Is hugely ply'd, and labours to produce
Some mighty Folio, for the Chandler's use?
Let Grubstreet fcribble on, nor need you care
Though ev'ry Garret held a Poet there. A
You know, that are acquainted with the Town,
How the poor Tribe are worry'd up and down:
How penfively the hungry Authors fit,
And, in their upper Regions, ftrain for Wit.
Such a poor tatter'd Small-Beer Herd they're grown,
That fearce an Author from his Hawker's known:
No jolly Carbuncle through all the Race?
Appears, to juftifie a Poet's Face. 9. Ishara
This a fufficient Penance feems to me
For H---den's Droll, or S----tle's Tragedy.
Is't not enough to ftarve for Writing ill,
That they ne'er Dine, but when they Smoak a Meal;
That their Works only serve to wipe, or twine
A Candle, or fome feeble Banbox line?
Confider, and let Charity prevail,
What Chriftian Critick can have Heart to Rail
At fuch poor Rogues as these? Befides, you know
A true ftanch Poet can't Reform, what though
His Works have furnish'd a Lampoon or two?
They that have once in Print proclaim'd theirName,
Are fenfeless all of Juftice, as of Shame,
And none but Stationers should Rail at them.
Had e'er the Lewdeft of 'em all the Grace
Or.Confcience, to Repent of making Verfe?.
For other Sins they feel Remorfe fometimes,
But fure no Poet e'er had Qualms for Rhimes;
Alas! no wholfom Counfel can be 'us'd
By a poor harden'd Wretch, when once Bemus'd:
Then don't inhumanly your Pains mis-spend
On Reprobates, that you can never mend.
Had we a Parliament difpos'd to lay
A Tax on Metre, or invent fome way,
In Grand Committee call'd, to regulate
This among other Grievances of State;
Then you might hope to hear an A&t would pass
To limit all this Hackney jingling Race,
And order fome Commiffioners to find
Which way their Genius chiefly is inclin❜d,
See how it stands affected to a Mufe,
And as their Talents lye, their Business chufe.
When a poor Thief to Tyburn's drawn, to be
There made a Pendulum for Gallow Tree,
Let Dy then his woful Exit fing,
And with, Good People all give ear, begin.
In gentle Ditty. tenderly relate
The inconvenience of his fudden Fate.
Not muft judicious R------r be forgot,
Let him for Madrigals compofe a Plot.
Let Jonny C-----n in mild Acroftick's deal,
His wondrous Skill in Anagram reveal;
Let him in petty Verse describe his Flame,
And edge his Sonnet with his Mistress Name;
Stop Thief the Warbling Mufick fhall prolong,
Stop Thief fhall be the burden of the Song
And Rr too (for he above the reft
Is richly with a double Talent bleft,)
Let him, for deep Reflections long renown'd,
Be lawful Critick through all Grubstreet own'd,
To be the Judge of each Suburbian Lay,
If their Acrofticks all the Rules obey,
Compos'd according to the Ancient way;
If Felon does with as much Decence swing
In Metre, as he did before in String.
I grant you fuch a Course as this might do
To make 'em humbly Treat of what they know,
Not vent'ring further than their Brains will go.
But what fhould I do then, for ever spoil'd
Of this Diverfion which frail Authors yield?
I fhould no more on D-----n's Counter meet
Bards that are deeply skill'd in Rhime and Feets
For I am Charm'd with eafie Nonfence more,
Than all the Wit that Men of Senfe adore:
With fear I view Great Dryden's hallow'd Page,
With fear I view it, and I read with Rage.
I'm all with Fear, with Grief, and Love poffeft,
Tears in my Eyes, and Anguish in my Breaft;
While I with Mourning Antony repine,
And all the Hero's Miseries are mine.
If I read Edgar, then my Soul's at peace,
Lull'd in a lazy ftate of thoughtless case.
No Paffion's ruffled by the peaceful Lay,
No Stream, no Depth, to hurry me away;
R----- in both Profeffions harmless proves,
Nor Wounds when Critick, nor when Poet moves.
But you condemn fuch lifeless Poetry,
And wildly talk of nothing else to me
But Spirit, Flame, Rapture, and Extafie;
Strange Myftick things, I understand no more
Then Laity Pax Tecum did of Yore.
Therefore pray Pardon, if I rail at Senfe,
And plead for Blockheads in my own Defence;
For whom I have a thousand Things to say,
Which you must wait for 'till another Day.
Forgive me if I'm too abrupt, you know
I never was Methodical like you;
I have no Rule to make an end but one,
For when my Paper's out, my Letter's done.
So once Lay-Vicars, in the Days of Noll,
When faintly Peters did in Pulpits droll;
By Hour-Glafs fet their Sermons, and the Flock
Might fafely fnore in fpight of Zealous Knock;
'Till the laft kind releafing Sand was run,
But when the Glass was out, the Cant was done,
A great Flood having destroyed the Fruits of the Ground, and the Corn every where in her Neighbourhood, but upon her own Land.
By Mr. George Granville.
WHAT Hands Divine have planted and protect,
The Torrent fpares, and Deluges respect ;
So when the Waters o'er the World were spread,
Cov'ring the Oaks, and ev'ry Mountain's Head ;
The chofen Noak fail'd within his Ark,
Nor durft the Waves o'erwhelm the facred Bark.
The Charming Myra is no lefs, we find,
The Favourite of Heav'n, than of Mankind :
The Gods like Rivals, imitate our Care,
And vie with Mortals to oblige the Fair; -
These Favours thus bestow'd on her alone,
Are but the Homage which they fent her down.
Oh Myra, may thy Virtue from above
Be Crown'd with Bleffings, endless as my Love.
OR God's fake hold your Tongue, and let me
Or chide my Palfie, or my Gout,
My five grey Hairs, or ruin'd Fortunes Aout,
With Wealth your State, your Mind with Arts imTake you a Courfe, get you a Place, Obferve his Honour or his Grace, Or the King's real, or his ftamped Face Contemplate; what you will, approve, So you will let me Love.
Alas, alas, who's injur'd by my Love?
What Merchants Ships have my Sighs drown'd?
Who fays my Tears have overflow'd his Ground?
When did my Colds a forward Spring remove? ..
When did the Heats which my Reins fill,
Add one Man to the plaguy Bill?
Soldiers find Wars, and Lawyers find out ftill
Litigious Men, whom Quarrels move,
While fhe and I do love.
Call's what you will, we are made fuch by Love
Call her one, me another Fly,
Ware Tapers too, and at our own Coft die,
And we in us find th' Eagle and the Dove,
The Phoenix Riddle hath more Wit
By us, we two being one, are it.
So to one neutral Thing both Sexes fit.
We die and rife the fame, and prove
Myfterious by this Love.
We can die by it, if not live by Love,
And if unfit for Tomb or Hearfe
Our Legend be, it will be fit for Verfe;
And if no piece of Chronicle we prove,
We'll build in Sonnets pretty Rooms.
As well a well-wrought Urn becomes
The greatest Ashes, as Half-acre Tombs,
And by thofe Hymns all fhall approve
Us Canoniz'd for Love:
And thus invoke us; you whom reverend Love Made one another's Hermitage;
You to whom Love was Peace, that now is Rage, Who did the whole World's Soul contract, and Into the Glaffes of your Eyes
So made fuch Mirrors, and fuch spies,
That they did all to you Epitomize,
Countries, Towns, Courts, beg from above
A Pattern of your Love,
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