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Then bids the thing in new editions take
Some faint resemblance to the epic make!
Aping the labours of the mother bear,
Who licks, 'tis said, with fond and pious care,
Her unformed offspring, till its limbs receive
All the proportions that a bear can give.
'Tis true my lips ne'er touched Castalia's stream,
Nor did I ever on Parnassus dream,
Nor ever wished : I supplicate no Muse
To stimulate my fancy, to infuse
Spirit and energy, to fire my brain,
Or quicken my reluctant lagging strain;


I shall not attempt to deny that the poem here alluded to abounds in descriptive passages which are entitled to approbation; but I confess myself to be so far confined by narrow and illiberal prejudices, as by some persons they are termed: as to look with no applauding eye upon the spirit of a work manifestly tending to place the national character in an unfavourable point of view, and to exalt, at its expence, a power with which, when that poem was published, this country was engaged in a most grievous and destructive war. I should be sorry to join those who say, “ Harry, thy wish was father to that thought:” at best the spirit of the work was ill-timed, and adds another to the many existing proofs of the justice of Plato's remark, Egowy sy av xai zipo twn Ποιητων εν ολιγω τετο, οτι και Σοφια σoιoιεν ασoιoιεν.

a Nec fonte labra prolui Caballino:

Nec in bicipiti somniasse Parnasso


Let but my indignation breathe its fire, a
'Tis all the inspiration I desire;
This shall point out the vice I ought to curse,
And give an honest ardour to my verse ;
This shall point out the coxcomb and the fool,
Nor let me want fit terms of ridicule........

F. But why this warmth?

A. Warmth! heavens! is there no cause? Look round; see dukes and marquisses pull straws; See viscounts, earls, and barons, fixed in state, To view...a race of maggots o'er a plate : Their wives and daughters, equally refined, To faro wholly dedicate the mind; These, like their sires and lords, their thousands

bet, Lose they? their honour may discharge the debt.

Memini, ut repente sic poeta prodirem.
Helicondiasque, pallidamque Pyrenen
Illis remitto, &c.


a Non, non, sur ce sujet pour ecrire avec grace

Il ne faut pas monter au sommeil de Parnasse ;
Et sans aller rever dans le double vallon,
La collere suffit, et vaut un Apollon.


See tradesmen ape the vices of the great,
Game, whore, and, though they break for't, eat off


F. Why this is madness in its wildest strains, Worthy strait waistcoats, straw, rods, whips, and

chains; Some ranting methodist your brain has fed With frenzied railings, and has turned your head.

A. Still 'tis all truth....and sure this frantic age Might justify the last extremes of rage. When Virtue quakes upon her tottering throne At crimes to Roman satirists unknown; When Ignorance and Vice in compact stand, Spreading Egyptian darkness o'er the land; When, though we cast a longing eye around, Free from the plague no Goshen may be found ; When loud sham-patriots shout in treason's cause, When lucky villains mock the baffled laws, When vainly Kenyon bared his arın to throw a The bolts of justice against Virtue’s foe ;

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* Ει δε τoσετον απηντηκα τα καιρο δευτερος και μελα τοσετες επαινέσας ιδια τε και δημοσια τα εκεινε σεμνυνανίας, μηδεις θαυμαζετο. Αλλα συγ[ινωσκετω μεν η θεια ψυχη, και παντ' εμοι σεβασμια, και νυν, και προσωτερον.


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While yet, by upright Eldon's frown unawed,
Still swell extortion, peculation, fraud;
Is this a time my passion's rage to rein,
To smooth my verse, or qualify my strain,
To pause for softening terms, or meanly fear,
To shock with simple truth a rascal's ear?
Perish the thought! be dumb the treacherous

That bids me lose the roughness of my song!
No gentle lash makes Vice or folly sore,
Who bids them feel must cut them to the core,
Not tickle them, as if 'twixt sport and ire,
But use the fierceness of the caustic's fire.

F. Such is the plea of all who wanting skill Adroitly and with art their prey to kill, Treat it with all the rudeness of a clown, And, just like bungling butchers, knock it down.

A. It needs no skill to call owls dull and grave, To call a cat a cat, or Snob a knave. a .

a Je ne puis rien nommer, si ce n'est par son nom, J'appelle un chat un chat, et Rolet un fripon.

BOILEAU. Τα συκα συκα, την σκαφην δε σκαφην ονομαζων.


F. I know your temper, and have often seen
Your weak endeavours to conceal your spleen;
I know your heart, that only loves to rail,
Most pleased when gall and bitterness prevail :
And yet, suppose. I grant these pictures true,
Pictures that rage devoid of candour drew,
Yet might the age that sees fair Science raise
Her drooping head, demand some little praise,
Some small applause; and though your headlong

May rail at fancied vice, yet may the train
Of rising arts that decorate the age
Demand their eulogy e'en in your page:
Then give them honour....

A. Now 'tis plain you jeer;
Your praise is but the cover of a sneer;
'Tis plain your fields of science and of taste
Are but a fairy scene, a desart waste.

F. I jeer! Not I, by heaven! E'en you must own, Could you but quit this misanthropic tone, That science shines with more than common ray....

1. Why yes.... And this the daily papers say.... Look at the Chronicle, Courier, and Times, And Morning Post, that teems with flimsy rhymes;

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