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My only son; I'd have him see the world :
His French is pure; bis voice too--you shall hear;
Sir, he's your slave, for twenty pounds a year.
Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease,
Your barber, cook, upholsterer, what you please :
A perfect genius at an opera song-
To say too much might do my honour wrong.
Take him with all his virtues, on my word;
His whole ambition was to serve a lord :
But, sir, to you, with what would I not part?
Though, 'faith, I fear 'twill break his mother's heart.
Once (and but once I caught him in a lie,
And then, when whip’d, he had the grace to cry:
The fault he has I fairly shall reveal,
(Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to steal.'

If, after this, you took the graceful lad,
Could you complain, my friend, he proved so bad?
Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute,
I think, sir Godfrey should decide the suit:
Who sent the thief that stole the cash, away,
And punish'd him that put it in his нау.

Consider then, and judge me in this light:
I told you when I went, I could not write;
You said the same;

discontent
With laws to which you gave your own assent?
Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time!
Do

ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme ?
In Anna's wars, a soldier poor and old
Had dearly earn’d a little purse of goid ;
Tired with a tedious march, one luckless night,
He siept, poor dog! and lost it to a doit.
This put the man in such a desperate mind,
Between revenge and grief, and hunger joind,

and are you

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Against the foe, himself, and all mankind, He leap'd the trenches, scaled a castle wall, Tore down a standard too, the fort and all. • Prodigious well ! his great commander cried, Gave him much praise, and some reward beside. Next, pleased his excellence a tuwa to batter, (Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter): "Go ou my friend,' he cried, see yonder walls ! Advance and conquer ! go where glory calls ! More honours, more rewards, attend the brave,' Don't you remember what reply he gave? Do you

think me, noble general, such a sot? Let him take castles who has ne'er a grot.'

Bred up at home, full early I begun To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son. Besides, my father taught me from a lad, The better art, to know the good from bad: (And lit le sure imported to remove, To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove). But knottier points, we knew not half so well, Deprived us soon of our paternal cell; And certain laws, by sufferers thought unjust, Denied all posts of profit or of trust: Hopes after hopes of pious papists fail'd, While mighty William's thunderingarin prevailid. For right hereditary tax'd and fined, He stuck to poverty with peace of mind; And me the Muses help'd to undergo it; Convict a papist he, and I a poet. But (thanks to Homer) since I live and thrive, Indebted to no prince or peer alive, Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes, If I should scribble, rather than repose.

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Years following years steal something every day, At least they steal us from ourselves away; In one our frolics, one amusements end, In one a mistress drops, in one a friend : This subtle thief of life, this paltry time, What will it leave me, if it snatch my rhyme ? If every wheel of that unwearied mill, That turn'd ten thousand verses, now stand still ? But after all, what would you have me do, When out of twenty I can please not two? When this heroic only deigns to praise, Sharp satire that, and that Pindaric lays ? One likes the pheasa 1- wing, and one the leg; The vulgar boil, the learned roast as egg: Hard task! to hit the palates of such guests, When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detests.

But grant I may relapse, for want of grace, Ayain to rhyme: can London be the place! Who there his muse, or self, or soul attends, In crowds, and courts, law, business, feasts, and friends! My cosinsel sends to execute a deed: A poet begs me I will hear him read: In Palace yard at nine you'll find me thereAt ten for certain, sir. in Bloomsbury-squareBefore the lords at twelve my cause comes onThere's a rehearsal, sir, exact at one -0! but a wit can study in the streets, And raise his mind above the mob he meets.' Not quite so well, however, as one ought ; A hackney coach may chance to spoil a thought: And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead, God knows, may hurt the very ablest head. Have you not seen, at Guildhall's narrow pass,

Two aldermen dispute it with an ass?
And peers give way, exalted as they are,
E’en to their own s-r-V-ace in a car?

Go, lofty poet! and in such a crowd,
Sing thy sonorous verse--but not aloud.
Alas ! to grottoes and to groves we run,
To case and silence, every Muse's son:
Blackmore himself, for any grand effort,
Would drink and doze at Tootings or Earl's Court.
How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar?
How match the bards whom nome e'er inatch'd before?

The man, who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat,
To books and study gives seven years complete,
See! strow'd with learned dust, his nightcap on,
He walks an object new beneath the sun!
The boys flock round him, and the people stare :
So stiff, so mute! some statue, you would swear,
Stepp'd from its pedestal to take the air!
And here, while town, and court, and city roars,
With mobs, and duns, and soldiers at their doors;
Shall I, in London, act this idle part,
Composing songs for foois to get by heart ?

The Temple late two brother sergeants saw,
Who deem'd each other oracles of law;
With equal talents, these congenial souls,
One luli'd the Exchequer, and one stunu'd the Rolls
Each had a gravity would make you split,
And shook his head at Murray as a wit.
'Twas, Sir, your law and Sir, your eloquence,
• Yours Cowper's manner--and yours, Taibot's sense.'

Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit. Call Tibbald Shakspeare, and he'll swear ihe Nine,

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Dear Cibher! never match'd one ode of thine.
Lord! how we strut through Merlin's Cave, to see
No poets there, but Stephen, you, and me.
Walk with respect behind, while we at ease
Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please.
“My dear Tibullus !' if that will not do,
Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you;
Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains,
And you shall raise up Otway for your pains.
Much do I sufler, much to keep in peace
This jealous, waspish, wrong-head, rhyming race;
And much must flatter, if the whim should bite
To court applause by printing what I write:
But let the fit pass o'er, I'm wise enough
To stop my ears to their confounded stuff.

In vain, bad rhymers all mankind reject,
They treat themselves with most profound respect;
'Tis to small purpose that you hold your tongue,
Each, praised within, is happy all day long :
But how severely with themselves proceed
The men who write such verse as we can read?
Their own strict judges, not a word they spare
That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care,
Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place,
Nay, though at court, perhaps, it may find grace:
Such they'll degrade ; and sometimes, in its stead,
In downright charity revive the dead;
Mark where a bold, expressive phrase appears,
Bright through the rubbish of some hundred years;
Command old words that long have slept, to wake,
Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spake;
Or bid the new be English ages hence
(For use will father what's begot by sense),

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