A satire Upon a Late PAMPHLET Entitled, A satire against Wit.  
Semper Ego Auditor tantùm? Nunquàmne reponam?  
Angliaci totiès vexatus carmine codri?  
LONDON, Printed in the Year MDCC.  
Price 4 d.   

A satire Upon a late Pamphlet, Entitled, A satire against Wit.   

A satire Upon a late Pamphlet, Entitled, A satire against Wit.  

WHO can unmoved in stupid silence sit,  
And see condemned the Nation's glory, Wit?  
It's Fame oppressed, and tuneful Champions grown  
Objects of satire for a Rhyming Slightall—?  
Were not in view his senseless gingling Aim,  
Britain had gained more Honour, he less Shame;  
How can so Dull, so Infamous a Birth,  
Bring less than Scandal on his Native Earth?  
He, like the sacrilegious Wretch of Old,  
Rather than not do something Great and Bold,  
Dares to pollute, and strike at Wit Divine,  
'Tis not Diana's, but Apollo's Shrine.   

Wit is a Radiant Spark of Heavenly Fire,  
Full of Delight, and worthy of Desire;  
Bright as the Ruler of the Realms of Day,  
Sun of the Soul, with inborn Beauties gay;  
Crowded with Rivals, like a charming fair,  
And those that cannot gain, no railing spare:  
So grew Invectives from a Scribler's Brains,  
Whose Person shows more satire than his Strains;  
His mere Creation's for Lampoon designed,  
His Rhyming Libels few; Himself, Mankind;  
Tho' He pretends to Write, yet fears to own,  
It must be B— by his rumbling Tone;  
Like a Young Sinner, Conscious, and Ashamed,  
Fain he denies, yet will not be reclaimed:  
B—, a Witling, Quack, or any thing  
To turn the Penny, and to vent his Sting;  
When Physic fails, to Verse the Doctor flies,  
In Coffee-house, and Street, his Genius tries;  
Why should he take such pains to let us know!  
His Book confirms what Preface aims to show:  
B—, whose Name and Nature seem allied;  
Who can wash white, what has so long been died!  
Spotted with Slurs his Infancy began,  
And so from Child, it handed Him to Man.   

His tawny Kinsman of the neither Clime,  
Not labours more to Damn, than He to Rhyme;  
His far-fetched sounds envenomed spite disclose,  
And, like him, basely grasps at Friends or Foes;  
'Twixt Pen and Potion is his Time assigned;  
This mortifies the Body, That the Mind;  
Both to Tormenting make some vile pretence,  
One Tortures Souls, and ' other Limbs and Sense;  
In one thing more their Nauseous Tempers hit;  
That, Scoffs at Goodness; This, at Sacred Wit.   

Wit, of all things, the sweetest, and the best,  
By most is fancied, but by few possessed;  
Were it by all, Fate would have nought to try;  
Those it descend to bless, can never die;  
Who, but a Muse, is deathless in Renown?  
Warriors expire, Kings have a fading Crown;  
In After-Ages Poets seem to Breath,  
Their Laurels flourish in despite of Death;  
Fame bears 'em on her Wings from Pole to Pole,  
The World contains their Wonders, Heaven their Soul.   

Wit was the Darling of the Ancient Days,  
Admired, and Crowned with never-ending Praise;  
Tyrceus more, than Spartan Troops, Achieved,  
What Weapons lost, all conquered Wit retrieved;  
Hence Sophocles at Athens famous grew;  
No sooner Poet, but Commander too;  
So great, so loved, were Choirs of Phoebus then,  
They stayed from Arms to use the Nobler Pen;  
Horace at Rome was graced with like Success,  
Equal his Merit, nor his Fortune less;  
Victorious, Brave, and Wise, those Nations were,  
Yet Wit receiveed a generous Usage there.   

Must Britain only Treat it with Disdain,  
And all but Wits, securely happy reign!  
While Juggling Quacks, and Noisy Lawyers thrive,  
Must Herds of Poets scarce be kept alive?  
Must all Parnassus prove a baron shore,  
And that Name WIT, portend the Name of Poor?  
Such is their Casual, would be, constant Fate,  
Can Impious B— sway and change the State;  
What daily Massacres of Wit he'd make?  
And merely ruin all for Envy's sake?  
He, Giantlike, would heaven-born Wit assail,  
Tugging out Hundred Vocal Tools to scale;  
Just so Ambition's Apes their power employ,  
And what exceeds their reach, would fain destroy.   

But Godlike William loathes his awkward Strain,  
He rules Parnassus, and rewards its Train;  
His piercing Eye that well known Truth descries,  
Empire and Poesy together rise: 
Rosc.   
Wit Courts his Patronage, as we his sway,  
Both he supports, and both with Pride Obey:  
Wit is a Paradise of Shining Grace,  
William supplies the Guardian Angel's place,  
While he displays his Universal Wings,  
We scorn the Serpent, and defy his Stings;  
Let him expose his Teeth, he cannot by't,  
Let him Scrawl on; he knows not how to Write.   
FINIS.