And now the fun declining low Full gently pranc'd he o'er the lawn ; And from the stirrup ftretch'd to find Long brandish'd he the blade in air, At length he spy'd the merry-men brown, From out the boot bold Nicholas All in that dreadful hour fo calm As if he meant to take the air, And fo he did---for to New Court His rowling wheels did run: Not that he fhunn'd the doubtful ftrife; But business must be done. Back in the dark, by Brompton park, Mean while duke Guife did fret and fume, Then, wet and weary, home he far'd, "Mean time on every piffing-poft Now God preferve our gracious king, May learn this leffon from duke Nic. * Fragment I1 F meagre Gildon draws his venal quill, I wish the man a dinner, and fit ftill: If dreadful Dennis raves in furious fret, I'll anfwer Dennis, when I am in debt. 'Tis hunger, and not malice, makes them print; And who'll wage war with bedlam or the mint? Should fome more fober criticks come broad, If wrong, I fmile; if right, I kifs the rod. Pains, reading, ftudy, are their just pretence; And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they fet exactly right; And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite:, Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds, From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds, Who thinks he reads, when he but scans and Spells; A word-catcher, that lives on fyllables. Yet ev❜n this creature may fome notice claim, Wrapt round and fanctify'd with ShakeSpear's name. Pretty in amber to obferve the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The The thing, we know, is neither rich nor rare; And wonder how the devil it got there. Are others angry? I excufe them too: Well may they rage; I give them but theirdue. Each man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's fecret ftandard in his mind, That cafting-weight pride adds to emptinefs, This who can gratify? for who can guess? The wretch whom pilfer'd paftorals re nown, Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown, Juft writes to make his barrennefs appear, And ftrains from hard-bound brains fix lines a year; In fense still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: + Johnson, who now to fenfe, now nonsense leaning. Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he, whofe fuftian's fo fublimely bad, It is not poetry, but profe run mad: Should modeft fatire bid all thefe tranflate, And own that nine fuch poets make a Tate'; Philips. + Author of the Victim, and Cobler of Prefton. Verfe of Dr. Ev. How How wou'd they fume, and ftamp, and roar, and chafe! How wou'd they fwear not Congreve's felf was fafe! Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires Apollo kindled, and fair fame infpires; Bleft with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne; View him with scornful, yet with fearful eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife; Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer, And without fneering teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to ftrike, Juft hint a fault, and hesitate diflike; Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend, A tim'rous foe, and a fufpicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers befieg'd, And fo obliging that he ne'er oblig'd; Who, if two wits on rival themes contest, Approves of each, but likes the worst the best; Like Cato, gives his little fenate laws, And fits attentive to his own applaufe; |