The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd ... To Which is Prefixed an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By W. Kenrick ... In Two Volumes |
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AN EPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL,
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 | The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd |  |
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AN EPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL,
AUTHOR OF THE ROSCIAD.
If at a Tavern, where you'd wish to dine,
They cheat your palate with adulterate wine,
Would you, resolve me, critics, for you can,
Send for the master up, or chide the man?
The man no doubt a knavish business drives,
But tell me what's the master who connives?
Hence you'll infer, and sure the doctrine's true,
Which says, no quarter to a foul Review.
It matters not who vends the nauseous slop,
Master or prentice; we detest the shop.
They cheat your palate with adulterate wine,
Would you, resolve me, critics, for you can,
Send for the master up, or chide the man?
The man no doubt a knavish business drives,
But tell me what's the master who connives?
Hence you'll infer, and sure the doctrine's true,
Which says, no quarter to a foul Review.
It matters not who vends the nauseous slop,
Master or prentice; we detest the shop.
Critics of old, a manly liberal race,
Approv'd or censur'd with an open face:
Boldly pursu'd the free decisive task,
Nor stabb'd, conceal'd beneath a ruffian's mask.
To works not men, with honest warmth, severe,
Th' impartial judges laugh'd at hope or fear:
Theirs was the noble skill, with gen'rous aim,
To fan true genius to an active flame;
To bring forth merit in its strongest light,
Or damn the blockhead to his native night.
Approv'd or censur'd with an open face:
Boldly pursu'd the free decisive task,
Nor stabb'd, conceal'd beneath a ruffian's mask.
To works not men, with honest warmth, severe,
Th' impartial judges laugh'd at hope or fear:
Theirs was the noble skill, with gen'rous aim,
To fan true genius to an active flame;
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Or damn the blockhead to his native night.
But, as all states are subject to decay,
The state of letters too will melt away,
Smit with the harlot charms of trilling sound,
Softness now wantons e'en on Roman ground;
Where Thebans, Spartans, sought their honour'd graves,
Behold a weak enervate race of slaves.
In classic lore, deep science, language dead,
Tho' modern witlings are but scantly read,
Professors fail not, who will loudly bawl
In praise of either, with the want of all:
Hail'd mighty critics to this present hour.
—The tribune's name surviv'd the tribune's pow'r.
The state of letters too will melt away,
Smit with the harlot charms of trilling sound,
Softness now wantons e'en on Roman ground;
Where Thebans, Spartans, sought their honour'd graves,
Behold a weak enervate race of slaves.
In classic lore, deep science, language dead,
Tho' modern witlings are but scantly read,
Professors fail not, who will loudly bawl
In praise of either, with the want of all:
Hail'd mighty critics to this present hour.
—The tribune's name surviv'd the tribune's pow'r.
Now Quack and Critic differ but in name,
Empirics frontless both, they mean the same;
This raw in Physic, that in Letters fresh,
Both spring, like warts, excrescence from the flesh.
Half form'd, half bred in printers' hireling schools,
For all professions have their rogues and fools,
Tho' the pert witling, or the coward knave,
Casts no reflection on the wise or brave.
Empirics frontless both, they mean the same;
This raw in Physic, that in Letters fresh,
Both spring, like warts, excrescence from the flesh.
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For all professions have their rogues and fools,
Tho' the pert witling, or the coward knave,
Casts no reflection on the wise or brave.
Yet, in these leaden times, this idle age,
When, blind with dulness, or as blind with rage,
Author 'gainst author rails with venom curst,
And happy He who calls out blockhead first;
From the low earth aspiring genius springs,
And sails triumphant, born on eagle wings.
No toothless spleen, no venom'd critic's aim,
Shall rob thee, Churchill, of thy proper fame;
While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous rhyme,
Fool lives, and shines out fool to latest time.
When, blind with dulness, or as blind with rage,
Author 'gainst author rails with venom curst,
And happy He who calls out blockhead first;
From the low earth aspiring genius springs,
And sails triumphant, born on eagle wings.
No toothless spleen, no venom'd critic's aim,
Shall rob thee, Churchill, of thy proper fame;
While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous rhyme,
Fool lives, and shines out fool to latest time.
Pity perhaps might wish a harmless fool
To scape th' observance of the critic school;
But if low malice, leagu'd with folly, rise,
Arm'd with invectives, and hedg'd round with lies;
Should wakeful dulness, if she ever wake,
Write sleepy nonsense but for writing's sake,
And, stung with rage, and piously severe,
Wish bitter comforts to your dying ear;
If some small wit, some silk-lin'd verseman, rakes
For quaint reflections in the putrid jakes,
Talents usurp'd demand a censor's rage,
A dunce is dunce proscrib'd in ev'ry age.
To scape th' observance of the critic school;
But if low malice, leagu'd with folly, rise,
Arm'd with invectives, and hedg'd round with lies;
Should wakeful dulness, if she ever wake,
Write sleepy nonsense but for writing's sake,
And, stung with rage, and piously severe,
Wish bitter comforts to your dying ear;
If some small wit, some silk-lin'd verseman, rakes
For quaint reflections in the putrid jakes,
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A dunce is dunce proscrib'd in ev'ry age.
Courtier, physician, lawyer, parson, cit,
All, all are objects of theatric wit.
Are ye then, Actors, privileg'd alone,
To make that weapon, ridicule, your own?
Professions bleed not from his just attack,
Who laughs at pedant, coxcomb, knave, or quack;
Fools on and off the stage are fools the same,
And every dunce is satire's lawful game.
Freely you thought, where thought has free'st room,
Why then apologize? for what? to whom?
All, all are objects of theatric wit.
Are ye then, Actors, privileg'd alone,
To make that weapon, ridicule, your own?
Professions bleed not from his just attack,
Who laughs at pedant, coxcomb, knave, or quack;
Fools on and off the stage are fools the same,
And every dunce is satire's lawful game.
Freely you thought, where thought has free'st room,
Why then apologize? for what? to whom?
Though Gray's-Inn wits with author squires unite,
And self-made giants club their labour'd mite,
Though pointless satire make its weak escape,
In the dull babble of a mimic ape,
Boldly pursue where genius points the way,
Nor heed what monthly puny critics say.
Firm in thyself, with calm indifference smile,
When the wise Vet'ran knows you by your stile,
With critic scales weighs out the partial wit,
What I, or You, or He, or no one writ;
Denying thee thy just and proper worth,
But to give falshood's spurious issue birth;
And all self-will'd with lawless hand to raise
Malicious slander on the base of praise.
And self-made giants club their labour'd mite,
Though pointless satire make its weak escape,
In the dull babble of a mimic ape,
Boldly pursue where genius points the way,
Nor heed what monthly puny critics say.
Firm in thyself, with calm indifference smile,
When the wise Vet'ran knows you by your stile,
With critic scales weighs out the partial wit,
What I, or You, or He, or no one writ;
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But to give falshood's spurious issue birth;
And all self-will'd with lawless hand to raise
Malicious slander on the base of praise.
Disgrace eternal wait the wretch's name
Who lives on credit of a borrow'd fame;
Who wears the trappings of another's wit,
Or fathers bantlings which he could not get!
But shrewd Suspicion with her squinting eye,
To truth declar'd, prefers a whisper'd lye.
With greedy mind the proffer'd tale believes,
Relates her wishes, and with joy deceives.
Who lives on credit of a borrow'd fame;
Who wears the trappings of another's wit,
Or fathers bantlings which he could not get!
But shrewd Suspicion with her squinting eye,
To truth declar'd, prefers a whisper'd lye.
With greedy mind the proffer'd tale believes,
Relates her wishes, and with joy deceives.
The World, a pompous name, by custom due
To the small circle of a talking few,
With heart-felt glee th' injurious tale repeats,
And sends the whisper buzzing through the streets.
The prude demure, with sober saint-like air,
Pities her neighbour for she's wond'rous fair.
And when temptations lie before our feet,
Beauty is frail, and females indiscreet.
She hopes the nymph will every danger shun,
Yet prays devoutly—that the deed were done.
Mean time sits watching for the daily lie,
As spiders lurk to catch a simple fly.
To the small circle of a talking few,
With heart-felt glee th' injurious tale repeats,
And sends the whisper buzzing through the streets.
The prude demure, with sober saint-like air,
Pities her neighbour for she's wond'rous fair.
And when temptations lie before our feet,
Beauty is frail, and females indiscreet.
She hopes the nymph will every danger shun,
Yet prays devoutly—that the deed were done.
Mean time sits watching for the daily lie,
As spiders lurk to catch a simple fly.
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Yet is not scandal to one sex confin'd,
Though men would fix it on the weaker kind.
Yet, this great lord, creation's master, man,
Will vent his malice where the blockhead can,
Imputing crimes, of which e'en thought is free,
For instance now, your Rosciad, all to me.
Though men would fix it on the weaker kind.
Yet, this great lord, creation's master, man,
Will vent his malice where the blockhead can,
Imputing crimes, of which e'en thought is free,
For instance now, your Rosciad, all to me.
If partial friendship, in thy sterling lays,
Grows all too wanton in another's praise,
Critics, who judge by ways themselves have known,
Shall swear the praise, the poem is my own;
For 'tis the method in these learned days
For wits to scribble first, and after praise.
Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched stuff,
And help out nonsense by a monthly puff,
Exalt to giant's forms weak puny elves,
And descant sweetly on their own dear selves;
For works per month by learning's midwives paid,
Demand a puffing in the way of trade.
Grows all too wanton in another's praise,
Critics, who judge by ways themselves have known,
Shall swear the praise, the poem is my own;
For 'tis the method in these learned days
For wits to scribble first, and after praise.
Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched stuff,
And help out nonsense by a monthly puff,
Exalt to giant's forms weak puny elves,
And descant sweetly on their own dear selves;
For works per month by learning's midwives paid,
Demand a puffing in the way of trade.
Reserv'd and cautious, with no partial aim
My Muse e'er sought to blast another's fame.
With willing hand cou'd twine a rival's bays,
From candour silent where she cou'd not praise.
But if vile rancour, from (no matter who)
Actor, or mimic, printer, or Review,
Lies, oft o'erthrown, with ceaseless venom spread
Still hiss out scandal from their Hydra head,
If the dull malice boldly walk the town,
Patience herself wou'd wrinkle to a frown.
Come then with justice draw the ready pen,
Give me the works, I wou'd not know the men.
All in their turns might make reprisals too,
Had all the patience but to read them through.
Come, to the utmost, probe the desperate wound,
Nor spare the knife where'er infection's found!
My Muse e'er sought to blast another's fame.
With willing hand cou'd twine a rival's bays,
From candour silent where she cou'd not praise.
But if vile rancour, from (no matter who)
Actor, or mimic, printer, or Review,
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Still hiss out scandal from their Hydra head,
If the dull malice boldly walk the town,
Patience herself wou'd wrinkle to a frown.
Come then with justice draw the ready pen,
Give me the works, I wou'd not know the men.
All in their turns might make reprisals too,
Had all the patience but to read them through.
Come, to the utmost, probe the desperate wound,
Nor spare the knife where'er infection's found!
But, Prudence, Churchill, or her sister, Fear,
Whispers forbearance to my fright'ned ear.
Oh! then with me forsake the thorny road,
Lest we should flounder in some Fleet-Ditch Ode,
And sunk for ever in the lazy flood
Weep with the Naiads heavy drops of Mud.
Whispers forbearance to my fright'ned ear.
Oh! then with me forsake the thorny road,
Lest we should flounder in some Fleet-Ditch Ode,
And sunk for ever in the lazy flood
Weep with the Naiads heavy drops of Mud.
Hail mighty Ode! which like a picture frame,
Holds any portrait, and with any name;
Or, like your nitches, planted thick and thin,
Will serve to cram the random hero in.
Holds any portrait, and with any name;
Or, like your nitches, planted thick and thin,
Will serve to cram the random hero in.
Hail mighty Bard too—whatsoe'er thy name,
------or Durfy, for it's all the same.
To brother bards shall equal praise belong,
For wit, for genius, comedy and song?
No costive Muse is thine, which freely rakes
With ease familiar in the well-known jakes,
Happy in skill to souse through foul and fair,
And toss the dung out with a lordly air.
So have I seen, amidst the grinning throng,
The sledge procession slowly dragg'd along,
Where the mock female shrew and hen-peck'd male
Scoop'd rich contents from either copious pail,
Call'd bursts of laughter from the roaring rout,
And dash'd and splash'd the filthy grains about.
------or Durfy, for it's all the same.
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For wit, for genius, comedy and song?
No costive Muse is thine, which freely rakes
With ease familiar in the well-known jakes,
Happy in skill to souse through foul and fair,
And toss the dung out with a lordly air.
So have I seen, amidst the grinning throng,
The sledge procession slowly dragg'd along,
Where the mock female shrew and hen-peck'd male
Scoop'd rich contents from either copious pail,
Call'd bursts of laughter from the roaring rout,
And dash'd and splash'd the filthy grains about.
Quit then, my friend, the Muses' lov'd abode,
Alas! they lead not to preferment's road.
Be solemn, sad, put on the priestly frown,
Be dull! 'tis sacred, and becomes the gown.
Leave wit to others, do a Christian deed,
Your foes shall thank you, for they know their need.
Alas! they lead not to preferment's road.
Be solemn, sad, put on the priestly frown,
Be dull! 'tis sacred, and becomes the gown.
Leave wit to others, do a Christian deed,
Your foes shall thank you, for they know their need.
Broad is the path by learning's sons possess'd,
A thousand modern wits might walk abreast,
Did not each poet mourn his luckless doom,
Jostled by pedants out of elbow room.
I, who nor court their love, nor fear their hate,
Must mourn in silence o'er the Muse's fate.
No right of common now on Pindus' hill,
While all our tenures are by critic's will.
Where, watchful guardians of the lady muse,
Dwell monstrous giants, dreadful tall Reviews,
Who, as we read in fam'd romance of yore,
Sound but a horn, press forward to the door.
But let some chief, some bold advent'rous knight,
Provoke these champions to an equal fight,
Strait into air to spaceless nothing fall
The castle, lions, giants, dwarf and all.
A thousand modern wits might walk abreast,
Did not each poet mourn his luckless doom,
Jostled by pedants out of elbow room.
I, who nor court their love, nor fear their hate,
Must mourn in silence o'er the Muse's fate.
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While all our tenures are by critic's will.
Where, watchful guardians of the lady muse,
Dwell monstrous giants, dreadful tall Reviews,
Who, as we read in fam'd romance of yore,
Sound but a horn, press forward to the door.
But let some chief, some bold advent'rous knight,
Provoke these champions to an equal fight,
Strait into air to spaceless nothing fall
The castle, lions, giants, dwarf and all.
Ill it befits with undiscerning rage,
To censure Giants in this polish'd age.
No lack of genius stains these happy times,
No want of learning, and no dearth of rhymes.
The see-saw Muse that flows by measur'd laws,
In tunesul numbers, and affected pause,
With sound alone, sound's happy virtue fraught,
Which hates the trouble and expence of thought,
Once, every moon throughout the circling year,
With even cadence charms the critic ear.
While, dire promoter of poetic sin,
A Magazine must hand the lady in.
To censure Giants in this polish'd age.
No lack of genius stains these happy times,
No want of learning, and no dearth of rhymes.
The see-saw Muse that flows by measur'd laws,
In tunesul numbers, and affected pause,
With sound alone, sound's happy virtue fraught,
Which hates the trouble and expence of thought,
Once, every moon throughout the circling year,
With even cadence charms the critic ear.
While, dire promoter of poetic sin,
A Magazine must hand the lady in.
How Moderns write, how nervous, strong and well,
The Anti-Rosciad's decent Muse does tell:
Who, while she strives to cleanse each actor hurt,
Daubs with her praise, and rubs him into dirt.
The Anti-Rosciad's decent Muse does tell:
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Daubs with her praise, and rubs him into dirt.
Sure never yet was happy æra known
So gay, so wise, so tasteful as our own.
Our curious histories rise at once complete,
Yet still continued, as they're paid, per sheet.
So gay, so wise, so tasteful as our own.
Our curious histories rise at once complete,
Yet still continued, as they're paid, per sheet.
See every science which the world wou'd know,
Your Magazines shall every month bestow,
Whose very titles fill the mind with awe,
Imperial, Christian, Royal, British, Law;
Their rich contents will every reader fit,
Statesman, Divine, Philosopher, and Wit;
Compendious schemes! which teach all things at once,
And make a pedant coxcomb of a dunce.
Your Magazines shall every month bestow,
Whose very titles fill the mind with awe,
Imperial, Christian, Royal, British, Law;
Their rich contents will every reader fit,
Statesman, Divine, Philosopher, and Wit;
Compendious schemes! which teach all things at once,
And make a pedant coxcomb of a dunce.
But let not anger with such frenzy grow,
Drawcansir like, to strike down friend and foe.
To real worth be homage duly paid,
But no allowance to the paltry trade.
My friends I name not (though I boast a few,
To me an honour, and to letters too)
Fain would I praise, but, when such Things oppose,
My praise of course must make them------'s foes.
Drawcansir like, to strike down friend and foe.
To real worth be homage duly paid,
But no allowance to the paltry trade.
My friends I name not (though I boast a few,
To me an honour, and to letters too)
Fain would I praise, but, when such Things oppose,
My praise of course must make them------'s foes.
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If manly Johnson, with satyric rage,
Lash the dull follies of a trifling age,
If his strong Muse with genuine strength aspire,
Glows not the reader with the poet's fire?
HIS the true fire, where creep the witling fry
To warm themselves, and light their rushlights by.
Lash the dull follies of a trifling age,
If his strong Muse with genuine strength aspire,
Glows not the reader with the poet's fire?
HIS the true fire, where creep the witling fry
To warm themselves, and light their rushlights by.
What Muse like Gray's shall pleasing pensive flow
Attemper'd sweetly to the rustic woe?
Or who like him shall sweep the Theban lyre,
And, as his master, pour forth thoughts of fire?
Attemper'd sweetly to the rustic woe?
Or who like him shall sweep the Theban lyre,
And, as his master, pour forth thoughts of fire?
E'en now to guard afflicted learning's cause,
To judge by reason's rules, and nature's laws,
Boast we true critics in their proper right,
While Lowth and Learning, Hurd and Taste unite.
To judge by reason's rules, and nature's laws,
Boast we true critics in their proper right,
While Lowth and Learning, Hurd and Taste unite.
Hail sacred names!—Oh guard the Muse's page,
Save your lov'd mistress from a ruffian's rage;
See how she gasps and struggles hard for life,
Her wounds all bleeding from the butcher's knife:
Critics, like surgeons, blest with curious art,
Should mark each passage to the human heart,
But not, unskilful, yet with lordly air,
Read surgeon's lectures while they scalp and tear.
Save your lov'd mistress from a ruffian's rage;
See how she gasps and struggles hard for life,
Her wounds all bleeding from the butcher's knife:
Critics, like surgeons, blest with curious art,
Should mark each passage to the human heart,
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Read surgeon's lectures while they scalp and tear.
To names like these I pay the hearty vow,
Proud of their worth, and not asham'd to bow.
To these inscribe my rude, but honest lays,
And feel the pleasures of my conscious praise.
Not that I mean to court each letter'd name,
And poorly glimmer from reflected fame,
But that the Muse, who owns no servile fear,
Is proud to pay her willing tribute here.
Proud of their worth, and not asham'd to bow.
To these inscribe my rude, but honest lays,
And feel the pleasures of my conscious praise.
Not that I mean to court each letter'd name,
And poorly glimmer from reflected fame,
But that the Muse, who owns no servile fear,
Is proud to pay her willing tribute here.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd | |