With fame, in just proportion, envy grows;
The man that makes a character, makes foes:
Slight, peevish infects round a genius rise,
As a bright day awakes the world of flies;
With hearty malice, but with feeble wing,
(To fhew they live) they flutter, and they sting:
But as by depredations wafps proclaim
The fairest fruit, fo these the fairest fame.

Shall we not cenfure all the motley train,
Whether with ale irriguous, or champain?
Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb,
And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme;
The college floven, or embroider'd spark ;
The purple prelate, or the parish clerk;
The quiet Quidnunc, or demanding prig;
The plaintiff Tory, or defendant Whig ;

Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay, or fad ;
Whether extremely witty, or quite mad;

Profoundly dull, or fhallowly polite;

Men that read well, or men that only write;
Whether peers, porters, taylors, tune the reeds,
And measuring words to measuring shapes fucceeds;
For bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are shut,
As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut.
His hammer this, and that his trowel quits,
And, wanting sense for tradesmen, ferve for wits.
By thriving men fubfifts each other trade;
Of every broken craft a writer 's made :
Thus his material, Paper, takes its birth
From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on earth.

Hail, fruitful ifle! to thee alone belong Millions of wits, and brokers in old fong; Thee well a land of liberty we name,

Where all are free to fcandal and to fhame;

Thy fons, by print, may fet their hearts at ease,
And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please;
Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sense
Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence:
This heavy profe our injur'd reafon tires;
Their verfe immortal kindles loofe defires:
Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime,
Our sport and pity, punishment and crime.
What glorious motives urge our Authors on,
Thus to undo, and thus to be undone !
One lofes his eftate, and down he fits,
To fhew (in vain !) he still retains his wits:
Another marries, and his dear proves keen;
He writes as an Hypnotic for the fpleen :
Some write, confin'd by phyfic; fʊme, by debt;
Some, for 'tis Sunday; fome, because 'tis wet;
Through private pique fome do the public right,
And love their king and country out of spight:
Another writes becaufe his father writ,

And proves himself a baftard by his wit.

Has Lico learning, humour, thought profound? Neither why write then? He wants twenty pound;

:

His belly, not his brains, this impulse give;
He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live:
He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream,
With no provision made, but of his theme;

Perhaps

Perhaps a title has his fancy fmit,

Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit:
He writes, in infpiration puts his trust,

Though wrong his thoughts, the gods will make them juft;

Genius directly from the gods descends,

And who by labour would diftrust his friends?
Thus having reafon'd with consummate skill,
In immortality he dips his quill:

And, fince blank paper is deny'd the press,
He mingles the whole alphabet by guess:
In various fets, which various words compose,
Of which, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows.
So founds fpontaneous from the Sibyl broke,
Dark to herself the wonders which the fpoke;
The priests found out the meaning, if they could;
And nations ftar'd at what none understood.

Clodio drefs'd, danc'd, drank, vifited, (the whole
And great concern of an immortal foul !)
Oft have I faid, “Awake! exist! and strive
For birth! nor think to loiter is to live!"

As oft I overheard the demon fay,

Who daily met the loiterer in his way,

"I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:" the youth replies,
"I'll meet thee there," and falls his facrifice;
His fortune fquander'd, leaves his virtue bare

To every bribe, and blind to every snare :
Clodio for bread his indolence muft quit,
Or turn a foldier, or commence a wit.

Such heroes have we! all, but life, they take;
How muft Spain tremble, and the German shake!

Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print;
Ev'n George's praife is dated from the Mint.
In arms contemptible, in arts prophane,

Such fwords, fuch pens, disgrace a monarch's reign.
Reform your lives before you thus afpire,
And steal (for you can freal) cœleftial fire.

O! the just contraft! O! the beauteous ftrife! 'Twixt their cool writings, and pindaric life: They write with phlegm, but then they live with fire ; They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer.

I reverence misfortune, not deride;

I pity poverty, but laugh at pride:

For who fo fad, but muft fome mirth confefs
At gay Caftruchio's mifcellaneous drefs?

Though there 's but one of the dull works he wrote,
There 's ten editions of his old lac'd coat.

Thefe, nature's commoners, who want a home,
Claim the wide world for their majestic dome;
They make a private study of the street;
And, looking full on every man they meet,
Run souse against his chaps; who stands amaz`d
To find they did not fee, but only gaz'd.
How must these bards be rapt into the skies?
You need not read, you feel their ecftafies.

Will they perfift? 'Tis madness; Lintot, run,
See them confin'd-" O, that 's already done."
Moft, as by leafes, by the works they print,
Have took, for life, poffeffion of the Mint.
If you mistake, and pity thefe poor men,
Eft ulubris, they cry, and write again.

VOL. III.

Suck

Such wits their nuifance manfully expofe,
And then pronounce juft judges learning's foes;
O frail conclufion; the reverse is true;

If foes to learning, they 'd be friends to you:
Treat them, ye judges! with an honest scorn,
And weed the cockle from the generous corn :
There 's true good-nature in your disrespect;
In juftice to the good, the bad neglect :
For immortality, if hardfhips plead,

It is not theirs who write, but ours who read.
But, O! what wisdom can convince a fool,
But that 'tis dulnefs to conceive him dull?
'Tis fad experience takes the cenfor's part,
Conviction, not from reafon, but from smart.
A virgin-author, recent from the prefs,
The fheets yet wet, applauds his great fuccefs;
Surveys them, reads them, takes their charms to bed,
Thofe in his hand, and glory in his head;

'Tis joy too great; a fever of delight!

His heart beats thick, nor clofe his eyes all night:
But, rifing the next morn to clasp his fame,

He finds that without fleeping he could dream;
So fparks, they say, take goddesses to bed,
And find next day the devil in their ftead.

In vain advertisements the town o'erspread;
They 're epitaphs, and fay the work is dead.
Who prefs for fame, but fmall recruits will raise;
'Tis voluntiers alone can give the bays.

A famous author vifits a great man,

Of his immortal work difplays the plan,