University of Virginia Library

Thou common-shore of this Poetick Town,
Where all our Excrements of Wit are thrown:
For Sonnet, Satire, Baudry, Blasphemy,
Are empty'd and disburden'd all on thee.
The cholerick Wight untrussing in a Rage,
Finds thee, and leaves his Load upon thy Page.
Thou Julian! O thou wise Vespasian rather,
Dost from this Dung thy well-pick'd Guineas gather.
All Mischief's thine; transcribing thou wilt stoop
From lofty Middlesex to lowly Scroop.
What times are these? when in that Hero's room
Bow-bending Cupid does with Ballads come,
And little Aston offers to the B---.
Can two such Pygmies such a Weight support?
Two such Tom-Thumbs of Satire in a Court?
Poor George grows old, his Muse worn out of fashion,
Hoarsly she sings Ephelia's Lamentation.
Less art thou help'd from Dryden's Bed-rid Age,
That Drone has left his Sting upon the Stage.
Resolve me, poor Apostate, this main Doubt;
What hope hast thou to rub this Winter out?
Know and be thankful then, for Providence
By me has sent thee this Intelligence.

A Knight there is, if thou can'st gain his Grace,
Known by the Name of the hard-favour'd Face;
For Prowess of his Pen renown'd is he,
From Don Quixote descended lineally:
And tho, like him, unfortunate he prove,
Undaunted in Attempts of Wit and Love;
Of his unfinish'd Face what shall I say,
But that 'twas made of Adam's own red Clay?
That much, much Ocre was on it bestow'd,
God's Image 'tis not, but some Indian God.
Our Christian Earth can no Resemblance bring
But Ware of Portugal for such a thing:
Such Carbuncles his fiery Cheeks confess,
As no Hungarian Water can redress.
A Face, which could he see (but Heav'n was kind,
And to indulge his Self-love made him blind)
He durst not stir abroad for fear to meet
Curses of teeming Women in the Street.
The best could happen from that hideous Sight,
Is that they should miscarry with the Fright,
Heav'n guard 'em from the Likeness of the Knight.
Such is our charming Strephon's outward Man,
His inward Parts let those describe who can:
But by his Monthly Flow'rs discharg'd abroad;
'Tis full, brim full of Pastoral and Ode.
One while he honour'd Birtha with his Flame,
And now he chaunts no less Lovisa's Name:
For when his Passion has been bubbling long,
The Scum at last boils up into a Song.
And sure no mortal Creature at one time
Was e'er so far begon with Love and Rhyme.
To his dear self of Poetry he talks,
His Hand and Feet are scanning as he walks:
His squeezing Looks, his Pangs of Wit accuse,
The very Symptoms of a breeding Muse;
And all to gain the great Lovisa Grace,
But never Pen did pimp for such a Face.
There's not a Nymph in City, Town, or Court,
But Strephon's Billet-deux have been her Sport.
Still he loves on, yet still as sure to miss
As he that was an Æthiop's Face or his.
What Fate unhappy Strephon does attend,
Never to get a Mistress or a Friend?
Strephon both Wits and Fools alike detest,
Because, like Æsop's Bat, half Bird, half Beast:
For Fools to Poetry have no Pretence,
And common Wit supposes common Sense.
Not quite so low as Fool, nor quite a top,
He hangs between them both, and is a Fop.
His Morals, like his Wit, are motley too,
He keeps from arrant Knave with much ado;
But Vanity and Lying so prevail,
That one Grain more of each would turn the Scale.
He would be more a Villain had he time,
But he's so wholly taken up with Rhyme,
That he mistakes his Talent: All his Care
Is to be thought a Poet fine and fair.
Small-Beer and Grewel are his Meat and Drink,
The Diet he prescribes himself to think.
Rhyme next his Heart he takes at Morning-peep,
Some Love-Epistle at the hour of Sleep:
So between Elegy and Ode we see,
Strephon is in a Course of Poetry.

This is the Man ordain'd to do thee good,
The Pelican to feed thee with his Blood.
Thy Wit, thy Poet, nay, thy Friend; for he
Is fit to be a Friend to none but thee.
Make sure of him, and of his Muse betimes,
For all his Study is hung round with Rhymes.
Laugh at him, justle him, yet still he writes,
In Rhyme he challenges, in Rhyme he fights.
Charg'd with the last and basest Infamy,
His Bus'ness is to think what rhymes to Lee:
Which found, in Fury he retorts again,
Strephon's a very Dragon at his Pen.

His Brother's murder'd, and his Mother whor'd,
His Mistress lost, and yet his Pen's his Sword.