Under dark Allegory's flimfy veil
Let them with Ogilvie spin out a tale
Of rueful length; let them plain things obscure,
Debafe what's truly rich, and what is poor
Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth;
With ev'ry pert, prim prettiness of youth
Born of false Tafte, with Fancy (like a child
Not knowing what it cries for) running wild,
With bloated ftile, by Affectation taught,
With much false colouring, and little thought,
With phrases ftrange, and dialect decreed
By reason never to have pass'd the Tweed,
With words, which Nature meant each other's foë,
Forc'd to compound whether they will or no,
With fuch materials, let them, if they will,
To prove at once their pleasantry and skill,
Build up a Bard to war 'gainft common Sense,
By way of compliment to providence;
Let them, with Armstrong, taking leave of Senfe,
Read mufty lectures on Benevolence,
Or conn the pages of his gaping day,
Where all his former fame was thrown away,
Where all, but barren labour, was forgot,
And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot;
Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light,
But not one hour of darkness; when the Night
Sufpends this mortal coil, when Mem❜ry wakes,
When for our paft mifdoings Confcience takes
A deep revenge, when, by Reflection led,
She draws his curtains, and looks Comfort dead,
Let ev'ry Muse be gone; in vain he turns
And tries to pray for sleep; an Etna burns,