University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE.

LADY --- AND AUTHOR.

Lady.
What! Virgil in London?—'twill never go down—
He'll meet but a sorry reception in town;
His manners are coarse, and his language, you know
(As Dryden translates), is exceedingly low;
An old fashion'd poet, whose obsolete rhymes
Will ne'er suit the taste of these whimsical times;
Unlike Thomas Little, all pathos and passion,
A Bard, that, I'm sure, will be always in fashion!
But what hieroglyphics are these that I see?—
Lord F---with a dash, and the Countess of D---,
No scandal, I hope.—

Author.
Not a stroke of ill-nature,
All sober hilarity, good-humour'd satire;
My Muse, no prim quakeress, straight, and tightlac'd—
Will, I hope, prove a nymph to your Ladyship's taste.

Lady.
But why thus confine your poetical rage?
Give scope to your talents, and write for the stage;
'Tis a second-hand task o'er the classics to pore,
And Virgil has had his translators before.

Author.
The Stage!—'twere in vain for your poet to try,
No half-witted melo-dramatist am I.

Lady.
Write a poem in Erse—

Author.
And provoke the Reviews!
What! rival the chaste Caledonian Muse?

Lady.
Then conjure up Spirits, and boldly advance
A champion for fame in the field of Romance;
Try Politics—they 've been the fashion of late!—
Turn critic—but ne'er condescend to translate.

Author.
Though pedants may rail, though the learned may frown,
Still Virgil shall make his appearance in town.
A masquerade, pic-nic, a grand city ball,
A Carlton House fête, or a squeeze at Vauxhall,
The play-house, the park, and occasional news,
Shall furnish right popular themes for his Muse.
How like you the thought?

Lady.
Why, the subject is witty,
'Tis a novel idea, and exceedingly pretty!
For Virgil to sing, when he travels from home,
The fashions of London as well as of Rome.—
The grave with the gay, you must skilfully blend;
If dull, you will tire; if severe, you'll offend;
Be cautious, and take the advice of a friend.

Author.
Ye Critics! before whose tribunal severe,
As a dutiful bard, I am bound to appear;
To a poet be merciful once in your lives,
And spare him the smarts of your critical knives!
If sometimes, a truant from classical rules,
His muse take a license unknown to the schools,
Reflect, Alma-mater is nothing to him,
A laughing disciple of frolic and whim;
Nor scalp a poor author for trifles like these,
Who strives to amuse, and whose aim is to please.