The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd :: :: University of Virginia Library

You know, dear George, I'm none of those
That condescend to write in prose;
Inspir'd with pathos and sublime,
I always foar—in doggrel rhyme,
And fcarce can ask you how you do,
Without a jingling line or two.
Befides, I always took delight in
What bears the name of easy writing;
Perhaps the reason makes it please
Is, that I find it's writ with ease.

I vent a notion here in private,
Which public taste can ne'er connive at,
Which thinks no wit or judgment greater
Than Addison and his Spectator,
Who fays (it is no matter where,
But that he fays it, I can swear)
With easy verfe most Bards are smitten,
Because they think it's easy written,
Whereas the easier it appears,
The greater marks of care it wears;

166

Of which, to give an explanation,
Take this by way of illustration:
The fam'd Mat Prior, it is faid,
Oft bit his nails, and scratch'd his head,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Becaufe he did not like the rhymes.
To make my meaning clear, and please ye,
In short, he labour'd to write easy.
And yet, no critic e'er defines
His poems into labour'd lines.
I have a fimile will hit him;
His verfe, like clothes, was made to fit him,
Which (as no Taylor e'er denied)
The better fit, the more they're tried.

Though I have mention'd Prior's name,
Think not I aim at Prior's fame.
'Tis the refult of admiration
To spend itfelf in imitation;
If imitation may be faid,
Which is in me by nature bred,
And you have better proofs than these,
That I'm idolater of eafe.

Who, but a madman, would engage
A Poet in the prefent age?

167

Write what we will, our works bespeak us
Imitatores, Servum Pecus.
Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,
We travel in the beaten road.
The Proverb ftill sticks closely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non dictum prius.
The only comfort that I know
Is, that 'twas faid an age ago,
Ere Milton foar'd in thought fublime,
Ere Pope refin'd the chink of rhyme,
Ere Colman wrote in stile so pure,
Or the great TWO the Connoisseur;
Ere I burlesqu'd the rural cit,
Proud to hedge in my scraps of wit,
And happy in the close connexion,
T' acquire fome name from their reflexion;
So (the similitude is trite0
The moon still shines with borrow'd light,
And, like the race of modern beaux,
Ticks with the fun for her lac'd clothes.

Methinks there is no better time
To shew the ufe I make of rhyme,
Than now, when I, who from beginning
Was always fond of couplet-finning,

168

Prefuming on good-nature's score,
Thus lay my bantling at your door.

The first advantage which I fee,
Is, that I ramble loofe and free:
The Bard indeed full oft complains,
That rhymes are fetters, links, and cbains,
And when he wants to leap the fence,
Still keep him pris'ner to the sense.
Howe'er in common-place he rage,
Rhyme's like your fetters on the stage,
Which when the player once hath wore,
It makes him only strut the more,
While, raving in pathetic strains,
He shakes his legs to clank his chains.

From rhyme, as from a handfome face,
Nonfense acquires a kind of grace;
I therefore give it all its scope,
That fenfe may unperceiv'd elope:
So minifters of bafelt tricks
(I love a fling at Politicks)
Amufe the nation, court, and king,
With breaking F---kes, and hanging Byon;
And make each puny rogue a prey,
While they, the grater, slink away.

169

This fimile perhaps would strike,
If match'd with something more alike;
Then take it dress'd a fecond time
In prior's eafe, and my sublime.
Say, did you never chance to meet
A mob of people in the street,
Ready to give the robb'd relief,
And all in haste to catch a thief,
While the sly rogue, who silch'd the prey,
Too clofe befet to run away,
Stop thief! stop thief! exclaims aloud,
And so escapes among the croud?
So Ministers, &c.

O England, how I mourn thy fate!
For fure thy losses now are great;
Two fuch what Briton can endure,
Minorca and the Connoisseur!

To-day, before the fun goes down,
Will die the Cenfor, Mr. Town!
He dies, whoe'er takes pains to con him,
With blushing honours thick upon him;
O may his name these verses fave,
Be these inscrib'd upon his grave!

170

Know, reader, that on Thursday died
The Connoisseur, a suicide!
Yet think not that his soul is fled,
Nor rank him 'mongst the vulgar dead.
Howe'er defunct you set him down,
He's only going out of Town.