A Collection of Original Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bardus.
How comes it, Biblio, that 'mong all
The trash, that lumbers up your stall,
State-tryals, reams of musty comment,
Plain expositions—of no moment;
Your Hobarts, Siderfins, and Crooks,
That fright young students with their looks;
State-pamphlets, Answers, and Replies,
Stuff'd with stale ribaldry, and lies;

205

Romances, Novels, Charges, Plays,
With nameless, dull et cæteras;
My works alone, neglected lie?
Say—honest Biblio! tell me, why?

Biblio.
Nor new, nor intricate the case,—
What I foresaw is come to pass:
I told you, sir, write e'er so well,
Such sort of works would never sell;
Were Pope to rise, once more to light,
Or Swift regain his wits, and write.
Each scrap of theirs would sell—you'll say—
No, sir, they'd hardly live a day;
Taxes and gaming run so high,
They drain our customers quite dry;

206

Then twelve and sixpence, is a sum
For poetry, that strikes them dumb;
There's modest Young, with all his sense,
Ne'er rises now 'bove eighteen pence;
Yet Hawkins (who should know) complains,
The Night-thoughts lie upon his hands:
Tho' Alma Mater's self unites
To spread abroad what Thompson writes;
Tho' Dodsley puffs among the great,
The poem which he scrawl'd of late;
Were Thompson to be sick to-morrow,
He'd find, believe me, to his sorrow,

207

He scarce had clear'd, think what he will,
Enough to pay for draught and pill.
Such now the taste of this dull town,
Nothing but politics go down;
Serious remarks on this, and that
New change, or bustle in the state;
Sober advice to, you know who—
Or tales from China and Peru:
Your Puzzles, and Dutch reasoners,
All writ by paltry garoteers,
Who have,—or ought to lose their ears;
Riddles, Conundrums, and such stuff,
Shall pass—and sell you well enough.

Bardus.
Biblio! proceed,—and speak your mind—
You've other reasons still behind;
There's something more, my life on't still—
You could—but care not to reveal.

208

Biblio.
There is, sir, it must be confess'd;
And weightier much than all the rest:
Since then you urge me to declare,
The naked truth of this affair,
The secret in a word lies here.
Few are so ignorant not to know,
That int'rest governs high and low;
We agents in the world of letters,
Are arrant copies of our betters;
While faithfully we but pursue,
The self same track, which others do;
Our court contentions are but races,
'Twixt those who're in—and out of places;
The lawyer wrangles, all agree,
Not for his client,—but the fee;
'Tis with a selfish view of gain,
That sleepless authors rack their brain;

209

While we with just the same intention,
Trade with the fruits of their invention;
Nor must they hope to win applause,
If client-like, they starve the cause;
For 'tis not what you wits can write,
But what we Booksellers get by't,
That recommends the fav'rite piece,
And gains it credit, more or less;
Nor can it's worth be ever known,
While we agree to cry it down.

Bardus.
Biblio, from what you now relate,
Like Hudibrass, I smell a rat—

Biblio.
This, sir, your own experience teaches,
Beyond the power of words and speeches;
Tho', sure, the case was plain enough,
Nor wanted such substantial proof;

210

Few of the craft will croud their shelves,
With authors printing for themselves;
And fewer still are to be found,
Who'll take—three shillings in the pound:
Think you that Lintot was content,
With profit less than—cent per cent?
Had Tonson jok'd with ministers,
Had other fists been close as yours?

But now, for sake of argument,
Suppose the Bookseller content;
That you have hit the readers goût,—
'Tis well,—but this will never do—
Unless you suit his pocket too.
You'll find his stomach plaguy nice,
Unless you tempt him with a price;

211

This Osborne knows, who best of any
Can shift, and turn the ready penny;
Osborne, 'mongst other quaint devices,
Carves out his authors into slices;
Weekly presents a bill of fare,
To ev'ry loving customer;
And earns you by this subtle dealing,
Not less than sixpence in the shilling;
His art, in dishing out a book,
The same as that of crafty cook
Who to invite the hungry guest,
Nicely apportions out the feast;
And from one joint set forth to view,
Is sure to make the price of two.

212

Bardus.
Enough! enough!—'tis very clear—
I've had the wrong sow by the ear:
But say what urg'd you to comply
With terms, you get so little by?
Who knew as well, all this, and more,
As any, now, or heretofore.

Biblio.
Why times are hard—the gain tho' small,
Is better still—than none at all;
But 'tis bad policy in you,
To drive such bargains as you do,—
For faith our tribe are just such things
To Authors—as you bards to kings:
'Tis we, who must your worth proclaim,
'Tis we who save or damn your fame.

213

We've arts to check, or force a trade,
Just as we happen to be paid;
For twelve pence more on ev'ry set,
I'll undertake to serve you yet:
Tho' now I've hardly sold a score,
I'll get a thousand off, or more.

Bardus.
So this, or that, let authors chuse;
'Tis cross you win, and pile we lose:
Rather than thus ignobly treat,
Rather than starve, that you may eat;
I'll turn Quack, Conjurer, Stroller, Pimp,
Make mouse-traps, matches, or beat hemp;
Or ease my genius (when it itches
To write) by scribling dying speeches,
Strange wonders, murders, apparitions,
That readers suit of all conditions;

214

Which Bridewell Bess, with voice so sweet,
Shall nightly scream thro' ev'ry street;
Thus pass the remnant of my days,
Secure of bread, tho' lost to praise,
As much as he who wears the bays.

The reporters of law cases.

Charges to Grand Juries, deliver'd at Hicks's hall, by Sir J---n G---ns---n, and other worshipful chairmen.

D. Swift was alive, at the time of writing this poem, and said to have been sometime a lunatic.

Alluding to the Norf*lk miscellany, in two vols. 8 vo. published by the author of this poem, and first sold at 12s. 6d, but after at 10s. the set.

The Night thoughts of Dr. Young were sold by Hawkins, in parts, at 1s.

M. A. of Queen's college, Oxon, whose poem, intitled Sickness, in three books, was publish'd in separate books, at 1s. 6d. each.

Dodsley's poem called ------

Two Grub-street pamphlets thus call'd.

The late Mr. Bernard Lintot.

Old Jacob Tonson, the Bookseller, who published the Tatlers, Spectators, &c. a great favourite of the wits, and people of all ranks and degrees, in Queen Anne's time.

T. Osborne, the Bookseller; in Grays Inn, who at the time that this poem was written, published the Modern history, the Harlcian miscellany, &c. in weekly numbers, at sixpence, or a shilling each.

A cant phrase amongst booksellers, for crying down an author's works, who presumes to maintain his own property, by not parting with his copy at the price they are pleas'd to set upon it.