Honour she held at bold defiance, Talk'd much of faction, gang, alliance, As if the real sons of taste

Had clubb'd to lay a desert 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, lie, compare, To pull the modest maiden down, And blast her fame to all the town.

The youth, inflam'd with conscious pride, To prince Posterity apply'd, Who gave his answer thus in rhyme, By his chief minister, old Time:

"Repine not at what pedants say,
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 strength is in its prime, my boy,
And ev'ry year thy vigour grows,
Impairs the credit of my foes.
Envy shall sink, and be no more
Than what her Naiads were before;
Mere excremental maggots, bred,
In poet's topsy-turvy head,
Born like a momentary fly,
To flutter, buzz about, and die.

"Yet, Genius, mark what I presage,
Who look through every distant age:
Merit shall bless thee with her charms,
Fame lift thy offspring in her arms,
And stamp eternity of grace
On all thy numerous various race.
Roubilliac, Wilton, names as high
As Phidias of antiquity,

Shall strength, expression, manner give,
And make e'en marble breathe and live;
While Sigismunda's deep distress,
Which looks the soul of wretchedness,
When I, with slow and soft'ning pen,
Have gone o'er all the tints again,
Shall urge a bold and proper claim
To level half the ancient fame;
While future ages yet unknown
With critic air shall proudly own
Thy Hogarth first of every clime
For humour keen, or strong sublime,
And hail him from his fire and spirit,
The child of Genius and of Merit."

THE HARE AND TORTOISE. 1757.
A FABLE.

GENIUS, blest term, of meaning wide,
For sure no term so misapply'd,
How many bear thy sacred name,
That never felt a real flame!
Proud of the specious appellation,
Thus fools bave christen'd inclination.

But yet suppose a genius true,
Exempli gratiâ, me or you:

Whate'er he tries with due attention,
Rarely escapes his apprehension;
Surmounting every opposition,
You'd swear he learnt by intuition.
Shou'd he rely alone on parts,
And study therefore but by starts,
Sure of success whene'er he tries,
Should he forego the means to rise?

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

Some genial spark of Phoebus' rays,
Perhaps within your bosom plays:
O how the purer rays aspire,
If application fans the fire!
Without it genius vainly tries,
Howe'er sometimes it seem to rise:
Nay application will prevail,
When braggart parts and genius fail:
And now to lay my proof before ye,
I here present you with a story,

In days of yore, when Time was young,
When birds convers'd as well as sung,
When use of speech was not confin'd
Merely to brutes of human kind,
A forward Hare, of swiftness vain,
The genius of the neighb'ring plain,
Wou'd oft deride the drudging crowd:
For geniuses are ever proud.

He'd boast, his flight 't were vain to follow,
For dog and horse he'd beat them hollow,
Nay, if he put forth all his strength,
Outstrip his brethren half a length.

A Tortoise heard his vain oration,
And vented thus his indignation.
"Oh Puss, it bodes thee dire disgrace,
When I defy thee to thy race.
Come, 't is a match, nay, no denial,

I lay my shell upon the trial."

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

The scamp'ring Hare outstript the wind,
The creeping Tortoise lagg'd behind,
And scarce had pass'd a single pole,
When Puss had almost reach'd the goal.
"Friend Tortoise," quoth the jeering Hare,
Your burthen's more than you can bear,
To help your speed, it were as well
That I should ease you of your sheil:
Jog on a little faster pr'ythee,
I'll take a nap, and then be with thee."
So said, so done, and safely sure,
For say, what conquest more secure?
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 still resolv'd to persevere,
Still draw'd along, as who should say,
"I'll win, like Fabius, by delay;"
On to the goal securely crept,
While Puss unknowing soundly slept.

The bets were won, the Hare awake,
When thus the victor Tortoise spake :
"Puss, tho' I own thy quicker parts,
Things are not always done by starts,
You may deride my awkward pace,
But slow and steady wins the race."

THE SATYR AND PEDLAR. 1757.
WORDS are, so Wollaston defines,
Of our ideas merely signs,

Which have a pow'r at will to vary,
As being vague and arbitrary.
Now dimn'd for instance-all agree,
Damn'd's the superlative degree;
Means that alone, and nothing more,
However taken heretofore;

Damn'd is a word can't stand alone,
Which has no meaning of its own,
But signifies or bad or good

Just as its neighbour's understood.
Examples we may find enough.

THE NIGHTINGALE, THE OWL, AND THE CUCKOO,

A FABLE; ADDRESSED TO DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.
ON THE REPORT OF HIS RETIRING FROM THE
STAGE, DEC. 1760.

CRITICS, who like the scarecrows stand
Upon the poet's common land,

And with severity of sense,
Drive all imagination thence,
Say that in truth lies all sublime,
Whether you write in prose or rhyme.
And yet the truth may lose its grace,
If blurted to a person's face;
Especially if what you speak

stuff.

So fares it too with its relation,
I mean its substantive, damnation.
The wit with metaphors makes bold,
And tells you he's damnation cold;
Perhaps, that metaphor forgot,
The self-same wit's damnation hot.
And here a fable I remember-
Once in the middle of December, *
When ev'ry mead in snow is lost,
And ev'ry river bound with frost,
When families get all together,
And feelingly talk o'er the weather;
When-pox on the descriptive rhyme-
In short it was the winter time.
It was a Pedlar's happy lot,
To fall into a Satyr's cot:
Shiv'ring with cold, and almost froze,
With pearly drop upon his nose,
His fingers' ends all pinch'd to death,
He blew upon them with his breath.

"Friend," quoth the Satyr, "what intends That blowing on thy fingers' ends ?" "It is to warm them thus I blow, For they are froze as cold as snow. And so inclement has it been,

I'm like a cake of ice within."

Come," quoth the Satyr, "comfort, man!
I'll cheer thy inside, if I can;

You're welcome in my homely cottage
To a warm fire, and mess of pottage."
This said, the Satyr, nothing loth,
A bowl prepar'd of sav'ry broth,
Which with delight the Pedlar view'd,
As smoking on the board it stood.
But, though the very steam arose
With grateful odour to his nose,
One single sip he ventur'd not,
The gruel was so wond'rous hot.
What can be done?—with gentle puff
He blows it, 'till it's cool enough.

"Why how now, Pedlar, what's the matter?
Still at thy blowing!" quoth the Satyr.
I blow to cool it," cries the clown,
That I may get the liquor down:
For though I grant, you've made it well,
You've boil'd it, sir, as hot as Hell."
Then raising high his cloven stump,
The Satyr smote him on the rump.
Begone, thou double knave, or fool,
With the same breath to warm and cool:
Friendship with such I never hold
Who're so damn'd hot, and so damn'd cold."

For when you throw that slaver o'er him,
And tumble out your praise before him,
However just the application,

It looks a-squint at adulation.

I would be honest and sincere,
But not a flatterer, or severe.
Need I be surly, rough, uncouth,
That folks may think I love the Truth?
And she, good dame, with beauty's queen,
Was not at all times naked seen:
For every boy, with Prior, knows,
By accident she lost her clothes,
When Falshood stole them to disguise
Her misbegotten brood of lies.

Why should the prudish goddess dwell
Down at the bottom of a well,
But that she is in piteous fright,
Lest, rising up to mortal sight,

The modest world should fleer and flout her,
With not a rag of clothes about her?
Yet she might wear a proper dress
And keep her essence ne'ertheless.
So Delia's bosom still will rise,
And fascinate her lover's eyes,
Though round her ivory neck she draws
The decent shade of specious gauze.
I hear it buzz'd about the table,
"What can this lead to?"-Sirs,

A FABLE.

When birds allow'd the Eagle's sway,
Ere Eagles turn'd to fowls of prey,
His royal majesty of Air

Took Music underneath his care;
And, for his queen and court's delight,
Commanded concerts ev'ry night.
Here every bird of parts might enter,
The Nightingale was made præcentor;
Under whose care and just direction,
Merit was sure to meet protection.
The Lark, the Blackbird, and the Robin
This concert always bore a bob in:
The best performers all were in it,
The Thrush, Canary-bird, and Linnet.

But birds, alas! are apt to aim
At things, to which they've smallest claim.
The staring Owl, with hideous hoot,
Offer'd his service for a flute.

The Cuckoo needs would join the band;
"The Thrush is but a paltry hand:
And I can best supply that place,
For I've a shake, a swell, a grace.'

The manager their suit preferr'd:
Both tun'd their pipes, and both were heard;

Yet each their several praises miss'd,
For both were heard, and both were hiss'd.
The Cuckoo hence, with rancour stirr'd,
(A kind of periodic bird,

Of nasty hue, and body scabby,

No would-be-play-wright half so shabby)
Reviles, abuses, and defames,

Screams from a branch, and calls hard names,
And strikes at Nightingale or Lark,
Like Lisbon ruffians, in the dark.

The Owl harangues the gaping throng
On pow'rs, and excellence of song,
"The Blackbird's note has lost its force;
The Nightingale is downright hoarse;
The Linnet's harsh; the Robin shrill;
-The Sparrow has prodigious skill!"

At length they had what they desir'd;
The skilful Nightingale retir'd.
When Folly came, with wild Uproar,
And Harmony was heard no more.

A TALE.

VENUS, of laughter queen and love,
The greatest demirep above,
Who scorn'd restriction, hated custom,
Knew her own sex too well to trust 'em,
Proceeded on the noble plan,

At any rate, to have her man;
Look'd on decorum as mere trash,
And liv'd like *** and ***,
From Paphos, where they her revere
As much as we do Cælia here,
Or from Cythera, where her altars
Are deck'd with daggers, true-love halters,
Garters yclept, and other trophies,
Which prove that man in love an oaf is,
According to appointment, came
To see Cæcilia, tuneful dame,
Whose praise by Dryden's Ode is grown
'Bright and immortal as his own;
And who hath been for many years
The chief directress of the spheres.

Thomas, who rode behind the car,
And for a flambeau held a star,
Who, in the honest way of trade,

Hath forg'd more horns, and cuckolds made,
Than Vulcan and his brawny dolts
Ever for Jove forg'd thunderbolts,
Slipt gently down, and ran before 'em,
Ringing the bell with due decorum.

But, truth to say, I cannot tell
Whether it knocker was or bell,
(This for Vertù an anecdote is,)
Which us'd to give Cæcilia notice,
When any lady of the sky
Was come to bear her company.
But this I'm sure, be which it will,
Thomas perform'd his part with skill.
Methinks I hear the reader cry-
"His part with skill? why, you or I,
Or any body else, as well
As Thomas, sure, could ring a bell,
Nor did I ever hear before
Of skill in knocking at a door."

Poor low-liv'd creature! I suppose,
Nay, and am sure, you're one of those
Who, at what door so'er they be,
Will always knock in the same key.

Thinking that bell and knocker too
Were found out nothing else to do,
But to inform the house, no doubt,
That there was somebody without,
Who, if they might such favour win,
Would rather choose to be within.

But had our servants no more sense,
Lord! what must be the consequence?
Errour would errour still pursue,
And strife and anarchy ensue,
Punctilio from her altar hurl'd,
Whence she declares unto the world
Whate'er by Fancy is decreed,
Through all her niceties must bleed,

For if there was not to be found
Some wholesome difference of sound,
But the same rap foretold th' approach
Of him who walk'd, or rode in coach,
A poor relation now and then,
Might to my lord admittance gain,
When his good lordship hop'd to see
Some rascal of his own degree;
And, what is more unhappy still,
The stupid wretch who brings a bill,
Might pass through all the motley tribe,
As free as one, who brings a bribe.

My lady too might pique her grace
With carriage stiff and formal face,
Which, she deceiv'd, had taken care
For some inferior to prepare;

Or might some wretch from Lombard-street
With greater ease and freedom meet,
Than sense of honour will admit
Between my lady and a cit.

Those evils wisely to prevent,
And root out care and discontent,
Ev'ry gay smart, who rides behind,
With rose and bag in taste refin❜d,
Must music fully understand,
Have a nice ear and skilful hand;
At ev'ry turn be always found
A perfect connoisseur in sound;
Through all the gamut skilful fly,
Varying his notes, now low, now high,
According as he shifts his place;
Now hoarsely grumbling in the base,
Now turning tenor, and again
To treble raising his shrill strain;
So to declare, where'er he be,
His master's fortune and degree,
By the distinguishing address,
Which he'll upon the door express.
Thomas, whom I have nam'd before
As ringing at Cæcilia's door,
Was perfect master of this art,
And vers'd alike in ev'ry part:
So that Cæcilia knew, before
Her footman came unto the door,
And in due form had told her so,
That madam Venus was below.

The doors immediate open flew,
The goddess, without more ado,
Displaying beauty's thousand airs,
Skim'd through the hall, and trip'd up stairs.
Cæcilia met her with a smile

Of great delight, when all the while,
If her false heart could have been seen,
She wish'd she had at Cyprus been.

But ladies, skill'd in forms and arts,
Don't in their faces wear their hearts,

And those above, like those below,
Deal frequently in outside show,
And always to keep up parade,
Have a smile by them ready made.

The forms, which ladies when they meet
Must for good manners' sake repeat,
As "humble servant, how d'you do,"
And in return, "
pray how are you?"

Enrich'd at ev'ry proper space
With due integuments of lace,
As madam, grace, and goddeship,
Which we for brevity shall skip,
Happily past, in elbow-chair
At length our ladies seated are.

Indiffrent subjects first they choose,
And talk of weather and the news.
That done, they sit upon the state,
And snarl at the decrees of Fate,
Invectives against Jove are hurl'd,
And they alone should rule the world.
Dull politics at length they quit,
And by ill-nature show their wit;
For hand in hand, too well we know,
These intimates are said to go,
So that where either doth preside
T'other's existence is implied.
The man of wit, so men decree,
Must without doubt ill-natur'd be;
And the ill-natur'd scarce forgets
To rank himself among the wits.
Malicious Venus, who by rote
Had ev'ry little anecdote,
And most minutely could advance
Each interesting circumstance,
Which unto all intrigues related,
Since Jupiter the world created,
Display'd her eloquence with pride,
Hinted, observ'd, enlarg'd, applied;
And not the reader to detain
With things impertinent and vain,
She did, as ladies do on Earth
Who cannot bear a rival's worth,
In such a way each tale rehearse

As good made bad, and bad made worse:
Cæcilia too, with saint-like air,
But lately come from evening pray'r,
Who knew her duty, as a saint,
Always to pray, and not to faint,
And, rain or shine, her church ne'er mist,
Prude, devotee, and methodist,
With equal zeal the cause promoted,
Misconstru'd things, and words misquoted,
Misrepresented, misapplied,
And, Inspiration being her guide,
The very heart of man dissected,
And to his principles objected.
Thus, amongst us, the sanctified,
In all the spirituals of pride,

Whose honest consciences ne'er rested,
Till, of carnalities divested,

They knew and felt themselves t'inherit
A double portion of the spirit:
Who from one church to t'other roam,
Whilst their poor children starve at home,
Consid'ring they may claim the care
Of Providence, who sent them there,
And therefore certainly is tied
To see their every want supplied;
Who unto preachers give away,
That which their creditors should pay,

And hold that chosen vessels must
Be generous before they're just,
And that their charity this way

Shall bind o'er Heaven their debts to pay,
And serve their temp'ral turn, no doubt,
Better than if they'd put it out,
Whilst nought hereafter can prevent
Their sure reward of cent per cent;
Who honest labour scorn, and say
None need to work who love to pray,
For Heav'n will satisfy their cravings,
By sending of Elijah's ravens,

Or rain down, when their spirits fail,
A dish of manna, or a quail;

Who from Moorfields to Tottenham Court
In furious fits of zeal resort,

Praise what they do not understand,

Turn up the eye, stretch out the hand,
Melt into tears, whilst

blows

The twang of nonsense through his nose, deals in speculation,

Or

Or

Or

hums his congregation,

talks with the lord of hosts, with pillars and with posts; Who strictly watch, lest Satan shou'd, Roaring like lion for his food, Ensnare their feet his fatal trap in, And their poor souls be taken napping; Who strictly fast, because they find, The flesh still wars against the mind, And flesh of saints, like sinner's, must Be mortified, to keep down lust; Who four times in the year at least, Join feast of love to love of feast, Which, though the profligate and vain In terms of blasphemy prophane, Yet all the ceremony here is Pure as the mysteries of Ceres; Who, God's elect, with triumph feel Within themselves Salvation's seal, And will not, must not, dare not doubt, That Heav'n itself can't blot it out; After they've done their holy labours, Return to scandalize their neighbours, And think they can't serve Heav'n so well, As with its creatures filling Hell: So that, inflam'd with holy pride, They save themselves, damn all beside. For persons, who pretend to feel The glowings of uncommon zeal, Who others scorn, and seem to be Righteous in very great degree, Do, 'bove all others, take delight To vent their spleen in tales of spite, And think they raise their own renown By pulling of a neighbour's down; Still lying on with most success, Because they charity profess, And make the outside of religion, Like Mahomet's inspiring pigeon, To all their forgeries gain credit, 'Tis enough sure that said it. "But what can all this rambling mean? Was ever such an hodge-podge seen? Venus, Cæcilia, saints and whores, Thomas, Vertú, bells, knockers, doors,

Lords, rogues, relations, ladies, cits,

Stars, flambeaux, thunderbolts, horns, wits,
Vulcan, and cuckold-maker, scandal,
Music, and footmen, ear of Hand',

Weather, news, envy, politics,

Intrigues, and women's thousand tricks, Prudes, methodists, and devotees, Fastings, feasts, pray'rs, and charities, Ceres, with her mysterious train,

and

Flesh, spirit, love, hate, and religion,
A quail, a raven, and a pigeon,
All jumbled up in one large dish,
Red-herring, bread, fowl, flesh, and fish.

"Where's the connection, where's the plan? The devil sure is in the man.

All in an instant we are hurl'd

From place to place all round the world,
Yet find no reason for it"-Mum-
There, my good critic, lies the hum-
"Well, but methinks, it would avail
To know the end of this"-A TALE.

SHAKSPEARE;

AN EPISTLE TO MR. GARRICK.

THANKS to much industry and pains,
Much twisting of the wit and brains,
Translation has unlock'd the store,
And spread abroad the Grecian lore,
While Sophocles his scenes are grown
E'en as familiar as our own.

No more shall Taste resume to speak
From its enclosures in the Greek;
But, all its fences broken down,
Lie at the mercy of the town.

Critic, I hear thy torrent rage,
"Tis blasphemy against that stage,
Which schylus his warmth design'd,
Euripides his taste refin'd,

And Sophocles his last direction
Stamp'd with the signet of perfection."
Perfection! 't is a word ideal,
That bears about it nothing real:
For excellence was never hit
In the first essays of man's wit.
Shall ancient worth, or ancient fame
Preclude the moderns from their claim?
Must they be blockheads, dolts, and fools,
Who write not up to Grecian rules?
Who tread in buskins or in socks.
Must they be damn'd as heterodox,
Nor merit of good works prevail,
Except within the classic pale?

'Tis stuff that bears the name of knowledge,
Not current half a mile from college:
Where half their lectures yield no more
(Besure I speak of times of yore)
Than just a niggard light, to mark
How much we all are in the dark:

As rushlights in a spacious room,
Just burn enough to form a gloom.

When Shakspeare leads the mind a dance,
From France to England, hence to France,
Talk not to me of time and place;
I own I'm happy in the chase.
Whether the drama's here or there,
'Tis Nature, Shakspeare, every where.
The poet's fancy can create,
Contract, enlarge, annihilate,

Bring past and present close together,
In spite of distance, seas, or weather;

And shut up in a single action

What cost whole years in its transaction,
So, ladies at a play, or rout,
Can flirt the universe about,
Whose geographical account

Is drawn and pictured on the mount:
Yet, when they pleases, contract the plan,
And shut the world up in a fan.

True genius, like Armida's wand,
Can raise the spring from barren land.
While all the art of imitation,

Is pilf'ring from the first creation;
Transplanting flowers, with useless toil,
Which wither in a foreign soil.
As conscience often sets us right
By its interior active light,
Without th' assistance of the laws
To combat in the moral cause;
So genius, of itself discerning,
Without the mystic rules of learning,
Can, from its present intuition,
Strike at the truth of composition.

Yet those who breathe the classic vein, Enlisted in the mimic train,

Who ride their steed with double bit,
Ne'er run away with by their wit,
Delighted with the pomp of rules,
The specious pedantry of schools,
(Which rules, like crutches, ne'er became
Of any use but to the lame)
Pursue the method set before 'em;
Talk much of order, and decorum,
Of probability of fiction,

Of manners, ornaments, and diction,
And with a jargon of hard names,
(A privilege which duluess claims,
And merely us'd by way of fence,
To keep out plain and common sense)
Extol the wit of ancient days,
The simple fabric of their plays;
Then from the fable, all so chaste,
Trick'd up in ancient-modern taste,
So mighty gentle all the while,
In such a sweet descriptive style,
While chorus marks the servile mode
With fine reflection, in an ode,
Present you with a perfect piece,
Form'd on the model of old Greece.
Come, pr'ythee critic, set before us,
The use and office of a Chorus.
What! silent! why then, I'll produce
Its services from ancient use.

'Tis to be ever on the stage,
Attendants upon grief or rage;
To be an arrant go-between,
Chief-mourner at each dismal scene;
Showing its sorrow, or delight,
By shifting dances, left and right,
Not much unlike our modern notions,
Adagio or allegro motions;

To watch upon the deep distress,
And plaints of royal wretchedness;
And when, with tears and execration,
They've pour'd out all their lamentation,
And wept whole cataracts from their eyes,
To call on rivers for supplies,

And with their Hais, and Hees, and Hoes,
To make a symphony of woes.

Doubtless the ancients want the art To strike at once upon the heart: