to it; and he that succeeds in spite of it, is, aliena venia, quam sua providentia tutior.

Such wits, like false oracles of old (which were wits and cheats), should set up for reputation among the weak, in some Baotia, which was the land of oracles; for the wise will hold them in contempt. Some wits, too, like oracles, deal in ambiguities; but not with equal success: For though ambiguities, are the first excellence of an impostor, they are the last of a

wit.

Some satirical wits and humourists, like their father Lucian, laugh at every thing indiscriminately; which betrays such a poverty of wit, as cannot afford to part with any thing; and such a want of virtue, as to postpone it to a jest. Such writers encourage vice and folly, which they pretend to combat, by setting them on an equal foot with better things: And while they labour to bring every thing into contempt, how can they expect their own parts should escape? Some French writers particularly, are guilty of this in matters of the last consequence; and some of our own. They that are for lessening the true dignity of mankind, are not sure of being successful, but with regard to one individual in it. It is this conduct that justly makes a Wit a term of reproach.

Which puts me in mind of Plato's fable of the birth of Love ; one of the prettiest fables of all antiquity; which will hold likewise with regard to modern Poetry. Love, says he, is the son of the goddess Poverty, and the god of Riches: He has from his father his daring genius; his elevation of thought; his building castles in the air; his prodigality; his neglect of things serious and useful; his vain opinion of his own merit ; and his affectation of preference and distinction: From his mother

* Val. Max.

:

he inherits his indigence, which makes him a constant beggar of favours that importunity with which he begs; his flattery; his servility; his fear of being despised, which is inseparable from him. This addition may be made; viz. That Poetry, like Love, is a little subject to blindness, which makes her mistake her way to preferments and honours; that she has her satirical quiver; and, lastly, that she retains a dutiful admiration of her father's family; but divides her favours, and generally lives with her mother's relations.

However, this is not necessity but choice: Were Wisdom her governess, she might have much more of the father than the mother; especially in such an age as this, which shews a due passion for her charms.

My verse is Satire; DORSET, lend your ear,
And patronize a muse you cannot fear.
To poets sacred is a DORSET's name :

Their wonted passport through the gates of fame:
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays:
The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see,
And gives applause to B--e, or to me.

But
you decline the mistress we pursue;
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.

Instructive Satire, true to virtue's cause!
Thou shining supplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our silence, and demand our rage;
When purchas'd follies, from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the Law shews her teeth, but dares not bite,
And South-sea treasures are not brought to light;

When Churchmen Scripture for the Classics quit,
Polite apostates from God's Grace to Wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;

When dying sinners, to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;
To chafe our spleen, when themes like these increase,
Shall Panegyric reign, and Censure cease?

Shall Poesy, like Law, turn wrong to right,
And dedications wash an Ethiop white,

Set

up each senseless wretch for nature's boast,
On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post?
Shall fun'ral eloquence her colours spread,
And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,
And satirise with nothing-but their praise?

Why slumbers POPE, who leads the tuneful train,
Nor hears that virtue, which he loves, complain?
DONNE, DORSET, DRYDEN, ROCHESTER, are dead,
And guilt's chief foe, in ADDISON, is fled;
CONGREVE, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won,
Sits smiling at the goal, while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking still!)
Ye gods! he will not write, and MAVIUS will.
Doubly distrest, what author shall we find
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,
The courtly* Roman's shining path to tread,
And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?

* HORACE.