Great are his perils in this stormy time Who rafhly ventures on a fea of Rhime. Around vaft furges roll, winds envious blow, And jealous rocks and quickfands lurk below, Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends: He hurts me most who lavithly commends.

Look thro' the world---in every other trade The fame employment's cause of kindness made; At least appearance of good will creates ; And ev'ry foo! puffs off the fool he hates; Coblers with coblers fmoke away the night, And in the common caufe e'en Play'rs unite. Authors alone, with more than favage rage, Unnat'ral war with brother authors wage. The pride of Nature would as foon admit Competitors in empire as in wit : Onward they rufh at Fame's imperious call, And, lefs than greatest, would not be at all.

Smit with the love of Honour,---or the Pence,
O'er-run with wit, and deftitute of sense,
If any novice in the rhiming trade,

With lawless pen the realms of verfe invade;
Forth from the court, where fceptred fages fit,
Abus'd with praise, and flatter'd into wit;
Where in lethargic majefty they reign,
And what they won by dulness still maintain;
Legions of fa&tious authors throng at once;
Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
To HAMILTON's the Ready Lies repair ;---
Ne'er was Lye made which was not welcome
there.

Thence,

Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought,
The polish'd falfhood's into public brought.
Quick circulating flanders mirth afford,
And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.

A CRITIC was of old a glorious name, Whofe fan&tion handed merit up to fame; Beauties as well as faults he brought to view: His Judgment great, and great his Candour too. No fervile rules drew fickly tafte afide; Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide. But now, Oh strange réverfe! our Critics bawl In praise of Candour with a Heart of Gall. Confcious of guilt, and fearful of the light, They lurk enshrouded in the veil of night: Safe from detection, feize th' unwary prey, And ftab, like bravoes, all who come that way.

When first my mufe, perhaps more bold than wife,

Bade the rude trifle into light arise,

Little the thought fuch tempefts would enfue,
Less, that those tempests would be rais'd by you.
The thunder's fury rends the tow'ring oak,
ROSCIADS, like shrubs, might 'scape the fatal
stroke.

Vain thought! a Critic's fury knows no bound:
DRAWCANSIR like, HE deals deftruction round;
Nor can we hope he will a ftranger fpare,
Who gives no quarter to his friend VOLTAIRE.

Unhappy Genius! plac'd by partial Fate
With a free spirit in a flavish state;

Where

Where the reluctant Muse, opprefs'd by kings,
Or droops in filence, or in fetters fings.
In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borne
The bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn.
Why didft thou fafe from home-bred dangers steer,
Referv'd to perish more ignobly here?

Thus, when, the Julian Tyrant's Pride to swell,
Rome with her POMPEY at Pharfalia fell,
The vanquish'd chief escap'd from CÆSAR's hand
To die by Ruffians in a foreign land.

How could thefe felf-erected monarchs raife
So large an empire on fo fmall a hafe?
In what retreat, inglorious and unknown,
Did Genius fleep when Dulnefs feiz'd the throne?
Whence abfolute now grown, and free from awe,
She to the fubject world difpenfes law.
Without her licence not a letter ftirs;
And all the captive criss-cross-row is hers.
The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew,
Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too.
Our great Dictators take a shorter way-
Who fhall difpute what the Reviewers fay?
Their word's fufficient: and to afk a reason,
In fuch a state as theirs, is downright treason.
True judgment now with Them alone can dwell;
Like church of Rome, they're grown infallible.
Dull fuperftitious readers they deceive,
Who pin their eafy faith on critic's fleeve,
And, knowing nothing, evr'y thing believe !
But why repine we, that these Puny Elves
Shoot into Giants?-We may thank ourselves;

Fools

Fools that we are, like Ifrael's fools of yore,
The Calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore.
But let true Reafon once refume her reign,
This God shall dwindle to a Calf again.

Founded on arts which fhun the face of day, By the fame arts they still maintain their sway. Wrapp'd in myfterious fecrecy they rise, And, as they are unknown, are fafe and wife. At whomfoever aim'd, howe'er fevere

Th' envenom'd flander flies, no names appear.
Prudence forbid that step.--Then all might know.
And on more equal terms engage the foe.

But now,
what Quixote of the age would care
To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air?
By int'reft join'd, th' expert confed'rates stand,
And play the game into each others hand.
The vile abuse, in turn by all deny'd,
Is bandy'd up and down from fide to fide;
It flies---hey !---presto !---like a jugler's ball,
'Till it belongs to nobody at áll.

All men and things they know, themselves unknown,

And publish ev'ry name---except their own.
Nor think this strange---secure from vulgar eyes
The nameless author paffes in difguise.

But vet'ran critics are not fo deceiv'd,
If vet'ran critics are to be believ’d.

Once feen, they know an author ever more,
Nay fwear to hands they never faw before.

Thus

Thus in the RoSCIAD, beyond chance or doubt, They, by the writing, found the writers out. "That's LLOYD'S---his manner there you plain66 ly trace,

"And all the ACTOR ftares you in the face.

66

By COLMAN that was written.---On my life, "The strongest symptoms of the JEALOUS WIFE "That little difingenuous piece of Ipite, "CHURCHILL, a wretch unknown, perhaps might write."

66

How doth it make judicious readers fmile,
When authors are detected by their stile :
Tho' ev'ry one who knows this author, knows
He fhifts his ftile much oftener than his cloaths?

Whence could arife this mighty critic spleen, The Mufe a trifler, and her theme fo mean? What had I done, that angry HEAVEN should fend The bitt'reft Foe where most I wish'd a Friend? Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name, And hail'd the honours of thy matchlefs fame. For me let hoary FIELDING bite the ground So nobler PICKLE ftand fuperbly bound. From LIVY's temples tear th' hiftoric crown, Which with more justice blooms upon thine own. Compar'd with thee, be all life-writers dumb, But he who wrote the life of TOMMY THUMB. Who ever read the REGICIDE, but swore The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before! Others for plots and under-plots may call, Here's the right method---have no plot at all.

Who