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Tros, Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur.
pay no attention to persons; all shall be treated by me without distinction.
Well mounted I come from the stream of Parnass,
Yet, soft ! shall I dare, a presumptuous elf,
But in proof of the prowess my wit can infuse,
hear it must make a great splash, I'm christ'n'd Sir Noodle O'Scribblecumdash.
Some writers there are, who possessing no fame, Would snatch from my temples the Laurel I claim; Who dare, without reading, all subjects critique, Whether Metre or Prose, Hebrew, Latin, or Greek; But vers'd in all topics I'm fram’d for my station, The Giant Reviewer of England's great Nation!
My noddle with erudite lore arm’d quite thorough,
(a) There is no need to cross the Tweed in order to prove the illiberality of the reviewers of literature, as the metropolis of England teems every month with specimens of the grossest inijustice, couched under assurances of the most scrupulous disin terestedness on the part of the editors, who are biassed by public opinion ; not to lay any stress upon private pique, which has too frequently instigated their proceedings. One instance, however, the writer has to record, as coming directly under his cognizance, of a literary character, who, while in the practice of affixing his name to the title-page of his productions, was uniformly handled in the most illiberal manner; whereas, no sooner had he adopted the expedient of annexing a false signature, than several of these conscientious censors of literature, who would not have allowed this author the smallest share of praise had his name been rendered public, were themselves the most conspicuous in blazoning forth his productions, as being characterised by every requisite that could render them worthy the patronage of the public.
The fine vellum, wire-wove, broad margin, hot
pressed, With Bulmer and Ballantine's types choicely
dress'd Not plates with vignettes can my acumen blind,
And make me commend where I cannot trace
So if Smithfield's Long Lane e'er should pathos
produce, I'd praise whity-brown, and consign to a use Which here can't be mention'd the hot-press'd that
Of title and fortune the dull leaden lore.
I envy no talent in poor or in great,
Shall taste of Sir Noodle O'Scribble the lash.
And faith there's of Authors so many found tripping, Where one merits
one merits praise, ninety-nine deserve whipping ; (6)
(6) Notwithstanding the correctness of the above assertion, it is hoped that no young bard will despair of arriving at the summit of Parnassus, be his dawning effusions what they may, when it is remembered that the great Jonathan Swift made his debut in the literary world by one of the most wretched odes that could disgrace the votaries of Grub-street: for the truth of which assertion let the following extracts stand recorded.
“ The first of plants, after the thunder-storm and rain,
“ Who by that, vainly talks of baffling death,
“ And seem almost transform’d to water, flame, and air, So well you answer all phenomenas there."
If any thing, however, could contribute to the disgrace of