Perfius. This to me?

Friend. None; or what's next to none, but two or three. "Tis hard, I grant.

Perfius. "Tis nothing; I can bear

That paltry Scriblers have the Publick Ear:
That this vaft univerfal Fool, the Town,
Shou'd cry up1 Labeo's Stuff, and cry me down.
They damn themselves; nor will my Mufe defcend
To clap with fuch, who Fools and Knaves commend:
Their Smiles and Cenfures are to me the fame :
I care not what they praise, or what they blame.
Infull Affemblies let the Crowd prevail:
I weigh no Merit by the common Scale.
The Confcience is the Teft of ev'ry Mind;
Seek not thy felf, without thy felf, to find.
But where's that Roman?·

-Somewhat I wou'd say,
But fear; Let Fear, for once, to Truth give way.
Truth lends the Stoick Courage: When I look
On Human Acts, and read in Nature's Book,
From the first Paftimes of our Infant Age,
To elder Cares, and Man's feverer Page;
* When ftern as Tutors, and as Uncles hard,
We lash the Pupil, and defraud the Ward:
Then, then I fay, -or wou'd fay, if I durft
But thus provok'd, I must speak out, or burst.
Friend. Once more forbear.

Perfius. I cannot rule my Spleen;

My Scorn rebels, and tickles me within.
Firft, to begin at home: our Authors write
In lonely Rooms, fecur'd from publick fight;

1 Nothing is remaining of Atticus Labeo, (fo he is call'd by the Learned Cafaubon.) Nor is he mention'd by any other Poet befides Perfius: Cafaubon,

from an old Commentator on Perfus, fays, that he made very foolish Translation of H mer's Iliad,

Whether

Whether in Profe, or Verfe, 'tis all the fame:
The Profe is Fuftian, and the Numbers lame.
All Noise, and empty Pomp, a Storm of Words,
Lab'ring with Sound, that little Sense affords.
They 2 Comb, and then they order ev'ry Hair :
A Gown, or white, or fcourd to whiteness, wear :
A Birth-day Jewel bobbing at their Ear.
Next, gargle well their Throats, and thus prepar'd,
They mount, a God's Name, to be feen and heard.
From their high Scaffold; with a Trumpet Cheek:
And ogling all their Audience ere they speak.
The naufeous Nobles, ev'n the Chief of Rome,
With gaping Mouths to these Rehearsals come,
And pant with Pleasure, when fome lufty Line
The Marrow pierces, and invades the Chine.
At open fulfom Bawdry they rejoice,

And flimy Jefts applaud with broken Voice.
Base Prostitute, thus doft thou gain thy Bread?
Thus doft thou feed their Ears, and thus art fed?
At his own filthy Stuff he grins and brays:
And gives the Sign where he expects their Praise.
Why have I Learn'd, fay'ft thou, if thus confin'd,
I choke the Noble Vigour of my Mind?

Know, my wild 3 Fig-Tree, which in Rocks is bred,
Will split the Quarry, and shoot out the Head.
Fine Fruits of Learning ! Old ambitious Fool,
Dar'ft thou apply that Adage of the School;

2 He defcribes a Poet preparing himself to Rehearse his Works in Publick; which was commonly perform'd in Auguft. A Room was hir'd or lent by fome Friend; a Scaffold was rais'd, and a Pulpit placid for him, who was to hold forth; who borrow'd a

new Gown, or fcour'd his old one; and adorn'd his Ears with Jewels, &c.

3 Trees of that kind grow wild in many parts of Italy; and make their way through Rocks : Sometimes fplitting the Tomb-ftones.

As

As if'tis nothing worth that lies conceal'd:
And Science is not Science till Reveal'd?
Oh, but 'tis brave to be admir'd, to fee

The Crowd, with pointing Fingers, cry, That's he:
That's he whose wondrous Poem is become

A Lecture for the Noble Youth of Rome!
Who, by their Fathers, is at Feasts Renown'd;
And often quoted when the Bowls go round.
Full gorg'd and flush'd, they wantonly rehearse;
And add to Wine the Luxury of Verse.
One, clad in Purple, not to lose his Time,
Eats and recites fome lamentable Rhyme :
Some fenfeless Phillis, in a broken Note,
Snuffling at Nofe, and croaking in his Throat:
Then, graciously, the mellow Audience Nod:
Is not th' Immortal Author made a God?
Are not his Manes bleft, fuch Praise to have?
Lies not the Turf more lightly on his Grave?
And Rofes (while his loud Applause they fing,)
Stand ready from his Sepulcher to fpring?

All these, you cry, but light Objections are;
Meer Malice, and you drive the Jest too far.
For does there breathe a Man, who can reject
A gen'ral Fame, and his own Lines neglect ?
In 4 Cedar Tablets worthy to appear,

That need not Fish, or Frankincense to fear?
Thou, whom I make the adverse Part to bear,
Be answer'd thus: If I, by chance fucceed
In what I write (and that's a Chance indeed ;)
Know, I am not so stupid, or so hard,

Not to feel Praife, or Fame's deferv'd Reward:

}

be afraid of Frankincense; for the Papers in which they were written, were fit for nothing but to wrap it up.

But

But this I cannot grant, that thy Applause
Is my Work's ultimate, or only Caufe.
Prudence can ne'er propose fo mean a Prize;
For mark what Vanity within it lies.
Like Labeo's Iliads; in whofe Verfe is found
Nothing but trifling Care, and empty Sound:
Such little Elegies as Nobles write,
Who wou'd be Poets, in Apollo's fpight.

Them and their woful Works the Mufe defies:
Products of Citron Beds, and Golden Canopies.
To give thee all thy due, thou haft the Heart
To make a Supper, with a fine Deffert ;
And to thy thread-bare Friend, a caft old Sute impart.
Thus brib'd, thou thus bespeak'st him, Tell me, Friend,
(For I love Truth, nor can plain Speech offend,)
What fays the World of me and of my Mufe?

The Poor dare nothing tell but flatt'ring News:
But shall Ispeak? Thy Verfe is wretched Rhyme ;
And all thy Labours are but lofs of Time.
Thy ftrutting Belly fwells, thy Paunch is high;
Thou Writ'st not, but thou Piffeft Poetry.

All Authors, to their own Defects, are blind;
Hadft thou but, 6 Janus like, a Face behind,
To fee the People, what fplay-Mouths they make;
To mark their Fingers, pointed at thy Back:
Their Tongues loll'd out, a foot beyond the pitch,
When most a-thirst, of an Apulian Bitch:

5 Writings of Noblemen, I his Name, the first Month of whofe Bedsteads were of the Wood of Citron.

the Year is call'd January. He was Pictur'd with two Faces, one before, and one behind; as regarding the time paft, and the future. Some of the Mythologifts think he was Noah, for the Reason given above.

But

But Noble Scriblers are with Flatt'ry fed;

For none dare find their Faults, who eat their Bread.
To pass the Poets of Patrician Blood,

What is't the common Reader takes for good?
The Verse in fashion is, when Numbers flow,
Soft without Sense, and without Spirit flow:
So fmooth and equal, that no fight can find
The Rivet, where the polish'd Piece was join'd.
So even all, with such a steady View,
As if he shut one Eye to level true.
Whether the Vulgar Vice his Satyr ftings,
The People's Riots, or the Rage of Kings,
The gentle Poet is alike in all;

His Reader hopes no Rife, and fears no Fall.

Friend. Hourly we fee, fome raw pin-feather'd thing Attempt to mount, and Fights and Heroes fing; Who for falfe Quantities was whipt at School But t'other day, and breaking Grammar-Rule, Whose trivial Art was never try'd, above The bare defcription of a Native Grove: Who knows not how to praise the Country Store, The Feafts, the Baskets, nor the fatted Boar; Nor paint the flow'ry Fields that paint themselves before. Where Romulus was Bred, and Quintius Born, Whofe fhining Plough share was in Furrows worn, Met by his trembling Wife, returning home, And Ruftically joy'd, as Chief of Rome:

Where Romulus, &c. He fpeaks of the Country in the foregoing Verfes; the Praises of which, are the most eafy Theme for Poets; but which a bad Poet cannot naturally defcribe: Then he makes a

digreffion to Romulus the firft King of Rome, who had a Ru ftical Education; and enlarges upon Quintius Cincinnatus, a Roman Senator, who was call'd from the Plough to be Didator of Rome.

She