POEMS. THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY. M Y works are advertis'd for fale, And cenfures fly as thick as hail; While my poor scheme of publication What will the World fay? That's your cry. Who is this World? and what am I? Once, but thank heaven, those days are o'er, And perfecution reigns no more, One man, one hardy man alone, Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down. Who pass'd the sentence then? — the Town. Talks of the world, and means himself. Yet in the circle there are those Expatiates upon indiscretion; Flies from the Poems to the Man, And gratifies the favourite plan And build their own on that foundation. The Scholar grave, of tafte discerning, Who lives on credit for his learning, And And has no better claim to wit “ I'm sorry — and he's much to blame "It might amuse a friend or two, " And then 'twas wilful and abfurd, "(So well approv'd, fo well preferr'd,) Abruptly thus a place to quit, "A place which moft his genius hit, "The theatre for Latin wit! "With critics round him chafte and terfe, "To give a plaudit to his verfe!" Latin, I grant, shews college breeding, And some school-common-place of reading. But has in Moderns fmall pretenfion To real wit or strong invention. The excellence you critics praise Hangs on a curious choice of phrase ; Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish, For pedant wits to feed upon. Your wou'd-be Genii vainly feek Fame from their Latin verfe, or Greek; Who would for that be most admir'd Which blockheads may, and have acquir'd. A mere mechanical connection Of favourite words, Of phrases, a bare collection where the labour'd cento Presents you with a dull memento, How How Virgil, Horace, Ovid join, - Were I at once impower'd to fhew The love of letters, arts, or wit.. It |