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Critic.
THE critic first possess'd the earth,
And by his rules gave authors birth.

Author.
I did not know you traced so high,
Your origin and ancestry,
What time you first begun dog-bark.
Were you with Noah in the ark?
In what compartment were you seen?
'Mongst creatures clean or the unclean?

Critic.

The critic, sir's, the natural father
Of every snifling, snuffling author;
And when you nod or snore or sleep
We slily on posteriors creep,
And rouse you to a bright exertion,
Of all your faculties, you whoreson.

How can there be idea of beauties,
Unless the critic genius shew't us:
The angle of the sight obtuse,
Can see no more than doth a goose,
While we with microscopic eye,
Examine as you would a fly,

See through the crevices of fancy,
As far as human eyesight can see,
Tell where there is or is not Grammar;
What phraseology wants hammer—
Or file to make the verse run smoother,
Where sound is harsh, or term uncouther.

Author.
I grant you see defects and errors,
Of those in genius your superiors:
The skin however smoothly carried,
To a flee's eye is deep and furrowed.
his optics may perceive a wart,
That grows upon the unseen part,
But for the beauty of the frame,
It is above the ken of them—
Thus critics tell that bard divine
Has a rough word in such a line,
Or that the sacred poem scarce
Can bear the trot of such a verse,
That feeble author in such sentence
Has not the vis, the spirit intense,
That Pagastus was lame when he rode,
Over this or that dull period,
They tell, but never felt the force,
Of genius in his rapid course.

Critic.
What? did not Quintillian fully,
Develope all the praise of Tully?

And 'mongst the Greek's, the great Longinus,
Who may be justly stil'd his highness,
With critic judgment join the fire,
Of Heaven itself? who can go higher?
From your vile accusation whose's safe?
Not even the elder scaliger Joseph,
Who had a mind as big's a mountain,
Could all defects and beauties contain,
And shew'd that Homer was inferior,
And Virgil hit perfection nearer.
Have you the assurance sir to speak,
Against the Roman worth and Greek?

Author.
So much we hear I believe that no man's,
Tongue is still of Greeks and Romans;
For if dispute should rise past curing,
Which way 'tis best to make our urine,
And each should argue stiffly his way,
All must give up, the Greeks piss'd this way.

Critic.
But there in modern times is Bently,
Who sung of Richard Blackmore daint'ly.

Author.

I grant it, Critic, there's a thousand;
The list beginning has nor knows end,
They swarm in millions from the flood—
The Hebrew critics first drew blood;

And this is what is meant by Babel
Where all we critics that were able.
The Rabbin and the Talmudist,
Fought hand to hand and fist to fist,
About the pentateuch of Moses;
Their tales, the wildest stuff, God knows is.

If there has been some Grecian critic,
Above the offspring of a seed-tic;
Yet where is one in modern days
Who can deserve that share of praise?
For metamorphos'd down to vermin,
Who can the various shapes determine.
And small and great are prone to mischief,
And every clan and sect has his chief.
They swarm like Caledonian cluster,
When the Mac Neils and Camrons muster;
Or as when housewife spreads her sugar,
With water mix'd, each insect rogue here,
Relinquishes pots, tubs and pails,
And for the booty spreads his sails.
Thus all the race of critics gather,
Around the footsteps of an author,
Bite through his overalls and stocking,
And biting shins, you know's no joking.
Who now a days sits down to write
Uninterrupted by a bite?
Unless he takes good care and puts on,
A pair of leggins or has boots on.

They say of Reynard who loves geese,
That when oppress'd with swarm of fleas

He takes in's mouth a lock of wool,
And gradually retires to pool;
The fleas by secret instinct led,
Fly from the tail and trunk to head,
With speed each mother's son o' th'm goes
To seek the promontory of nose,
And when no more remains abaft,
For shakes his head and leaves the raft.

Who could find out by book or sermon,
An equal way t' elude the vermin,
Would merit a rich premium more,
Than vers'd in philosophic lore,
The member who dissects a glow-worm,
To see if 'tis a beast and no worm.

I wish some virtuoso would,
Who natural history understood,
Dissect a critic, show his jaw teeth
Whether they are quite smooth or saw-teeth,
Resembling butterfly or asp,
Or long and pointed like a wasp;
And by the grinders edge determine,
Cornuting or carniv'rous vermin.
I'd give myself a golden medal,
To know if't has a brown or red tail,
And whether when it moves, it goes on
An hundred feet or half a dozen;
But many glasses must be ground out,
Before these mysteries can be found out.
I leave it to some great Linnæus,
Who may by this be fam'd as he was.