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He scorns FLORELLO, and FLORELLO him's
This hates the filtby creatures that, the prim:
Thus, in each other, both these fools despise
Their own dear felves, with undiscerning eyes
Their methods various, but alike their aim;
The foven and the fopling are the fame.

Ye whigs and tories ! thus it fares with you,
When party-rage too warmly you pursue ;
Then both club nonsense, and impetuous pride,
And folly joins whom sentiments divide.
You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they pass,
Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glass ;
While both are one : and henceforth be it known,
Fools of both sides shall ftand for fools alone.

« But who art Thou?" methinks FLORELLO cries ;
« Of all thy species art Thou only wise?”
Since smallest things can give our fins a twitch,
As crossing straws retard a pafling witch,
FLORELLO, thou my monitor shalt be;
I'll conjure thus fome profit out of thee.
O THOU myself! abroad our counsels roam,
And, like ill husbands, take no care at home :
Thou too art wounded with the common dart,
And Love of Fame lies throbbing at thy heart;
And what wise means to gain it haft thou chose ?
Know, fame and fortune both are made of prose.
Is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme,
Thon unambitious fool, at this late time?
While I a moment name, a moment's past ;
I'm nearer death in this verse, than the last :
What then is to be done ? Be wise with speed;
A fool at forty is a fool indeed.

And what fo foolish as the chance of fame!
How vain the prize! how impotent our aim !

For

For what are men who grasp at praise fublime,
But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,
That rise, and fall, that swell, and are no more,
Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour ?

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L

ONG, DODINGTON, in debt, I long have fought

To ease the burthen of my grateful thought;
And now a poet's gratitude you see ;
Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three :
For whose the present glory, or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthless strain.
You love and feel the poet's sacred flame,
And know the basis of a solid fame;
Tho' prone to like, yet cautious to commend,
You read with all the malice of a friend;
Nor favour my attempts that way alone,
But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.

An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o’er,
When wanted Britain bright examples more?
Her learning, and her genius too, decays,
And dark and cold are her declining days;

As

For, grow

As if men now were of another cast,
They meanly live on alms of ages paft.
Men fill. are men, and they who boldly dare,
Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair ;
Or, if they fail, they justly still take place
Of such who run in debt for their disgrace;
Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,
And damn it with improvements of their own.
We bring some new materials, and what's old
New cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould;
Late times the verse may read, if these refuse ;
And from sour critics vindicate the mase.

“ Your work is long," the critics cry. 'Tis true, And lengthens still, to take in fools like you : Shorten my labour, if its length you

length you blame; but wise, you'rob me of my game; As hunted hags, who, while the dogs purfue, Renounce their four legs, and start up on twa.

Like the bold bird upon the banks of Niles
That picks the teeth of the dire cracodile,
Will I enjoy, (dread feaft!) the critic's rage
And with the fell deftroyer feed my page.
For what ambitious fools are more to blame,
Than those who thunder in the critic's name?
Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,
To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.

BALBUTIUS, mufled in his fable cloak,
Like an old Druid from his hollow, oak,
As ravens folemn, and as boding, cries,
“ Ten thousand worlds for the three-unities !"
Ye doctors sage, who thro' Parnasjus teach,
Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

One judges as the weather dictates ; right
The poem is at noon, and wrong at night :

Another

Another judges by a furer gage,
An author's principles, or parentage;
Since his great angeftors in Flanders fell,
The poem doubtless must be written well.
Another judges by the writer's look;
Another judges, for he bought the book ;
Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep;
Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,
To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame.
The very best ambitiously advise,
Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.

Critics on verse, as Squibs on triumphs wait,
Proclaim the glory, and augment the state;
Hot, envious, noily, proud, the scribbling fry
Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die,
Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown
Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?

Not all on books their criticism waste :
The genius of a diha fome juftly taste,
And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought
The salmon is refus’d, the turbot bought.
Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay,
And bids December yield the fruits of May ;
Their various cares in one great point combine
The business of their lives, that is to dine.
Half of their precious day they give the feaft;
And to a kind digestion spare the rest.
APICIUS, here, the taster of the town,
Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.

These worthies of the palate guard with care.
The facred annals of their bills of fare ;
In those choice books their panegyrics read,
And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.

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