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A few good works gain fame more fink their price;
Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice:
They granted you writ well, what can they more,

do;

Unless you
let them praise for giving o'er?
Do boldly what you
and let your page
Smile, if it fmiles, and if it rages, rage.
So faintly Lucius censures and commends,
That Lucius has no foes, except his friends.

Let fatire lefs engage you than applause;
It fhews a generous mind to wink at flaws:
Is genius yours? Be yours a glorious end,
Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend
The public glory by your own beget;

Run nations, run pofterity, in debt.

And fince the fam'd alone make others live,
First have that glory you prefume to give.

If fatire charms, ftrike faults, but spare the man ; 'Tis dull to be as witty as you can.

Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high;
Round your own fame the fatal fplinters fly.
As the foft plume gives fwiftness to the dart,
Good-breeding fends the fatire to the heart.
Painters and furgeons may the firucture scan
Genius and morals be with you the man:
Defaults in thofe alone fhould give offence!
Who ftrikes the person, pleads his innocence.
My narrow-minded fatire can't extend

To Codrus' form; I'm not so much his friend :
Himself fhould publish that (the world agree)
Before his works, or in the pillory..

Let

Let him be black, fair, tall, fhort, thin, or fat,
Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that.

Is that call'd humour? It has this pretence,
'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, or sense.
Unless you boaft the genius of a Swift,
Beware of humour, the dull rogue's last shift.

Can others write like you? Your task give o'er,
'Tis printing what was publish'd long before.
If nought peculiar through your labours run,
They 're duplicates, and twenty are but one.
Think frequently, think close, read nature, turn
Mens manners o'er, and half your volumes burn;
To nurfe with quick reflexion be your strife,
Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life;
When moft unfought, fuch infpirations rise,
Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wife:
Expect peculiar fame from these alone;
These make an author, these are all your own.
Life, like their bibles, coolly men turn o'er;
Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore.
True, all men think of course, as all men dream;
And if they flightly think, 'tis much the fame.
Letters admit not of a half-renown;

They give you nothing, or they give a crown.
No work e'er gain'd true fame, or ever can,
But what did honour to the name of man.

Weighty the fubject, cogent the difcourfe,
Clear be the ftyle, the very found of force;
Eafy the conduct, fimple the defign,
Striking the moral, and the foul divine

Let

Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed;

O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your Creed:
Thus virtue's feeds, at once, and laurel's, grow;
Do thus, and rife a Pope, or a Defpreau:

And when your genius exquifitely fhines,

Live

up to the full luftre of your

lines:

Parts but expose those men who virtue quit ;
A fallen angel is a fallen wit;

And they plead Lucifer's detefted cause,
Who for bare talents challenge our applause.
Would you reftore juft honours to the pen?
From able writers rife to worthy men.

"Who's this with nonfenfe, nonsense would restrain?` "Who's this (they cry) fo vainly schools the vain? "Who damns our trafh, with fo much trash replete ? "As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat ?'' Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt,

And challenge all mankind to find one fault?
With huge examens overwhelm my page,
And darken reason with dogmatic rage ?
As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme,
In profe a duller could excufe the crime?
Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing
Is gravely to harangue on what we fing.
At that tribunal ftands the writing tribe,
Which nothing can intimidate or bribe,
Time is the judge; Time has nor friend nor foe;
Falfe fame must wither, and the true will grow.
Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy;

For if I fall, by my own pen I die;

While

While fnarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain,
To wound immortals, or to flay the flain.

Sore preft with danger, and in awful dread
Of twenty pamphlets level'd at my head,
Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain,
Of recent form, to ferve me this campaign;
And fafely hope to quit the dreadful field
Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my fhield;
Unless dire Codrus roufes to the fray

In all his might, and damns me-for a day.

As turns a flock of geefe, and, on the green, Poke out their foolish necks in aukward fpleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to bifs, not bite,

So war their quills, when fons of dulness write.

AN

AN EPISTLE

то

THE RIGHT HON. SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

BY MR. DODDINGTO N.

THO

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HOUGH ftrength of genius, by experience taught, Gives thee to found the depths of human thought, To trace the various workings of the mind,

And rule the secret springs, that rule mankind;
(Rare gift!) yet, Walpole, wilt thou condefcend
To listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend

Can aught of use impart, though void of skill,
And win attention by fincere good-will;
For friendship, fometimes, want of parts fupplies,
The heart may furnish what the head denies.

As when the rapid Rhone, o'er fwelling tides,
To grace old Ocean's court, in triumph rides,
Though rich his fource, he drains a thousand springs,
Nor fcorns the tribute each small rivulet brings.
So thou shalt, hence, absorb each feeble ray,
Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day;
Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse,
Since no mean interest shall prophane the Muse,

VOL. III.

P

No

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