please the Town.
Heav'n grant I never write like him I mention,
Since to the Bays I could not make Pretension,
Nor, Thresher-like, hope to obtain a Pension.

Ne'er wait for Subjects equal to your Might,
For then, 'tis ten to one you never write;
When Hunger prompts you, strike the first you meet,
For who'd stand choosing when he wants to eat?

Take then no Pains a Method to maintain,
Or link your Work in a continu'd Chain,
But cold dull Order gloriously disdain.
Clap down whate'er comes first, nor mind one Jot
Whether 'tis proper in that Place or not.
Who'd lose a Thought because not just in Time?
Or for the Sake of Reason spoil a Rhime?

In coining Words your own Discretion use;
For coin you must to suit the modern Muse.
New Terms adapted to the Purpose bring,
When Eagles are to talk, or Asses sing;
No matter that from Greece, or Rome they come,
An English Poet scorns to go from Home.
Why should to present Tibbald be deny'd,
What antient Settle would have own'd with Pride?

Or why should any blame, or envy me,
For writing a New Art of Poetry;
Since modern Bards afford such precious Store
Of Rules and Beauties never known before?

For as the stately Oaks which late were seen
Proudly compacted, eminently green,
Robb'd of their leafy Honours, straggling bow
Their hoary Heads beneath the falling Snow;
So Nature, Wit, and Sense must blasted fall,
Whilst blooming Ignorance prevails o'er all.
No Work's so great, but what admits Decay;
No Act so glorious, but must fade away.
Blenheim's vast Pile shall moulder into Dust,
And Marlbrô's Statues be consum'd by Rust;
Old things must yield to New, Common to Strange,
Perpetual Motion brings perpetual Change.
Lo! Shakespear's Head is crush'd by Rich's Heels,
And a throng'd Theatre in Godman's Fields;

Lo! Smithfield-Shows a polish'd Court engage,
And Hurlothrumbo charms the knowing Age.
Since Manners alter thus, the modish Muse
Themes suited to the reigning Taste should choose:
What Bard for starving Sense would suffer Death,
When fruitful Folly is th' Establish'd Faith?

The way to write of Heroes, and of Kings,
And sing, in wond'rous Numbers, wond'rous Things;
Of mighty Matters done in bloody Battle,
How Arms meet Arms, Swords clash, and Cannons rattle,
How such strange Toils and Turmoils to rehearse,
Is learnt from Blackmore's everlasting Verse.

To sing of Shepherds, and of Shepherdesses,
Their aukward Humours, Dialogues, and Dresses:
The manner how they Plow, and Sow, and Reap,
How silly they, more silly than their Sheep,

In Mantles blue, can trip it o'er the Green,
In Namby Pamby's Past'rals may be seen.

Tibbald in Mail compleat of Dullness clad,
Half Bard, half Puppet-man, half Fool, half Mad,
Rose next to charm the Ear, and please the Eye,
With ev'ry Monster bred beneath the Sky;
His great Command Earth's Salvages obey,
And ev'ry dreadful Native of the Sea;
Amaz'd we view, by his strange Pow'r convey'd,
Pluto's dark Throne, and Hell's tremendous Shade;
Then change the Scene, and lo! Heaven's bright Abodes,
We dance with Goddesses, and sing with Gods;
Encore, Encore, rings thro' the raptur'd Round,
Encore, Encore, the ecchoing Roofs resound.

On Lyrick Welsted, next, the Muse bestow'd
Fondness to aim at the advent'rous Ode:
Not like those Bards of old who dar'd to rise,
And lift their Heads triumphant to the Skies;
Who, scaling Heav'n in their ambitious Flight,
In Gods and Heroes plac'd their vain Delight;
But Welsted's gentle Stanza makes you doze,
A frozen Sluice, that neither ebbs nor flows;

Still saunt'ring on in the same tick-tack Rhime,
No Pendulum can keep exacter Time:
'Till by the Weight-inspiring God oppress'd,
His Visage bloated, and inflate his Breast,
He raves, stares, sputters, foams, turns giddy round,
Then tumbles headlong down the vast Profound.

But which of these the Laureat's Wreath shall wear
From their like Merit cannot yet appear.

Unless you're skill'd in these new Ways to Fame,
You'll ne'er acquire the Poet's sacred Name.
Your Readers Tastes you must with Care discern,
And never be too ignorant to learn.
Let Jocund Tales be cloath'd in sad Blank Verse,
And Fables dire shine forth in hum'rous Farce.
Assign no Place to a peculiar Part,
Nor brook the Bondage of laborious Art;

But vary oft your Method, and your Style;
Let one Scene make us weep, the other smile;
Quite Tragick, yet quite Comick all the while!

'Tis not enough that Show and Sing-song meet,
The Ladies look for something soft, and sweet:
That ev'ry tender Sentiment may move,
And fix their Fancies on the Joys they love:
In Perseus this was to Perfection done,
The Dance was very moving they must own.

But if you will be foolishly severe,
And in dull Morals madly persevere;
If drowsy Decency you needs must keep,
No wonder if your Audience fall asleep.
Your Words should ne'er be suited to your Theme,
The Sound a Contrast to the Sense should seem.
A merry Grin sets off a dismal Tale,
Weep when you jest, and giggle while you rail.

For wanton Nature forms the human Mind,
Still fond of Wonders, and to Change inclin'd;
Plain Sense we fly, strange Nonsense to pursue,
And leave old Follies, but to grasp at New;
One Hour we court, what we the next refuse,
And loath To-morrow, what To-day we choose:
Now we are grave, then gay; now wing'd with Joy,
Then sunk in Grief—and all we know not why.
The Things we hunt, are Pleasure, Wealth, and Fame,
But a wrong Scent still cheats us of the Game;
For different Objects, different Aims excite,
And still we think the last Opinion right:
To Craft, Deceit, and Selfishness inclin'd,
We never let the Face betray the Mind;
But then look fairest, when we mean most Ill,
And, flatt'ring Syrens like, inchant—to kill:
By Interest sway'd, each Word is full of Art,
And the taught Tongue runs counter to the Heart.

From all Restraint your Characters set free,
Nor, with their Fortune, make their Talk agree.
We hate a Piece where Truth and Nature meet,
Scorn what is real, but enjoy Deceit;

And always give the most Applause to those,
Who on our very Senses most impose.

Take then no Pains Resemblance to pursue,
Give us but something very strange, and new,
'Twill entertain the more—that 'tis not true.
If mighty Marlbrô's Character you'd wield
Describe Him rash, yet trembling in the Field;
One by no Laws, Divine or Human, aw'd;
False to his Queen, his Country, and his God;
Ungraceful giving, in refusing Sour,
An Wolsey in, a Cat'line out of Power;
The Church's Downfall, and the State's Disease,
A Turk, a Jew, a Fiend, a—what you please.
Call Dorset vain, firm Carteret a Tool,
Chandois a Churl, and Wilmington a Fool;
Make Chesterfield nor witty, nor polite,
Argile unable or to speak, or fight;
Cobham the Just from Virtue's Paths elope,
And Montagu a downright Misantrope;
Talbot, the Boast and Blessing of his Age!
On friendless Merit's Side must ne'er engage;
No proud Oppressor dread his awful Name,
Nor injur'd Right his just Decrees proclaim;
No Orphan Voice should grateful Pæans raise,
Nor Widow'd Hands be lifted in his Praise;

But Partial, Proud, Ambitious, be describ'd,
By Passion govern'd, and by Interest brib'd.

Or if some untry'd Story you would choose,
On some new Character employ your Muse;
Toil not to draw it, 'tis a fruitless Aim,
True to itself, and thro' the whole the same;
Enough that we can know it by the Name.

'Tis difficult a well-known Tale to tell,
It won't admit Variety so well;
But if you bring a Scotch or Irish Story,
You'll never fail to please both Whig and Tory:
Then dauntless make another's Plan your own,
Nay steal each Word, nor fear its being known;
For if the Owner should your Theft explore,
E'en cry Thief first, like honest Jemmy More.

Let lofty Language your Beginning grace,
And still set out with a gigantick Pace;

In thund'ring Lines your no Design rehearse:
And rant, and rumble in a Storm of Verse.
It ne'er can fail to charm a crowded House,
To see the lab'ring Mountain yield a Mouse.
We're pleas'd to find the great, th' important Day,
Produce a Jig, a Wedding, or a Fray;
As if the old World modestly withdrew,
And here in private had brought forth a New;
Profoundly judging with the antient Sire,
That where there is much Smoke, must be some Fire.

'Tis therefore your's to keep the Mind in Doubt,
And let no Ray of Meaning once peep out;
To shun the least Approach of Light with Care,
And turn, and double, like a hunted Hare.
So lye, confound, disjoint, lop, eke, and patch,
That neither Head, nor Tail, nor Middle, match.

If anxious to delight the list'ning Throng,
Their strict Attention, and loud Claps prolong;
If ev'ry Rank and Sect you would engage,
Reverse your Manners to each Sex and Age.

To write in Character is not requir'd;
The more unnat'ral, 'tis the more admir'd.

A Boy that just can go alone, and prattle,
Should fly his Play-fellows, and scorn his Rattle,
Converse with Patriots and Politicians,
And talk of Dunkirk, Hanover, and Hessians.

The beardless Youth as wanton as a Squirrel,
Just free'd from Discipline of Rod and Ferrel,
Should sagely cast his jovial Sports away,
Renounce his Wenching, Drinking, Dogs, and Play,
Copy the stingy Duke so young and thrifty,
And look, and talk, a very Don of Fifty.

One of that Age at which 'tis made a Rule,
That each Man's a Physician, or a Fool;
Wild as a new-fledg'd Stripling should appear,
Void of Ambition, innocent of Fear;
Nor Fame, nor Friendship, nor Preferment mind,
So Jowler prove but staunch, and Phillis kind.

Old Age in Waste and Riot should delight,
Launch thoughtless out, and Drink, Wench, Game, and Fight;

For 'tis, you know, an uncontested Truth,
That Age is nothing but a second Youth.

Thus simple Nature you must still reject,
For those Things please us most we least expect,
To see Sixteen, like old Sir Gilbert, scrape,
And Sixty cast, like Chartres, for a Rape.

Next shun with Care the Rule prescrib'd of old,
That Things too strange should not be shewn, but told.
The Feats of Faustus, and the Pranks of Jove
Chang'd to a Bull, to carry off his Love;
The swimming Monster, and the flying Steed,
Medusa's Cavern, and her Serpent-breed,
Domes voluntar'ly rising from the Ground,
And lovely Lun transform'd into a Hound,

Done on the Stage, with Show of Truth deceive,
Which, if related, we should ne'er believe;
Glorious Free-thinking reigns to that degree,
We credit nothing now, but what we see.

The Number of your Acts we never mind,
For modern Poets scorn to be confin'd:
Two sometimes suits the Genius, sometimes Three,
When the Purse prompts the nimble One for me.

To serve each Purpose, be it ne'er so odd,
Be sure to introduce a Ghost or—God;
Make Monsters, Fiends, Heav'n, Hell, at once engage,
For all are pleas'd to see a well-fill'd Stage.

The ancient Chorus justly's laid aside,
And all its Office by a Song supply'd:
A Song—when to the Purpose something's lack'd,
Relieves us in the middle of an Act;
A Song inspires our Breasts with am'rous Fury,
And turns our Fancies on the Nymphs of Drury:
Can quell our Rage, and pacify our Cares,
Revive old Hopes, and banish present Fears;

Lighten, like Wine, the bitter Load of Life,
And make each Wretch forget his Debts and Wife.

In Days of Old, when Englishmen were—Men,
Their Musick, like themselves, was grave and plain;
The manly Trumpet, and the simple Reed,
Alike with Citizen, and Swain agreed;
Whose Songs, in lofty Sense, but humble Verse,
Their Loves, and Wars alternately rehearse;
Sung by themselves, their homely Cheer to crown,
In Tunes from Sire to Son deliver'd down.

But now, since Britains are become polite,
Since Few can read, and Fewer still can write;
Since Trav'ling has so much improv'd our Beaux,
That each brings home a foreign Tongue, or—Nose;
And Ladies paint with that amazing Grace,
That their best Vizard is their natural Face;
Since South-Sea Schemes have so inrich'd the Land,
That Footmen 'gainst their Lords for Boroughs stand;
Since Masquerades and Op'ras made their Entry,
And Heydegger reign'd Guardian of our Gentry;
A hundred various Instruments combine,
And foreign Songsters in the Concert join:

The Gallick Horn, whose winding Tube in vain
Pretends to emulate the Trumpet's Strain;
The shrill-ton'd Fiddle, and the warbling Flute,
The grave Bassoon, deep Base, and tinkling Lute,
The jingling Spinnet, and the full-mouth'd Drum,
A Roman Capon, and Venetian Strum,
All league, melodious Nonsense to dispense,
And give us Sound, and Show, instead of Sense;
In unknown Tongues mysterious Dullness chant,
Make Love in Tune, or thro' the Gamut rant.

Long labour'd Rich, by Tragick Verse to gain
The Town's Applause—but labour'd long in vain;
At length he wisely to his Aid call'd in,
The active Mime and checquer'd Harlequin.
Nor rul'd by Reason, nor by Law restrain'd,
In all his Farces Smut and Scandal reign'd;

Peers, Prelates, Commons, all alike they roast,
From Knight of Garter, down to Knight of Post;
Paid no Regard to any Rank or Station,
Yea, mock'd the solemn Rites of Coronation.
Lords, Knights, and Ladies, who but late were seen
With Regal Pomp, and Eminence of Mien;
Plumes on their Heads that dar'd the very Sky,
Ribbands and Stars that dazzl'd every Eye;
Trains that with Gold and Purple swept the Ground,
And Musick like the Sphere's celestial Sound;
Here strip'd of all, in homely Guise appear,
Knights Hempen-strings, and Ladies Pattens wear;
The good Lord-Mayor, as erst, devouring Custard,
And Musick, as when City-Bands are muster'd.
Ay, this will do! the throng'd Spectator cries;
Ay, this will do! enlighten'd Rich replies;
Shakespear, Rowe, Johnson, now are quite undone—
These are thy Triumphs, thy Exploits, O Lun!

Whoe'er would Comedy or Satire write,
Must never spare Obscenity and Spite:
A Quantum sufficit of Smut, will raise
Crowds of Applauders to the dullest Plays;

Whilst gross Scurrility, and pure Ill-nature,
Are found the best Ingredients for a Satire.
But he that would in Buskins tread the Stage,
With Rant, and Fustian, must divert the Age,
And, Boschi like, be always in a Rage.
In Blood and Wounds the Galleries most delight,
Who think all Virtue is to storm and fight;
Whilst Plumes, gilt Truncheons, bloody Ghosts, and Thunder,
Engage the Boxes to behold and—wonder.
Confound all Characters, no Difference make
If matchless Polwarth, or Sir Billy speak;
Perplexing all things thus, each Judge will own,
Such Wonders could be done by you alone:
So much o'er Truth the Marvellous prevails,
And adds such Honours to the meanest Tales.

Let Country Clodpoles just come up to Town,
Well-bred, Polite, and Elegant, be shewn;

Talk loosely and profanely, with a Port
As if they had been born and bred at Court:
To see all Nature with such Art inverted,
Tom, and my Lord, will be alike diverted;
Let Criticks snarl, they never can redress,
For worthy Leave is giv'n you to transgress.

But hold, wise Sir, for that your leave we crave,
What shan't we shew the little Wit we have?
Shall we, you cry, learn writing ill by Rule,
And have we need to study to be Dull?
Yes—when the greatest Merit's want of Sense,
The least faint Glimpse of Reason gives Offence:
Besides, who'd read the Antients Night and Day,
And toil to follow where they lead the Way?
Who'd write, and cancel with alternate Pain,
First sweat to build, then to pull down again?
To turn the weigh'd Materials o'er and o'er,
And ev'ry Line, in ev'ry Light explore;
From Sense and Nature never to depart,
And labour artfully, to cover Art:

Who'd seek to run such rugged Roads as these?
When smooth Stupidity's the Way to please;
When Harlequin and Pierrot's Feats delight,
Beyond what Dryden did, or Pope can write.

Our antient Tragedy was void of Art,
Shewn by some merry Briton in a Cart;
Whose naked Tribe of Saxons, Scots, and Picts,
Sung Songs like Cary, and like Lun play'd Tricks.

Then Shakespear rose, in a politer Age,
And plac'd his well-dress'd Actors on a Stage;
Taught them to move with Grace, and speak with Art,
To charm the Passions, and engage the Heart;

Next witty Comedy, in pointed Prose,
Lash'd, with Applause, each Folly as it rose.
'Till, taking too much Freedom with the Great,
Medling, O fye! with Ministers of State,
In Anno Seventeen Hundred Thirty Six
A Law was made to quell such naughty Tricks;
Since when my good Lord Chamberlain—right Thing!
Reads each new Play, to strip it of its Sting;
Tho' long the sturdy Beggars of the Pit
Loudly oppos'd this new Excise on Wit.

Our English Bards have left untry'd no Ways,
No Stone unturn'd in the Pursuit of Praise;
But bravely launching from the Antient's Road,
In Paths peculiar to themselves have trod;
Till Britain, now, like famous is become,
For Arms Abroad, and Poetry at Home.

Some Fools, indeed, amongst us yet remain,
Who think to mend their Works by Time and Pain;
Much Care and Reading their Productions cost—
Much Care and Reading, now, is so much lost:
What need to touch, re-touch, to prune, or add,
To raise the Good, or to reject the Bad;
When one wild straggling Thought, one lucky Hit
Will serve instead of Judgment, Sense, and Wit?
Besides, in striving to patch one Fault o'er,
Like Tinkers, you'd but make a hundred more.

Most Readers love romantick Flights alone,
And scorn a Piece where Art and Judgment's shewn;
Nor think that any Man can be a Poet,
Unless his frantick Looks and Actions shew it.

If, then, you'd gain a Bard's Reward and Name,
And with the Mob immortalize your Fame;
Be sure that like mere Men you ne'er be seen,
Good-natur'd, chearful, mannerly, or clean;
But slovenly, and thoughtful, walk the Street,
Talk to yourself, and know no Friend you meet.
As for myself, I'm far from being nice,
And practice often what I here advise;
At Shop, or Stall of Stationer appear,
With tatter'd Habit, and abstracted Air;
Now fiercely gazing, now in Thought profound,
My Eyes or at the Stars, or on the Ground.
Not that I dare to Poetry pretend,
My utmost Aim's to be the Poet's Friend,
To whet them on to write, and, like the Hone,
Give others Edge, tho' I myself have none;
To point them out the most successful Ways,
To purchase Pudding, and to purchase Praise.

Hear then, ye Bards, with close Attention hear,
Ye that are bless'd with a remaining Ear;
Learn hence what Paths to quit, or to pursue,
To gain the False, and to avoid the True;

Learn hence new Depths to sink, new Heights to soar,
And write as Poets never wrote before.

A thorough Knowledge of the Court, and Town,
Is the grand Nostrum to acquire Renown;
Let Novels, Satires, and Lampoons be read,
And with the Weekly Journals fill your Head.
A Bard well-skill'd in the Affairs of State,
And all th' Intrigues, and Knav'ries of the Great;
Who knows the solemn Promises they make,
They do—for no one Purpose but to break;
Their Talk of publick Good, and future Fame,
Means present Profit all, and private Aim;
That all the filial Piety they have,
They long to bury in their Father's Grave;
And all the Brothetly Regards they bear,
Consist in Hopes of soon commencing Heir.
Who knows what Members for their Voices paid,
And what, by Pique and Patriotism led,
Sell their dear Country for Revenge or—Bread.

What Judge, who, while he hangs the needy Knave,
For a plum Hundred will the rich One save;
And what fierce Captain, when commanded out,
Resigns his Post, or counterfeits the Gout:
A Bard, I say, with such Acquirements stor'd.
Can draw a Jilt, a Sharper, or a Lord;
And privare Scandals better entertain,
Than all the Sweat and Labour of the Brain.

The Greeks, dull Souls! so greedy were of Fame,
They starv'd the Body to preserve the Name:
They scorn'd, forsooth, to suit the vulgar Taste,
Their Labours to Posterity must last,
And, for the present, they must—what? why fast.
Thank Heav'n! we're bless'd with more substantial Sense,
And take most Pleasure when we count the Pence:
Let wicked Heathens be so proud and vain,
A Christian Poet's humble End is—Gain.
Eat much, drink more, think none, but write away,
Thus you'll unite the Pleasure and the Pay.
Of Bulk alone your Printer is a Judge,
Nor a large Price, for many Sheets, can grudge;

Your Readers too you better can impose on,
Whilst the long, tedious, puz'ling Tome they doze on.

In all you feign, for sake of Pleasantry,
Fly far from heavy Probability;
And shew Tom Thumb, the more Surprize to give,
From the Cow's Maw, thrown up again alive.

To please, alone, employ your Thoughts and Care,
Nor Age, nor Youth, will Admonition bear;
Your preaching moral Dunce we always slight,
And read not for Instruction, but Delight.

Then, then, my Friends, your ev'ry Point you gain,
When no one Precept in your Works remain,
But Ribaldry, and Scandal lawless reign.
Thus shall you reap the Profit you pursue,
And Curl get Money by the Copy too;
Thus shall all Drury in your Praise combine,
And distant Goodman's-Fields their Pæans join;
So far Barbadoes shall resound your Fame,
And ev'n transported Felons chant your Name.

Yet, if by chance, you here and there impart,
Some Sparks of Wit, or Glimmerings of Art;
If by Mistake you blunder upon Sense,
Good-Nature will forgive the first Offence;
No String will always give the Sound requir'd,
Nor Shaft fly faithful to the Point desir'd.
If in the main the Splendid Piece is fraught
With pompous Show, and Shallowness of Thought;
If hum'rous Point, smooth Verse, and forc'd Conceit,
With soothing Sound, and solid Nonsense meet:
We shall not be offended with one Fault,
Thro' Want of Negligence, or Waste of Thought:
But think not that an Audience will excuse
The Drudge that purposely dull Sense pursues;
That Young, or Thompson like, will never write,
Unless, at once, to profit and delight.

The best may err, 'tis true, and seem to creep,
Long Labours sink the brightest Souls in Sleep;
I'm griev'd to find ev'n Cheshire Johnson nod,
And sometimes shew the Absence of the God.

Painting and Poetry should still agree,
Some Pictures best far off, some near, we see:
So when the Feats of Faustus are presented,
If plac'd too nigh, my Pleasure is prevented;
I see the Strings by which the Tricks are done,
And no more make a Conjuror of Lun.
If Ghosts appear, make dark the solemn Scene;
But in full Light let Goddesses be seen:
Poor Cibber's Opera scarce would bear one View;
But Gay's, repeated Sixty-times, was new.

O Dennis, eldest of the scribling Throng,
Tho' skill'd thy self in ev'ry Art of Song,
Tho' of thy Mother-Goddess Tip-top full,
By Inspiration furiously Dull;

Yet this one Maxim from my Pen receive,
To midling Bards the World no Quarter give.
Budgel a Petty-fogger might have made,
And been, perhaps, a Dapster at his Trade.
Th' indifferent Lawyer is the most in vogue,
And still the greater, as the greater Rogue.
But midling Poets are by all accurst,
We only listen to the Best, or—Worst.

All Arts by Time and Industry are gain'd,
And without Pains no Knowledge is obtain'd.
Ladies must study hard to play Quadrille,
And Doctors take Degrees before they kill.
Soldiers, to gain their Point, must be polite,
Dress, Sing, and Dance, and ev'ry thing but—Fight.
Courtiers do all that's little to be—Great,
And Lawyers study Equity to cheat:
But yet, you say, that without Pains, or Time,
All dare to dabble in the Arts of Rhime:
Why not? since Fancy, Poverty, and Spite,
Demand eternal Privilege to write.
Without Restraint, indulge your keen Desire,
Want—not Minerva, kindles up the Fire:

Write then, and still write on; no Matter why,
Nor what, nor how,—So Lintot will but buy;
The Task run thro', let it be ne'er read o'er,
Nor sleep nine Moments in the dark 'Scrutore;
But when the Groans of the griev'd Press shall cease,
And Others lay your Labours up in Peace,
Then, first, the Work to mighty Bentley shew,
He'll prove your truest Friend who's Milton's Foe;
And if, thro' Haste, some Parts remain too bright,
The next Edition he will cloud them quite.

Orpheus, I've read, by his harmonious Skill,
Made Birds and Beasts obedient to his Will:
Amphion, greater yet, made Stones advance,
And sturdy Oaks, to mingle in the Dance;
But Faronelli's Strain is still much sweeter,
That matchless, dear, delicious, killing Creature!
He charms far wilder Savages than those,
Strange Force of Sounds! even modern Belles and Beaus.

'Tis likewise said, that in our Fathers' Days,
By Sense and Virtue, Poets aim'd at Praise,
And in their Country's Service tun'd their Lays.
Taught Men from Fraud and Rapine to abstain,
And Publick Good prefer to Private Gain:
Shew'd 'em what Rev'rence to the Gods was due,
And what rich Fruits from Social Virtues grew.
Whilst others sung in animating Strains,
The martial Hosts embattel'd on the Plains;
Or useful Secrets labour'd to explore,
Which lay conceal'd in Nature's Womb before.
For such low Cant they justly are despis'd,
We knowing Moderns scorn to be advis'd.
To our Applause, He only can pretend
Who, Sworn to Dulness, and her Friends, a Friend,
To Vice and Folly splendid Temples rears,
And for our Entertainment, risks his Ears.

You'll ask, perhaps, if this successful Vein,
Be Nature's Gift, or the Reward of Pain?
Nor taught by Study, nor by Genius fir'd,
By Penury, or Whim, 'tis still inspir'd.
He then that would the wish'd-for Prize obtain,
Need never dim his Eyes, or rack his Brain,
Nor toil by Day, nor meditate by Night,
But take for Power, the Willingness to write,
And ever thoughtless, indolent, and gay,
With Wine and Women revel Life away.
Let Pipers learn their Fingers to command,
And Fidlers drudge seven Years to make a Hand:
You care for nothing but a warm Third-night;
Then, Hunger take the Hindmost! cry, and write.
'Tis done! the Motley Scenes at once appear,
Drawn from Corneille, Racine, and Moliere;
Now Their's no longer—all their Sense and Skill
Quite lost in your Annihilating Quill.

But above all, on your First Day, secure
The Templars for your Friends, and then you're sure.

Some, likewise, hire to shout at every Line,
And cry, 'Tis charming! exquisite! divine!
To mark when Chair, or Couch, is well brought in,
And clap the very Drawing of the Scene.
Old Dennis, next, with a good Supper treat,
He'll like your Poem as he likes your Meat;
For, give that growling Cerberus a Sop,
He'll close his Jaws, and sleep like any Top.

But well beware you never trust to those,
Who, under Friendship's Mask, are real Foes;
Nor let a Pope or Trap your Works peruse,
They'd only over-lay your infant Muse,
And sway'd by Envy, Ignorance, or Spite,
Find Fault with every thing that you recite.
They ne'er would pardon an unmeaning Line,
But Rhime to Reason slavishly confine:

“Enliven This (they'd cry) and polish That,
“The Diction's here too rugged, there too flat,
“That Thought's too mean, and here you're too obscure,
“This Line's ill-turn'd, and—strike out those be sure.”
Thus, while they cancel what they call amiss,
There scarce remains a Line of all the Piece.

As, therefore, you'd avoid a clam'rous Dun,
Scour from a Catchpole, or the Pill'ry shun,
So fly such Criticks, trust yourself alone,
Nor to their Humour sacrifice your own:

No—rather seek some Sycophant at Court,
Some rich, young, lack-wit Lord for your Support:
Submit your Works to his right-honour'd Note;
He'll judge with the same Spirit that you wrote:

And when a Dupe, that freely bleeds, you nick,
Be sure you fasten, and be sure you stick;
Be-rhime, Be-prose him, Dedicate, and Lye,
And never leave him, 'till you've suck'd him dry.