The thing, weknow, is neither rich nor rare; And wonder how the devil it got there.

Are others angry? I excuse 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 standard in his mind, That cafting-weight pride adds to emptiness, 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, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And ftrains from hard-bound brains fix lines a year;

In fenfe ftill wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left:

Johnson, who now to sense, now nonsense

leaning.

Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:

And he, whose 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 Preston.

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 inspires ; 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 fcornful, yet with fearful eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife; Damn with faint praise, affent with civil leer, And without fneering teach the reft to fneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, 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 applause ;

While wits and templars ev'ry sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise-What pity, heav'n! if fuch a man there be, Who would not weep, if Addison were hel

* MACE R.

WHEN fimple Macer, now of high

renown,

Firft fought a poet's fortune in the town; 'Twas all th' ambition his great foul could

feel,

To wear red ftockings, and to dine with Steel. Some ends of verfe his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with thefe, he ventur'd on the town, And in a borrow'd play out-did poor Crown. There he stopt fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle,

But has the wit to make the most of little; Like ftunted hide-bound trees, that just have got

Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot. *Now he begs verfe, and what he gets commends,

Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

So fome coarse country wench almoft de

cay'd,

Trudges to town, and firft turns chamber

maid:

Aukward, and fupple each devoir to pay,
She flatters her good lady twice a day;
Thought wond'rous honeft, though of
mean degree,

And strangely lik'd for her fimplicity:
In a tranflated fuit then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her

own;

But just endur'd the winter fhe began, And in four months a batter'd harridan. Now nothing's left, but wither'd pale and fhrunk

To bawd for others, and go fhares with punk.

*SYLVIA,

A FRAGMEN T.

SYLVIA my heart in wond'rous wife

alarm'd,

Aw'd without fenfe, and without beauty charm'd :

But fome odd graces and fine flights the had,

Was just not ugly, and was just not mad : Her tongue ftill run on credit from her

eyes,

More pert than witty, more a wit than wise:
Good-nature, fhe declar'd it, was her fcorn,
Tho' 'twas by that alone fhe could be born:
Affronting all, yet fond of a good name;
A fool to pleasure, yet a flave to fame:
Now coy, and ftudious in no point to fall,
Now all agog for D-----y at a ball :
Now deep in Taylor, and the book of mar-

tyrs,

Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres.

Men, fome to bus'nefs, fome to pleasure take;

But ev'ry woman's in her foul a rake. Frail, fev'rifh fex! their fit now chills, now burns:

Atheism and fuperftition rule by turns; And the mere heathen in her carnal part Is ftill a fad good christian at her heart.

* ARTE