Others, who aim at fancy, chufe To wooe the gentle Spenser's Mufe. This poet fixes for his theme

An allegory, or a dream ;

Fiction and truth together joins

Through a long wafte of flimfy lines;

Fondly believes his fancy glows,

And image upon image grows;

Thinks his strong Mufe takes wond'rous flights,

Whene'er fhe fings of peerlefs wights,

Of dens, of palfreys, fpells and knights: 'Till allegory, Spenfer's veil

T' inftruct and please in moral tale,

With him's no veil the truth to fhroud,
But one impenetrable cloud.

Others, more daring, fix their hope

On rivaling the fame of Pope.

Satyr's the word, against the times

These catch the cadence of his rhymes,

And borne from earth by Pope's ftrong wings,

Their Muse aspires, and boldly flings

Her dirt up in the face of kings.

In

In these the spleen of Pope we find ;
But where the greatnefs of his mind?
His numbers are their whole pretence,
Mere strangers to his manly sense.

Some few, the fav'rites of the Muse,
Whom with her kindest eye the views;
Round whom Apollo's brightest rays
Shine forth with undiminish'd blaze;
Some few, my friend, have fweetly trod
In Imitation's dangerous road.
Long as Tobacco's mild perfume
Shall scent each happy curate's room,
Oft as in elbow-chair he fmokes,

And quaffs his ale, and cracks his jokes,
So long, O* Brown, shall last thy praise,
Crown'd with Tobacco-leaf for bays;
And whofoe'er thy verfe fhall fee,

Shall fill another Pipe to thee.

Ifaac Hawkins Brown, Efq. author of a piece call'd the Pipe of

Tobacco, a moft excellent imitation of fix different authors.

EPISTLE to J. B. Efq. 1757.

A

GAIN I urge my old objection,

That modern rules obftruct perfection,

And the severity of Taste

Has laid the walk of genius wafte.
Fancy's a flight we deal no more in,

Our authors creep instead of foaring,
And all the brave imagination.

Is dwindled into declamation.

But ftill you cry in fober sadness,
"There is discretion e'en in madness."
A pithy fentence, which wants credit!
Because I find a poet said it:

Their verdict makes but fmall impreffion,
Who are known liars by profeffion.

Rife what exalted flights it will,

True genius will be genius ftill;

And

And say, that horse wou'd you prefer,
Which wants a bridle or a fpur?

The mettled fteed may lose his tricks;
The jade grows callous to your kicks.

Had Shakespeare crept by modern rules,
We'd loft his Witches, Fairies, Fools:
Instead of all that wild creation,
He'd form'd a regular plantation,

A garden trim, and all inclos'd,
In nicest symmetry difpos'd,
The hedges cut in proper order,
Nor e'en a branch beyond the border :
Now like a forest he appears,

The growth of twice three hundred years,

Where many a tree afpiring fhrouds

Its airy fummit in the clouds,

While round its root ftill love to twine

The ivy or wild eglantine.

"But Shakespeare's all-creative fancy

"Made others love extravagancy,

"While

"While cloud-capt nonsense was their aim,
"Like Hurlothrumbo's mad lord Flame."

True who can stop dull imitators?
Those younger brothers of translators,
Those infects, which from genius rise,
And buzz about, in fwarms, like flies?
Fashion, that sets the modes of dress,
Sheds too her influence o'er the prefs:
As formerly the fons of rhyme
Sought Shakespeare's fancy and fublime,
By cool correctness now they hope
To emulate the praise of Pope.
But Pope and Shakespeare both disclaim
These low retainers to their fame.

What task can dulnefs e'er affect

So easy, as to write correct?
Poets, 'tis faid, are sure to split
By too much or too little wit;

So, to avoid th' extremes of either,

They miss their mark and follow neither;

They