They fo exactly poise the scale
That neither measure will prevail,
And mediocrity the Muse
Did never in her fons excufe.
'Tis true, their tawdry works are grac'd
With all the charms of modern taste,
And every fenfeless line is dreft
In quaint expreffion's tinfel veft.
Say did
you never chance to meet
A monfieur-barber in the street,
Whofe ruffle, as it lank depends,
And dangles o'er his fingers' ends,
His olive-tan'd complexion graces
With little dabs of Drefden laces,
While for the body Monfieur Puff,
Wou'd think e'en dowlas fine enough?
So fares it with our men of rhymes,
Sweet tinklers of poetic chimes.
For lace, and fringe, and tawdry cloaths,
Sure never yet were greater beaux;
But fairly ftrip them to the shirt,
They're all made up of rags and dirt.
And fhall these wretches bards commence
Without or spirit, taste, or sense?
And when they bring no other treasure,
Shall I admire them for their measure ?
Or do I fcorn the critic's rules
Because I will not learn of fools?
Although Longinus' full-mouth'd profe
With all the force of genius glows;
Though Dionyfius' learned taste
Is ever manly, juft, and chafte,
Who, like a skilful wife physician,
Diffects each part of compofition,
And fhews how beauty strikes the foul
From a just compact of the whole;
Though judgment, in Quintilian's page,
Holds forth her lamp for ev'ry age;
Yet Hypercritics I difdain,
A race of blockheads dull and vain,
And laugh at all those empty fools,
Who cramp a genius with dull rules,
And what their narrow science mocks
Damn with the name of Het'rodox.
These butchers of a poet's fame
While they ufurp the critic's name,
Cry- "This is tafte that's my opinion."
And poets dread their mock dominion.
So have you feen with dire affright, The petty monarch of the night, Seated aloft in elbow chair,
Command the prisoners to appear,
Harangue an hour on watchmen's praise,
And on the dire effect of frays;
"You'll fuffer for your daring,
"And d―n you, you fhall pay for fwearing."
Then turning tell th' astonish'd ring,
I fit to represent the KING.
The HARE and TORTOISE, 1757.
ENIUS, bleft term, of meaning wide,
For fure no term fo mifapply'd,
How many bear thy facred name,
That never felt a real flame!
Proud of the fpecious appellation,
Thus fools have chriften'd inclination.
But yet fuppofe a genius true,
Exempli gratia, me or you:
Whate'er he tries with due attention,
Rarely escapes his apprehension ;
Surmounting ev'ry opposition,
You'd fwear he learnt by intuition.
Shou'd he rely alone on parts,
And study therefore but by starts?
Sure of fuccefs whene'er he tries,
Should he forego the means to rise ?
Suppose your watch a Graham make, Gold, if you will, for value fake; Its springs within in order due, No watch, when going, goes fo 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 fometimes it seems to rife:
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 fung, When use of speech was not confin'd,
Merely to brutes of human kind,
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