University of Virginia Library

Thus has a bold satiric Muse,
Ev'n in the face of three Reviews,
Beneath Hope's trusty helmet stout,
Into the wide, wide world launch'd out.
Ye Critics, use a stranger well,
Mind what the patriarch erst befel.
Barely to give a bard his due,
Though just, is hardly courteous too.
Yet, fairly if adjudg'd to fall,
You punish him, but favour all;
For all the sentence will sustain,
By which pronounc'd the Public gain.
Whether you censure then, or praise,
Him you oblige two sev'ral ways;
His praises on mankind reflect,
Censure on him's to all respect.

Go forth then, bold undaunted page,
Stuff'd with the follies of the age,
(Perhaps the greatest folly thou)
Eternal war with whim to vow,
And Dulness, in whatever shape
She genius would absurdly ape.
Haply, to pour revenge on thee,
All ranks thy mortal foes shall be,
Enrag'd to see their foibles lash'd,
Thou in the fire with fury dash'd;
Beneath ingloriously to lie
Some mighty volume of a pye;
Eternally to sleep in dust,
As many a brother-author must;
Dispatch'd, from vile tobacco-shops,
(O foul disgrace!) to beaus and fops;
Dispatch'd to---but, O Silence, come,
Command Conjecture to be dumb.
Yet martyrs to the truth shall claim
Tiaras of immortal fame.
Though but a motley piece at best,
Made up of dry discourse, and jest,
Somewhat obscure, from names unknown,
A veil o'er all industrious thrown,
Unless where the indignant Muse
Greatly disdain'd a mask to use;
Yet, names apart, you, now and then,
May hint a useful truth to men;
While Rubbadash, in love with strife,
Falsely arraigns his virtuous wife;
Absurdly thinks from others flow'd
Those blessings Heav'n on him bestow'd,
Though all mankind agree, quam verum
Quod ille est origo rerum.
But Virtue ne'er could worsted be,
Heav'n interpos'd and set her free.

What! trembling thus?—Reviewers threat
Me with no clemency to treat.
For shame!—their stated works survey,
You lash pert Dulness, so do they.
Pursuing thus commutual ends,
You doubtless must be mutual friends.
Hence be encourag'd—up—begone,
With all your resolution on.
But they (mistakes befal the wise)
May call me Dulness in disguise;
Or, fond of Butler's numbers, scorn
His ape, without his genius, born.
Then acquiesce, and kiss the rod,
Nor falsely call such treatment odd.
If dull yourself, you dulness lash,
(As billows empty billows dash)
Myself will not ward off each thwack
Justly inflicted on your back.
But though you should escape Reviewers,
Behold still troops of fierce pursuers.
From lions your retreat you make,
But serpents lurk in ev'ry brake.
Yet Genius, through the deathless page,
Shall shine like suns through ev'ry age;
Dulness, illum'd from meteor-light,
Sink deep in everlasting night.
Who once can Nature's order stay,
Make noonday night, or midnight day?

But now our satire's just enough,
With pick-tooth, pipe, and pinch of snuff,
And endless arts to keep awake,
The critic's evening task to make.
Still to protract our song, would steep
His senses all in downright sleep.
Then might his hands forget to gripe
His snuff-box, or his reeking pipe;
And thus some much-deplor'd mishap
Befal his waistcoat, or his lap;
Adown the adust powder spilt,
On sleeve, lapel, and button gilt;
Or on the floor, ere sight return'd,
Might fall the kindled leaf half-burn'd,
The carpet catching quick the flame,
That carpet which from Turky came.

But lest we should commit a deed,
Which would make ev'ry heart to bleed,
We now shall stop in happy time,
And, saving critics, save our rhyme.
Save us then too, friends to each other,
As one good deed deserves another.
Far milder pictures of the age
The critic shall anon engage;
Such objects as no mortal fears,
The Muse and Elegy in tears.