Doutlefs the Antients want the art To ftrike at once upon the heart: Or why their prologues of a mile In fimple-call it—humble ftile, In unimpaffion'd phrase to say "'Fore the beginning of this play, "I, hapless Polydore, was found "By fishermen, or others, drown'd !” Or, “I, a gentleman, did wed, "The lady I wou'd never bed,

“Great Agamemnon's royal daughter, "Who's coming hither to draw water.".

Or need the Chorus to reveal
Reflexions, which the audience feel;
And jog them, left attention fink,
To tell them how and what to think?

Oh, where's the Bard, who at one view Cou'd look the whole creation through, Who travers'd all the human heart, Without recourfe to Grecian art?

He scorn'd the modes of imitation,
Of altering, pilfering, and translation,
Nor painted horror, grief, or rage,
From models of a former age;
The bright original he took,

And tore the leaf from nature's book.
'Tis Shakespeare, thus, who ftands alone-
But why repeat what You have shown?
How true, how perfect, and how well,
The feelings of our hearts must tell.

EPIS

EPISTLE to J-B- Efq. 1757.

AS my good dame a wicked child?

HA

It takes the gentler name of wild. If chefts he breaks, if locks he picks,

'Tis nothing more than youthful tricks. The mother's fondness stamps it merit, For vices are a fign of spirit.

Say, do the neighbours think the fame,
With the good old indulgent dame?
Cries goffip Prate, "I hear with grief
My neighbour's fon's an arrant thief.

Nay, cou'd you think it, I am told, "He stole five guineas, all in gold. "You know the youth was always wild"He got his father's maid with child; "And robb'd his master, to defray

"The money he had loft at play.

"All means to fave him now must fail. "What can it end in ?— In a jail."

Howe'er the dame doats o'er her youth, My goffip fays the very truth.

But as his vices love wou'd hide,
Or torture them to virtue's fide,
So friendship's glass deceives the eye,
(A glass too apt to magnify)

And makes you think at leaft fee

you

Some spark of genius, ev'n in me :
You fay I fhou'd get fame. I doubt it :
Perhaps I am as well without it.

For what's the worth of empty praise ?
What poet ever din'd on bays?

For though the Laurel, rareft wonder !
May screen us from the ftroke of thunder,
This mind I ever was, and am in,
It is no antidote to famine.

And poet's live on flender fare,
Who, like Chameleons, feed on air,
And starve, to gain an empty breath,
Which only ferves them after death.

Grant

Grant I fucceed, like Horace rise,
And ftrike my head against the skies,
Common experience daily fhews,
That poets have a world of foes;
And we fhall find in every town

Goffips enough to cry them down;
Who meet in pious converfation
T'anatomize a reputation,

With flippant tongue, and empty head,
Who talk of things they never read.

Their idle cenfures I despise:
Their niggard praises won't fuffice.
Tempt me no more then to the crime
Of dabbling in the font of rhime.
My Mufe has answer'd all her end,
If her productions please a friend.
The world is burthen'd with her store,
Why need I add one fcribbler more?

ODE