To bill, to coo, to whine, to fqueak,
Through all the dialects of Greek.
How many fains of claffic breed,
Shall deftly tune their oaten reed,
And bring their Deric nymphs to town,
To fing their measures up and down,
In notes alternate clear and fweet,
Like Ballad-fingers in a street.
While those who grafp at reputation,
From imitating imitation,

Shall hunt each cranny, nook, and creek,
For precious fragments in the Greek,
And rob the fpittle, and the wafte,
For fenfe, and fentiment, and take.

What Latin hodge-podge, Grecian hash,
With Hebrew roots, and Engliín trafk,
Shall academic cooks produce
For prefent fhow and future ufe!

FELLOWS! who've foak'd away their knowledge,
In fleepy refidence at college;

Whofe lives are like a ftagnant pool,
Muddy and płacid, dull and cool;

Mere drinking, eating; eating, drinking ;
With no impertinence of thinking;
Who lack no farther erudition,
Than juft to fet an impofition
To cramp, demolish and difpirit,
Each true begotten child of merit ;
Cenfors, who, in the day's broad light,
Punish the vice they act at night;
Whofe charity with felf begins,
Nor covers others venial fins ;
But that their feet may fafely treads.
Take up hypocrify instead,
As knowing that must always hide
A multitude of fins befide;
Whofe rufty wit is at a ftand,
Without a freshman at their hand;
(Whose service muft of course create
The juft return of fev'n-fold hate)
Lord! that fuch good and useful men
Should ever turn to books again.

YIT matter must be gravely plann'd,.
And fyllables on fingers (cann'd,
And racking pangs rend lab'ring head,
Till lady Mufe is brought to-bed:

What hunting, changing, toiling, fweating,
To bring the ufual epithet in!
Where the crampt measure kindly shows
It will be verfe, but should be profe.
So, when its neither light or dark,
To 'prentice fpruce, or lawyer's clerk,
The nymph, who takes her nightly stand.
At fome fly corner in the Strand,

Plump in the cheft, tight in the boddico,
Seems to the eye a perfect goddess ;
But canvafs'd more minutely o'er,
Turns out an old, ftale, batter'd whore.

Yet must these fons of GOWNED LASE,
Proud of the Plumage of Degrees,
Forfake their APATHY a while,
To figure in the Roman ftile,
And offer incenfe at the fhrine
Of LATIN POETRY Divine.

Upon a throne the goddess fits,
Surrounded by her bulky wits;
FABRICIUS, COOPER, CALEPINE,
AINSWORTHIUS, FABER, CONSTANTINE;
VOL. VIII.

And he, who like DoDONA fpoke,
DE SACRA QUERCU, HOLYOAKI;
Thefe are her counfellors of state,
Men of much words, and wits of weight;
Here GRADU, full of phrases clever,,
Lord of her traafury for ever,
With liberal hand his bounty deals;
SIR CENTO KEXPER of the Seals.
Next to the perfon of the queen,
Old madam PROSODY is feen;
Talking inceffant, although dumb,
Upon her fingers to her thumb.

And all around her portraits hung
Of heroes in the Latin Tongue;
Italian, English, German, French,
Who moft laboriously entrench
In deep parade of language dead,
What would not in their ozun be read,
Without impeachment of that TASTE,
Which LATIN IDIOM turns to chate.
SANTOLIUS here, whofe flippant joke,.
Sought refuge in a Roman cloak:
With dull COMMIRIUS at his fide,
In all the pomp of jefuit pride.
MENAGE, the pedant figur'd there,
A trifler with a folemn air:
And there in loofe, unfeemly view,
The graceless, eafy LOVELING too.

'Tis here grave poets urge their claim,
For fome thin blaft of tiny fame;
Here bind their temples drunk with praife,
With half a sprig of wither'd bays.

O poet, if that honour'd name.
Befits fuch idle childish aim ;,
If VIRGIL afk thy facred care,
If HORACE charm thee, oh forbear.
To fpoil with facrilegous hand,
The glories of the CLASSIC land':-
Nor few thy durulas on the SATTIN,
Of their pure uncorrupted Latin.
Better be native in thy verfe,-
What is FINGAL but genuine Erfe?
Which all fublime fonorous flows,
Like HIRVEY's thoughts in drunken prose,

Hail, SCOTLAND, hail, to thee belong
All pow're, but most the pow'rs of long;
Whether the rude unpolish'd Erfe
Stalk in the buckram Profe or Verje
Or bonny RAMSAY pleafe thee m',
Who fang fat fweetly at his woe.
If ought (and fay who knows fo well)
The fecond-fighted Mufe can tell,
The happy LAIRDS fhall laugh and fing,
When ENGLAND'S GENIUS droops his wing.
So fhall thy foil new wealth disclose,
So thy own THISTLE choak the Rosz.
But what comes here? Methinks I fee

Nor courfe all languages to frame,
The quibble fuited to their name;
As when their ancestors be-vers'd,

That glorious STUART, JAMES the FIRST.
But with that elocution's GRACE,
That oratorial flashy Lace,

Which the fam'd Irish TOMMY PUFF,
Would few on fentimental ftuff;
Twang with a sweet pronunciation,
The flow'rs of bold imagination.
MACPHERSON leads the flaming van,
LAIRD of the new Fingalian clan ;
While JACKY HOME brings up the rear,
With new-got penfion neat and clear
Three hundred English pounds a year.
While fifter PEG, our ancient Friend,
Sends MACs and DONALDS without end:
TO GEORGE awhile they tune their lays,
Then all their choral voices raife,

To heap their panegyric wit on

Th' illuftrious chief, and our NORTH BRITON.
Hail to the THANE, whose patriot skill
Can break all nations to his will;

Mafter of fciences and arts,
MECENAS to all men of parts;
Whofe fort'ring hand, and ready wit,
Shall find us all in places fit;

So fhall thy friends no longer roam,

But change to meet a fettled home.

Hail mighty THANE, for SCOTLAND born.

To fill her almost empty horn:

Hail to thy ancient glorious ftem,

Such ceafelefs toil, fuch conftant care,
Is more than human strength can bear.
One may obferve it in your face-
Indeed, my dear, you break a pace :
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercife and country air,

Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-Row;
He's a good man, indeed 'tis true,
But not fo warm, my dear, as you :
And folks are always apt to fncèr-
One would not be out-done my dear!

Sir Traffic's name fo well apply'd
Awak'd his brother merchant's pride;
And Thrifty, who had all his life
Paid utmost deference to his wife.
Confefs'd her arguments had reason,
And by th' approaching summer season,
Draws a few hundreds from the stocks,
And purchases his Country-Box.

Some three or four mile out of town, (An hour's ride will bring you down,) He fixes on his choice abode,

Not half a furlong from the road:
And fo convenient does it lay,
The ftages pafs it ev'ry day:
And then fo fnug, fo mighty pretty,
To have an houfe fo near the city!
Take but your places at the Boar
You're fet down at the very door.

Well then, fuppofe them fix'd at laft, White-washing, painting, scrubbing patt,

With all the fufs of moving over; Lo, a new heap of whims are bred! And wanton in my lady's head.

Well to be fure, it must be own'd, It is a charming spot of ground; So sweet a distance for a ride,

Vos fapere & folos aio bene vivere, quorum, Confpicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis. MOR.

T

HE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
Now withes for the rural fhade,
And buckles to his one horse-chair,
Old Debbin, or the founder'd mare;
While wedg'd in closely by his fide,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on the ftool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce paft the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country feems to fmile!
And as they flowly jog together,

The Cit commends the road and weather;
While Madarn doats upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry houfe the fees,
Admires its views, its fituation,
And thus the opens her oration.

What fignify the loads of wealth,
Without that richett jewel, health?
Excufe the fondnefs of a wife,

Who doats upon your precious life!

'Twould come but to a trifling price To make it quite a paradife; I cannot bear those nafty rails, Thofe ugly broken mouldy pales: Suppofe, my dear, inftead of these, We build a railing, all Chinese. Although one hates to be expos'd; 'Tis difmal to be thus inclos'd; One hardly any object feesI wish you'd fell thofe odious trees. Objects continual paffing by Were fomething to amufe the eye, But to be pent within the wallsOne might as well be at St. Paul's. Our house, beholders would adore, Was there a level lawn before, Nothing its views to incommode, But quite laid open to the road; While ev'ry trav'ler in amaze, Should on our little manfion gaze, And pointing to the choice retreat, Cry, that's Sir Thrifty's Country Seat. No doubt her arguments prevail, For Madam's TASTE can never fail. Bleft age when all men may procure, The title of a Connoiffeur ;

When noble and ignoble herd,
Are govern'd by a single word;
Though, like the royal Germandames,
It bears an hundred Christian names ;
As Genius, Fancy, Judgment, Gout,
Whim, Caprice, Je-ne-fcai-quoi, Virtù
Which appellations all defcribe
TASTE, and the modern tafteful tribe.
Now bricklay'rs, carpenters, and joiners,
With Chinese artists, and defigners,
Produce their schemes of alteration,
To work this wond'rous reformation.
The useful dome, which fecret stood,
Embofom'd in the yew-tree's wood,
The trav'ler with amazement fees
A temple, Gothic, or Chinese,
With many a bell, and tawdry rag on,
And crefted with a sprawling dragon ;
A wooden arch is bent aftride
A ditch of water, four foot wide,
With angles, curves, and zigzag lines,
From Halfpenny's exact designs.
In front, a level lawn is feen,
Without a fhrub upon the green,
Where Tafte would want its first great law,
But for the skulking, fly ha-ha,
By whose miraculous affistance,
You gain a profpect two fields distance.
And now from Hyde-Park Corner come
The Gods of Athens, and of Rome.
Here fquabby Cupids take their places,
With Venus, and the clumfy Graces:
Apollo there, with aim fo clever,
Stretches his leaden bow for ever;
And there without the pow'r to fly,
Stands fix'd a tip-toe Mercury.

The villa thus completely grac'd,
All own that Thrifty has a Tafte;
And Madam's female friends, and coufins,
With common-council-men, by dozens,
Flock every Sunday to the Seat,
To ftare about them and to eat.

But let the century be past,

And we have taste and wit at 1kz
For at that period Moderns too
Juft turn the corner of Virtà.
But merit now has little claim
To any meed of present fame,
For tis not worth that gets you friends,
'Tis excellence that moft offends.
If, Proteus-like, a GARRICK's art,
Shews tafte and skill in every part;
If, ever juft to nature's plan,
He is in all the very man,

E'en here fhall Envy take her aim.
write, and--blame.
The JEALOUS WIFE, tho' chastly writ,
With no parade of frippery wit,
Shall fet a fcribbling, all at once,
Both giant wit, and pigmy dunce;
While Critical Reviewers write,
Who fhew their teeth before they bite,
And facrifice each reputation,
From wanton falfe imagination.
Thefe obfervations, rather ftale,
May borrow fpirit from a tale.

GENIUS, a bustling lad of parts,
Who all things did by fits and starts,
Nothing above him or below him,
Who'd make a riot or a poem,
From excentricity of thought,
Not always do the thing he ought;
But was it once his own election,
Would bring all matters to perfection;
Would act, defign, engrave, write, paint,
But neither from the last constraint,
Who hated all pedantic schools,
And fcorn'd the glofs of knowing fools,
That hold perfection all in all,

Yet treat it as mechanical.

And give the fame fufficient rule

To make a poem, as a tool

From the firft fpring-time of his youth,
Was downright worshipper of truth;

And with a free and liberal spirit,

His courtship paid to lady MERIT.

ENVY, afquint-ey'd, mere old maid,

Well known among the fcribbling trade ;

A hag, fo very, very thin,

Who could not for her foul abide

That folks fhou'd praife, where the must chide, Follow'd the youth where'er he went,

To mar each good and brave intent;

Would lies, and plots, and mifchief hatch,
To ruin HIM and spoil the match.

Honour the held at bold defiance,

Talk'd much of Faction, Gang, Alliance,
As if the real fons of tafte

Had clubb'd to lay a DESART waste.

In short, wherever GENIUS came,
You'd find this Antiquated Dame;
Whate'er he did, where'er he went,
She follow'd only to torment;
Call'd MERIT by a thousand names,
Which decency or truth disclaims,
While all her business, toil, and care,
Was to depreciate, lye, compare,
To pull the Modest Maiden down,
And blast her fame to all the town.

The youth, inflam'd with confcious pride,
To Prince POSTERITY apply'd,
Who gave his anfwer thus in rhyme,
By his chief minister Old TIME.

"Repine not at what pedants fay,
"We'll bring thee forward on the way;
If wither'd ENVY strive to hurt
"With lies, with impudence and dirt,
"You only pay a common tax

"Which fool, and knave, and dunce exacts. "Be this thy comfort, this thy joy, "Thy ftrength is in its prime, my boy, "And every year the vigour grows, "Impairs the credit of my foes. "ENVY fhall fink, and be no more "Than what her NAIADS were before; "Mere excremental maggots, bred, In poct's topsy-turvey head, Born like a momentary fly, "To flutter, buzz about, and die.

Yet, GENIUS, mark what I prefage, Who look through every diftant age: "MERIT thall bless thee with her charms, FAME lift thy off pring in her arms, "And ftamp eternity of grace

On all thy numerous various race. "ROUBILLIAC, WILTON, names as high "As Phidias of antiquity,

Shall ftrength, expreffion, manner.give, "And make e'en marble breathe and live; "While S1019MUNDA's deep diftrefs, "Which looks the foul of wretcheanefs, "When I, with flow and foft'ning pea, "Have gone o'er all the tints again, "Shall urge a bold and proper claim

To level half the antient fame;" "While future ages yet unknown

With critic air thall proudly own "Thy HOGARTH first of every clime "For humour keen, or ftrong fublime, "And hail him from his fire and fpirit, "The child of GENIUS and of MERIT."

Sure of fuccefs whene er he tries,
Should he forego the means to rife?

Suppofe your watch a Graham make,
Gold, if you will, for value's fake;
Its fprings within in order due,
No watch, when going, goes fo true;
If ne'er wound up with proper care,
What service is it in the wear?

Some genial fpark of Phœbus' rays,
Perhaps within your bofom plays:
O how the purer rays afpire,
If application fans the fire!
Without it genius vainly tries,
Howe'er fometimes it seem to rife:
Nay application will prevail,
When briggart part and genius fail:
And now to lay my proof before ye,
I here prefent you with a ftory.

In days of yore, when time was young,
When birds convers'd as well as fung
When ufe of fpeech was not confin'd,
Merely to brutes of human kinä,
A forward Hare, of fwiftnefs vain,
The Genius of the neighb'ring plain,
Wou'd oft deride the drudging croud:
For Geniuses are ever proud.

He'd boaft, his flight 'twere vain to follow,
For dog and horfe he'd beat them hollore,
Nay, if he put forth all his ftrength,
Ou ftrip his brethren half a length.

A Tortoile heard his vain oration,
And vented thus his indignation.
Oh Pufs, it bodes thee dire difgracé,
When I defy thee to the race.
Come, 'tis a match, nay, no denial,
I lay my fhell upon the trial.

'Twas done and gone, all fair, a bet,
Judges prepar'd, and distance fet.

The fcamp'ring Hare outstrip the wind,
The creeping Tortoife lagg'd behind,
And fearce had pass'd a fingle pole,
When Pufs had almost reach'd the goal.
Friend Tortoife, quoth the jeering Hare,
Your burthen's more than you can bear,
To help your speed, it were all well
That I should cafe you of your shell :
Jog on a little fafter pr'ythee,
I'll take a nap, and then be with thee.
So faid, fo done, and fafely fure,
For fay, what conqueft more fecure?
Whene'er he wak'd (that's all that's in it)
He could o'ertake him in a minute.

The tortoise heard his taunting jeer,
But ftill refolv'd to perfevere,
Still draw'd along, as who fhould fay,
I'll win, like Fabius, hy delay;
On to the goal securely crept,
While Pufs unknowing foundly flept.

The bets were won, the Hare awake,
When thus the victor tortoise spake.
Pufs, tho' I own thy quicker parts,
Things are not always done by starts,
You may deride my aukward pace,
But flow and fready wins the race.