He fcorns FLORELLO, and FLORELLO him; This hates the filthy creature; that, the prim: Thus, in each other, both these fools despise Their own dear felves, with undifcerning eyes; Their methods various, but alike their aim; The floven and the fopling are the fame.
Ye whigs and tories! thus it fares with
When party-rage too warmly you pursue ;
Then both club nonfenfe, and impetuous pride,
And folly joins whom fentiments divide.
You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they pafs,
Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glafs;
While both are one: and henceforth be it known,
Fools of both fides fhall ftand for fools alone.
"But who art Thou?" methinks FLORELLO cries;
"Of all thy fpecies art Thou only wife ?"
Since smallest things can give our fins a twitch,
As croffing ftraws retard a paffing witch,
FLORELLO, thou my monitor fhalt 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 wife means to gain it hast thou chose ?
Know, fame and fortune both are made of profe.
Is thy ambition fweating for a rhyme,
Thou 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 wife 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 what are men who grasp at praise sublime, But bubbles on the rapid ftream of time,
That rife, and fall, that fwell, and are no more, Born, and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?
ONG, DODINGTON, in debt, I long have fought
To ease the burthen of my grateful thought;
And now a poet's gratitude you fee;
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 facred flame,
And know the bafis of a folid 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 modefty! 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 if men now were of another caft,
They meanly live on alms of ages past.
Men still are men; and they who boldly dare,
Shall triumph o'er the fons of cold despair;
Or, if they fail, they justly still take place
Of fuch 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 fome new materials, and what's old
New caft with care, and in no borrow'd mould;
Late times the verfe may read, if these refuse;
And from four critics vindicate the muse.
"Your work is long," the critics cry. 'Tis true,
And lengthens ftill, to take in fools like you:
Shorten my labour, if its length you blame;
For, grow but wife, you rob me of my game;
As hunted bags, who, while the dogs pursue,
Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.
Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile,
That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,
Will I enjoy, (dread feast!) the critic's rage,
And with the fell destroyer 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 fee what wretches gain the praise they miss.
BALBUTIUS, muffled 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 fage, who thro' Parnassus teach,
Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.
One judges as the The poem is at noon,
weather dictates; right
and wrong at night:
Another judges by a furer gage,
An author's principles, or parentage;
Since his great ancestors 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 foon to fleep.
Thus all will judge, and with one fingle 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 fquibs on triumphs wait, Proclaim the glory, and augment the state; Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the fcribbling fry Burn, hifs, and bounce, wafte paper, ftink, and die. Rail on, my friends! what more my verfe can crown Than Compton's fmile, and your obliging frown? Not all on books their criticism waste :
The genius of a dish fome juftly taste,
And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought
The falmon is refus'd, the turbot bought.
Impatient art rebukes the fun'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 digeftion fpare the reft.
APICIUS, here, the taster of the town,
Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.
Thefe 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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