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

Shall we not censure 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 sloven, 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 sad;
Whether extremely witty, or quite mad;
Profoundly dull, or shallowly polite;
Men that read well, or men that only write;
Whether peers, porters, taylors, tune the reeds,
And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds ;
For bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are fhut,
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 subfifts each other trade; Of every

broken craft a writer 's made ; Thus his material, Paper, takes its birth From tatter'd rag's of all the stuff on earth.

Hail, fruitful isle ! to thee alone belong
Millions of wits, and brokers in old song ;
Thee well a land of liberty we name,
Where all are free to scandal and to shame;
Thy fons, by print, may set their hearts at ease,
And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please ;
Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sen
Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence :
This heavy profe our injur'd reafon tires ;
Their verse immortal kindles loose desires :
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 loses his estate, 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; fume, 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 because his father writ,
And proves himself a bustard 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

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Perhaps a title has his fancy smit,
Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit:
He writes, in inspiration puts his trust,
Though wrong his thoughts, the gods will make them jutt;
Genius directly from the gods descends,
And who by labour would distrust his friends ?
Thus having reason'd with consummate skill,
In immortality he dips his quill:
And, since blank paper is deny'd the press,
He mingles the whole alphabet by guess :
In various sets, which various words compose,
Of which, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows.

So sounds fpontaneous from the Sibyl broke,
Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke;
The priests found out the meaning, if they could;
And nations star'd at what none understood.

Clodio dress’d, danc'd, drank, visited, (the whole
And great concern of an immortal soul!)

Oft have I said, “ Awake! exist! and strive
imes For birth! nor think to loiter is to live !"
As oft I overheard the demon say,
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 sacrifice;
His fortune squander'd, leaves his virtue bare
To every bribe, and blind to every snare :
Clodio for bread his indolence must quit,
Or turn a foldier, or commence a wit.
Such heroes have we! all, but life, they stake;
How must Spain tremble, and the German shake!

Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print;
Ev'n George's praise is dated from the Mint.
In arms contemptible, in arts prophane,
Such swords, such pens, disgrace a monarch's reign.
Reform

your
lives before you

thus aspire, And steal (for you can steal) cælestial fire.

O! the just contrast! O! the beauteous strife! '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 so sad, but must fome mirth confefs
At gay Caftruchio's miscellaneous dress?
Though there 's but one of the dull works he wrote,
There 's ten editions of his old lac'd coat.

These, nature's commoners, who want a home,
Claim the wide world for their majestic dome រ
They make a private study of the treet;
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 ecstasies.

Will they persist? 'Tis madness; Lintot, run,
See them confin'd—-60, that 's already done."
Most, as by leases, by the works they print,
Have took, for life, possession of the Mint.
If
you

mistake, and pity these poor men, Eft uulubris, they cry, and write again. VOL. III.

Sucât

Such wits their nuisance manfully expose;
And then pronounce just judges learning's foes ;
O frail conclusion; 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 justice to the good, the bad neglect :
For immortality, if hardships plead,
It is not theirs who write, but ours who read.

But, O! what wisdom can convince a fool,
But that 'tis dulness to conceive him dull?
'Tis fad experience takes the cenfor's part,
Conviction, not from reason, but from smart.

A virgin-author, recent from the press,
The sheets yet wet, applauds his great success;
Surveys them, reads them, takes their charms to bed,
Those in his hand, and glory in his head ;
'Tis joy too great; a fever of delight !
His heart beats thick, nor close his eyes all night :
But, rising the next morn to clasp his fame,
He finds that without sleeping he could dream :
So sparks, they fay, take goddesses to bed,
And find next day the devil in their stead.

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

A famous author visits a great man, Of his immortal work displays the plan,

And

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