Gulliveriana or, a fourth volume of miscellanies. Being a Sequel of the Three Volumes published by Pope and Swift. To which is added, Alexanderiana; or, A Comparison between the Ecclesiastical and Poetical Pope. And many Things, in Verse and Prose, relating to the latter. With an ample Preface; and a Critique on the Third Volume of Miscellanies lately publish'd by those two facetious Writers [by Jonathan Smedley] |
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A LETTER to Mr. Ambrose Philips, on his Landing in Ireland,
and being abused for his Poems, on Lord Carteret's Family, by many Irish
Bards,
especially Doctor Gulliver.
|
 | Gulliveriana |  |
101
A LETTER to Mr. Ambrose Philips, on his Landing in Ireland, and being abused for his Poems, on Lord Carteret's Family, by many Irish Bards, especially Doctor Gulliver.
By an Irish Clergyman, living privately, in LONDON.
From Noise retir'd, and busy Life;
Estrang'd from Care, and freed from Strife.
Forgetful of the, once-lov'd, Town;
From Court to Change, my Name, unknown;
Careless, which Miss or Madam boasts
Herself, amongst the First-rate Toasts;
Careless, who Chief, thro' powerful Tongue,
At Bar, directs The Right and Wrong;
Or who, from Pulpit, painting Evil,
In blackest Colours shades the Devil;
Who Smoaks at Jo's, the sagest Cit;
Whom Button dubbs the Tip-top Wit;
To thee, my lov'd, and much-fam'd Friend,
Obscure, these silent Lines I send.
I send, to greet the Man, ere while,
Own'd, First in Wit, thro' Britain's Isle;
To greet, That Phœbus gives to boast,
He's not so averse, to th'Irish Coast:
Since, when he sets and quits our Skies,
He bids his Favourite Philip's Rise.
But, hark! my Friend, whene'er you Land,
And print your Foot on Irish Sand;
Unless of Temper you have store,
You'll meet th'inhospitable Shore;
Where Swarms of Witlings buz, and prey
On every thing, brought new from Sea;
Where, Eastern Winds, with foreign News,
Some Home-spun Nonsense, still, produce.
Estrang'd from Care, and freed from Strife.
Forgetful of the, once-lov'd, Town;
From Court to Change, my Name, unknown;
Careless, which Miss or Madam boasts
Herself, amongst the First-rate Toasts;
Careless, who Chief, thro' powerful Tongue,
At Bar, directs The Right and Wrong;
102
In blackest Colours shades the Devil;
Who Smoaks at Jo's, the sagest Cit;
Whom Button dubbs the Tip-top Wit;
To thee, my lov'd, and much-fam'd Friend,
Obscure, these silent Lines I send.
I send, to greet the Man, ere while,
Own'd, First in Wit, thro' Britain's Isle;
To greet, That Phœbus gives to boast,
He's not so averse, to th'Irish Coast:
Since, when he sets and quits our Skies,
He bids his Favourite Philip's Rise.
But, hark! my Friend, whene'er you Land,
And print your Foot on Irish Sand;
Unless of Temper you have store,
You'll meet th'inhospitable Shore;
Where Swarms of Witlings buz, and prey
On every thing, brought new from Sea;
Where, Eastern Winds, with foreign News,
Some Home-spun Nonsense, still, produce.
103
Regret not, that Thy Virgin Muse,
To sing of Virgin Charms, did chuse;
Regret not, thy well-worded Praise;
The sweetest Subject, softest Lays:
Tho' puny Rhimers have thought fit
To shew, from thence, their want of Wit;
Tho' want of Manners they have shewn,
With Ribaldry, to teize the Town.
To sing of Virgin Charms, did chuse;
Regret not, thy well-worded Praise;
The sweetest Subject, softest Lays:
Tho' puny Rhimers have thought fit
To shew, from thence, their want of Wit;
Tho' want of Manners they have shewn,
With Ribaldry, to teize the Town.
Thus, in A Country-Village, bawl,
Crowds of that Animal, we call
A Cabbin-Cur; whene'er they spy
A true Molossian-bred, pass by.
They Run; they Bark; they Rage; they Foam:
Scarce looking back, He trudges Home.
Crowds of that Animal, we call
A Cabbin-Cur; whene'er they spy
A true Molossian-bred, pass by.
They Run; they Bark; they Rage; they Foam:
Scarce looking back, He trudges Home.
| Gulliveriana | |