University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
A collection of poems on various subjects

including the theatre, a didactic essay; in the course of which are pointed out, the rocks and shoals to which deluded adventurers are inevitably exposed. Ornamented with cuts and illustrated with notes, original letters and curious incidental anecdotes [by Samuel Whyte]

collapse section 
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 III. 
 IV. 
 VIII. 
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
EPISTLE I. THE REPLY CONTEMPTUOUS. TO T--- G---, A CLASS-FELLOW,
 III. 
 IV. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
collapse section 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  

EPISTLE I. THE REPLY CONTEMPTUOUS. TO T--- G---, A CLASS-FELLOW,

ON HIS PHILIPPIC, IN VERSE AND PROSE, AGAINST LUCAS.

SEPTEMBER VITH, MDCCL.
[_]

This is inserted merely as the first effort of the author's pen: it however proved the means of introducing him to the Doctor, and gave rise to a friendship, which subsisted, with mutual cordiality, uninterrupted till his death.

Not to extort from fools unjust applause,
Not in support of an inglorious cause,
For the jew-smiles of Alderman or Grace,
A paultry title, pension or a place;
Not for because my father, brother, friend
Were of that faction or this side commend,
Not thro' a whim of blind mistaken zeal,
A want of laurels, or perhaps—a meal;
No, not all these could influence me, in spite
Of nature and my envious stars to write:
Truth fires my mind, and urges me to engage
Thy slanderous pen, and tempt thy utmost rage;

144

Lucas, that injured patriot name, to screen
From foul aspersion and the attacks of spleen:
For this I first implore the tuneful Nine,
O! smile propitious on the fair design,
Nor thou, O Phoebus! needful aid refuse
To an untutor'd, unexperienc'd muse.
Honest, good natur'd, generous and brave,
To those in place respectful, not a slave,
Striving for power no more than what he should,
To do his king but first his country good:
Tho' wise not vain, tho' learned yet well bred,
The closest reasoner with the clearest head,
Where solid sense and sprightly wit unite,
The smooth-tongu'd Roman and the Stagyrite:
To error gentle, yet to vice severe,
A loving husband, and a friend sincere;
Unbigoted thro' principle or pride,
He acts with spirit yet by reason's guide;
To suffering merit gentle comfort gives,
Not with vain words but with his purse relieves;
Admires great actions whence soe'er they flow,
Nor eyes askaunt the virtues of a foe.
This, the imperfect portrait of the man
Whose glorious conduct thou presum'st to scan;
His parts, his learning, morals vilify,
And all his labours impiously belie.

145

So Mævius erst, that Cloaca of wit,
Against the great immortal Maro writ;
Another coxcomb, to display his sense,
Arraign'd the prince of Roman eloquence;
They did it too, like thee, to get a name,
And have been damn'd two thousand years in fame.
Thus if some deathless quill thy name shall give
To future time and it so long shall live,
What vast eclat thy mention must attend!
And every Bavius will thy cause befriend;
For Grub-street authors all in this are one,
They hate a genius brighter than their own;
But, if like thine, one more profound should rise,
To raise themselves they lift it to the skies.
Fear not, thy first performance will command
Praise from all mouths, and bays from every hand;
A libel upon wisdom, honour, all
That heaven approves, or mortals heavenly call.
But not as poet only you appear,
With equal right you take the critic chair;
Object, condemn, approve, affirm, deny,
Now pleas'd, now angry, all you know not why;
Call Digges a blockhead, let Sir Samuel pass,
Huband's your friend, but Lucas a jack-ass;
How would that Lucas weep, nay smile, to see
Even either ap'd by animals like thee!

146

How must he pity and detest the clime
Where idiots judge and dunces scribble rhyme.
Thy rough, bombastic, heavy manner shows
Thy pen unfit for metre or for prose;
Thy words ill-chosen, clownish, misapplied,
At once expose thy ignorance and pride;
Thy numbers are (how weak the epithet!
How short of justice!) shocking as thy wit.
Go purchase Bailey, on thy grammar pore,
Read day and night; but prithee write no more.
Yet proof to all, the more you get the whip,
Like master's top you but the sounder sleep:
Then, Muse! forbear, nor to reclaim pretend
This imp of Momus, he's too dull to mend.