Discommendatory VERSES, ON THOSE Which are Truly Commendatory, ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHUR'S, AND THE satire against WIT. Laudat, amat, cantat nostros mea Roma Libellos, Meque sinus omnes, me manus omnis habet. Ecce! rubet quidam, pallet, stupet, oscitat, odit, Hoc volo, nunc nobis Carmina nostra placent. Mart. LONDON: Printed in the Year, MDCC. The Preface. AS it requires not much Thought to find out the Author of the Dedication to the Commendatory Verses, so there is no necessity of much Pains to return an Answer to it. Since Falsities are known to People who are unprejudiced by their first appearance, and there is occasion for no other Method to find 'em out, than a true knowledge of the Gentleman who is abused. The Dedicator has long since been conversant in Scandal, and Abuses are as familiar to him as it is to be abused: We shall therefore leave him a while for his Masters who set him at Work, and distinguished him, by giving him the Title of Secretary to the Confederates at Will ' s Coffee-house. They may be fine Gentlemen for all that I know in their Chambers, and pretty Conversation for the Ladies they Dress themselves up for; their Coaches may make a noble Appearance, and their Footman's Hatbands may, like their Masters, rise up and take leave of the Crowns of their Hats; their Perukes may be well adjusted, and their Persons set off to the greatest Advantage; yet for all this Sir R—Bl— re might choose whether or no he would be laughed at for running into their Commendations. Several of 'em are Quality by their clothes, but forfeit the Name by their Expressions. They have reason perhaps to boast of the Lady's Favours, but will never have any (till they Writ better) to brag of the Reader's. In short, if they are Gentlemen, it's more than their Verses speak 'em to be; and 'tis manifest, that they who have chosen T— B— for their Leader, fall not a Tittle short of coming up to his admirable Qualifications. Every individual Man is a Giant in Scandal, and shows his Teeth to a Miracle, but what they would have done, had not the Gentleman they barked at been a Physician, it is not in our Power to divine. Bills, Pills, and Kills, are excellent Rhimes; and they had lost the greatest part of their Endeavours after satire, had Sir Richard been without that Title, which as it has done him Honour, so he has amply returned it on the Profession by the Regularities and Success of his Practice. But we have taken the liberty to give some Account of their Works, and aught to do the same by our own; and since in some Places we may be accused for running into the same Faults we blame them for, we ought to make what Excuses we can for so doing. We have endeavoured to answer every individual Copy as the Nature of 'em seemed to require. The Scurrilous we have returned a suitable Roughness to, and to the Dull (which are not very few) a Contempt which is proper for ' 'em. But where their Verses have seemed too long for Epigrams, which they were designed for, we have either answered 'em with those that are shorter, or made two or three on the same Subjects; and though the Covent-Garden Wits may make Cuckolds of those Citizens which are Old and Superannuated, yet we hope we have given such a Specimen of our Performance in the following Sheets, that they cannot make Fools of those which are Young. And let their Editor be, as soon as he thinks fit, out with the Verses he promised us on Job and Habbakuk, unless he answers 'em himself, he shall not stay so long for our Answer as he has been endeavouring at the performance of his Promise. In the mean time since his Motto speaks him to be a Reader of Martial, without doubt he has met with the following Epigram, which we desire him to apply to himself; and have rendered into English for his Service. Festive credis te Calliodore jocari, Et solum multo permaduisse sale. Omnibus arrides, dicteria dicis in omnes, Sic te Convivam posse placere putas. At si ego non belle sed vere dixero quiddam, Nemo propinabit Calliodore Tibi. B— n Thou believest thou'rt famous for a Jest, And none like Thou, for Wit, can bear the Test; Thou flatterest All, on All Thou flingest Thy Spite, Thus thinkest Thy Company must needs delight: But if I speak what's Truth, though course and plain, Thou ne'er will't have thy Reckoning paid again. Discommendatory VERSES, ON THOSE Which are Truly Commendatory, ON THE AUTHOR OF THE Two ARTHUR'S, AND THE satire against WIT. A Short and True History of a certain Captain-General. BY Nature Small, and of a Dwarfish Breed, Peevish was sent to School, to Write and Read; Where bribed by Gifts the Pedagogic Don Abused the Father, and Deceived the Son; As for a fresh Reward he praised his Child, And grasped one's Sugar, as he tother spoiled. Thence, swollen with Figures, and possessed with Tropes, On Isis he bestowed his Parents Hopes; And there H'had scarce put on the Tufted-Gown, And wildly viewed the Colleges and Town, But Fortune, who no time would let him lose, Gave him a Royal Infant for his Muse; And Him he sung with Whimsies in his Brains, Praising a borrowed Prince, with borrowed Strains. Next, when the Doubtful Times were changed He saw He left the Son, to praise the Son in Law; And with his Righteous Undertaking warmed, He stared, and in Pindaric Frenzy stormed; As wisely He the strongest side caressed, And Cursed the Babe his selfish Lay had Blessed. All Matters fixed, and likely to remain In favour of the Great Nassovian's Reign, The Dapper ' Squire revolving in his Thought, That he that Rhyme, not pleased as he that Fought; To Arms, as fast as Legs would carry, ran, And Fretfully resolved to be a Man. And since no Spark had walked up High-street bolder, The Fellow-Commoner turned Fellow-Soldier; In Camps pursuing what in Schools h'had read, As he Lampooned the very Foes he Fled. But Heaven, lest some mischievous Ball should hit This little Prodigy of Rhimes and Wit, Put it in William's thoughtful Head to make A Peace, and fight no more for Fighting's sake; Thence he returned, and a rich Father Dead, Fattened the growing Maggots in his Head, As he wrote Epigrams for Lady's Smiles, And governed in B— street the Leeward Isles. And now he rides a Tiptoe in his Coach, Frowning at every Hack that dares approach; As he by Prince and Subject both preferred, Is owned a Patron, and adjudged a Bard; A Patron fit for Br— n's and Ma— g's Flights, If he Rewards no better than he Writes. To the Poetical Knight, who would have no Body spoil Paper but Himself. APox on Rhimes and Physic, S—ly cried, (And he had Sense and Reason on his side;) For both of Rhimes and Physic H'had his fill, And swallowed more than every Verse a Pill. A Doctor coming by, and loath to lose A Knight so Famous for a P— and Muse, Offered him means to give his Knighthood ease, And make the radicated Torments cease. Vile Quack, said he, go patch up Mother Q—les, Sir Richard turn Prescriber to Sir Ch— Is? It shall not be, jog Homeward if you please, I'll have no Paper spoiled on my Disease. The Doctor cried, 'Tis true, th' Infection's such, 'twill certainly discoloured with a Touch; But I'll affirm, and so withdrawing smiled, My Papers may, but Thou canst ne'er be Spoiled. To the Prosaic POET, occasioned by the two following Lines: Thy Satyrs By't not, but like Aesop's Ass, Thou Kickest the Darling whom thou wouldst Caress. 'tIs plain that Wit at Will's is very scarce, By the poor Contradictions of thy Verse; Else surely some Acquaintance would have made Those Hobbing Lines speak Sense, which Sense upbraid; But thou brim full of emptiness of Thought, Betrayest thyself, and by thyself art caught: As thou art fashioned for a standing Jest, And giv'st us the Reverse of Aesop's Beast; Who should, if Bl— more's Folly thou'dst have shown, Caress the Man he'd Kick, as Thou hast done. The Noble Corrected; or Advice to a Quality Commentator, who Writes in Defence of Greek Epistles as if he understood ' 'em. LET B—le writ on, and stilled a Man of Letters, Prefer Dull Heavy Authors to their Betters; Let him His own to B— lu's Sense oppose, And knowing little fancy much he knows; Let D—nis in his Commendation strain, And Codron praise him, to be praised again: Let every Wit, and every Beau declare What his bright Genius is, and what They are; As some commend his Parts, and some his clothes, Let him be any thing they please in Prose. But ye, who seemingly appear his Friends, And basely flatter him for sordid Ends, Persuade him to avoid the Muse's Hill, And cease to Wound himself, who'd others Kill. For it's enough that he in Prose is Brave, And Butchers many an Author in his Grave, That against Truth, and Bently's Worth he joins, And plays the Tyrant o'er a Tyrant's Lines. To the Sorry Poetaster at Will's Coffeehouse. PRithee, dear Scribbling Doctor, why so short? Rail on if thou'dst have Bl—re thank thee for't Be permanent in Censure and Dispraise, And grinning show thy Teeth ten Thousand ways: For 'tis acknowledged by the Court and Town, Nothing can make him smile like M— Frown. He Patients has, 'tis true, which often Die, And so, thou'dst vainly say perhaps, have I. But Quack, 'tis false, thy Self-destroying Pill ne'er had it in its Power as yet to kill, And as for Patients which thou Dead wouldst own, Thou hast as many Living, that is none. An Equal Match, or the Drawn Battle. IF Bards would have a Shortlived Poem writ, P—ck should dictate Rules, and T—mb Wit; Like which no Mortal piece can e'er be found With Lines of Constitution so unsound. But that where T—mb shall a Judge commence, To file the Rust of Wit from P— ck's Sense. To the Noble Captain, who was in add amned Confounded Pet, because the Author of the satire against Wit, was pleased to Pray for his Friend, occasioned by this Distich: His Mercy, not his Justice, made thee Knight, Which P— r may demand with equal Right. BOld Man of War, the drift of thy Designs? And let us know the meaning of thy Lines. If Mercy is a Sufferance of a Fact, How comes it then to give Rewards, and act? Define, and tell us when thou'rt in the right, And own that Mercy spares, but cannot Knight. P— r and Thou may be forgot and spared, He for a Traitor, thou a Senseless Bard. Yet neither can atone for either's Crimes, He for his Foolish Plot, or Thou for Rhymes. Though D—ke to purge thy Muse should Physic send, Or S— d should absolve him as a Friend. To the Inviolably Dull Critic, on his Heroical Strains upon the satire against Wit. SOme Scribbling Fops as D— is is by Name, Never can hit, although they always aim, And Storm, and Swear, and Drink, and Writ for Fame. What Star prevents 'em, or what Planet shines, To keep the Lucky Goddess from their Lines; Let those decide, who have it in their Sphere, Doubtless they err, because they persevere. But thou, my crabbed piece of blustering Wit. Erring dost think the wished for Mark is hit; And, Pox upon thy Judgement and thy Skull, Labourest to be thought intricate and dull. For shame, Grave Don, 'tis time that thou were't wise, Having seen Years enough before thine Eyes. Even do, as Men of Ancient standing should, Or understand, or else be understood, Since 'tis in vain to show thy fruitless spite, And thou canst find less Faults, than thou canst write. To a Rhimer, who if he takes pains, Writes as if he did not. WHO e'er Thou art, to Me and Sense unknown, Correct not others Follies but thy own; Nor dare to Censure R— ffs healing Arts, Or point at G—n's Wit thy Leaden Darts. What have they done to call thy Nonsense forth, And make thee show thy Penury of Worth? Or how could B— re's Muse deserve thy Spite, Unless it was for teaching thee to write? Prithee, for shame acknowledge this Offence, And own 'em Men of Skill, and Men of Sense. But Oh! Kind Heaven forbidden it that thy Quill Should dare t'attempt their Judgement or their Skill, That thou shouldst rise and injure 'em with praise, And stab their Reputations with thy Lays, For nothing but the poison of thy Lines, Defeats their Cure, and mocks their great Designs. A Modest Request to the Poetical Squire. SInce You to Poetry will make pretence, And H—ly will be a Wit in H H—ly's Sense, As you resigned to Dullness, in your Chair, Think on foul Lines to gratify the Fair: Long may you Rhyme, and on your Lute and Spinnet Play many a woeful Tune with nothing in it. But in return my dear Facetious Squire, For once to gratify a Friends desire, Think as I do, you'll fling your Verses in the Fire. To a L— d who would be a Saint, if he was as free from all other Sins, as he is from Hypocrisy. ADvice to P—rs, th' Adviser's Zeal may prove, But ne'er like Praise can swell 'em into Love. Then give me leave to do the thing that's safe, And fling away some Verse in your Behalf. That you have Travelled, is exceeding true, And that your L— p's Muse hath Teeth to show, But among all the Frolicks you have shown, Religion is a Trick you ne'er have known. To a Lady dignified and distinguished by the Name of Critic and Poet, on Her incomprehensible Raileries on the satire against Wit. BElieve me, Madam, that your Muse has shown So foul a Face, I beg you'd hid your own; And if you're real Quality be Civil, For T— d and A—se all over is the Devil. That you're not Pious Lady is confessed, By making Wesly's Sacred Work your Jest; Which (tho' it does not with the Witty take) Might please the Wise for its great Subjects sake. Not but I think you've been at Church sometimes, Because you writ of Sextons and of Chimes; But that you are a Woman few can tell So right, as those you think you praise so well. For Heaven's sake, Madam, qualify this Fit, Some speak you Nobly Born, and yet a Wit? Nor let me be successless in my Prayer, A Muse should not take up a Lady's care; For 'tis a Composition most absurd, That's made of Rhimes, of Woman, and of Turd. To an Author, who never wrote but two Distiches and an half, and those could not pass Muster. YOU bid me take my Pen again, 'tis true, But I shall scarce request the same of You. Five Lines already have your Judgement shown, Tho' you'd be more esteemed for writing none; And if excess of Dulness Life can give, You need not scribble Knight, you're sure to Live. Occasioned by the News that Tom B— n had the Courage to Engage with Sir Richard Blackmore, after his Bookseller had Defeated him. WHen B— Contending I with R— r spied, I wondered, but not pitied either side; Well knowing, if they were of Scratching sick, Abel could buy, and Tom could beg a Stick. Next came a Dun, and at his Garret stood, He'd have his Money truly that he would; But still I could not pity him, as knowing Tom would soon find a Trick to send him going. But when I saw him brandishing his Muse, The Bad to Flatter, and the Good Abuse, With Pity then, and much Concern, I cried, Tom, Dost thou know what Folly's on thy side? Give the fierce waspish Colonel back his Gold, Nor let thy Praise be bought, thy Lies be sold; Blackmore and Job believe it will subdue Ten Thousand such Malicious Fiends as You. How? Said the Bard, Most excellent Advice! A Poet, and be Master of a Sice? Find out that Place where ere I paid one Score, Then I'll return the Guinea's, not before. A Tale taken to pieces. IF Shallow Critics, as your pleased to say, Judge Tully when at Poetry at Play, And Ignorance would censure and suppose He ne'er had been a Consul but for Prose: How comes it then that Caesar, who's confessed To know the Man, and know his Talon best, Who in Fame's List for Judgement is enroled, (Whether you mean the Modern or the Old) Should with the Shallow for a Judge be brought, And make their Sense authentic with his Thought. O Youth, tho' sweet and flowing be thy Song, Thy Numbers beauteous, and thy Beauties strong; Tho' Force and Ease alternately appear, And Fancy glads the Sight, and charms the Ear; Yet, if amidst thy Turns of Verse and Thought Mistake should blend, or Hast neglect a Fault; If uncorrected Errors shall be found T'offend our Senses, or our Judgements wound; As to be fearless, is not to be Brave, And Squire's a Noble, while a Knights a Slave; In vain you measure out your fruitless Lays, And gloss your want of Sense with gilded Praise; For if you'd write with Credit and Success, You must mind Judgement more, and Friendship less. To Codron's and the Lady's Humble Servant. NOT that I blame your Flattery, or your Spleen, But prithee give's the Sense of what you mean: Can Bl—re writ without Design, or Art, And yet design a— at Codron's Heart? Unthinking Bard! stuffed up with Praise and Spite, Gravely consider next before you writ; And if you'd show a Man of Sense and Style, Bring other Vouchers than a Lady's Smile: For if I know 'em well, they'd rather choose His P—tle to divert 'em than his Muse. To the same, on the same Subject. CODRON may please the Ladies, as he writes, And pretty things for pretty things Endites; But Thou be damned, and fling away thy Pen, Such Fops as Thou, can never please the Men. To the same, occasioned by the Verse which reflects on Dr. Gibbons, (viz.) He will his Health to Mirmil's Care resign. FRiend, by my Soul, the Devil's in thy Quill, Or Thou wouldst never write and judge so ill; For whilst thou Laugh'st at Gibbon's skill, 'tis sure, Thou standest in need thyself of * Dr. Tyson is Physician to Bethlem Hospital. Tyson's Cure. Nor would the Youth, the Subject of thy Song, Accept thy Flatteries, or permit thy Tongue To blast his Credit with defaming Praise, And take Lethargic Opiates from thy Lays; Was He the Man thy Rhimes would have him be, Or Thou the Man for whom he judges thee. An Epigram on Dr. Changed— ood. Poor Job was plagued, of Holy Men the best, But Ch— ood sins, and in this Life is Blessed; With Losses he, and Pains, and Fire was vexed, And he divides Fat Capons with his Text. One had a Friend and Woman to persuade, But t'other He can Curse without their aid. As he delights to play the Tempter's part, And labours to be Damned with all his Heart. When having lost the Preacher in the Beast, He shows the Devil, who should act the Priest. An Answer to a great many Impertinent Questions. MEthinks you take too much upon you, Sir, And tho' you stirring stink, you needs must stir; Else, why so many Foolish Queries brought T'upbraid the Querist's want of Sense and Thought? That he found fault with Wit, is very true, But, Captain, what a Pox is that to you? Untouched by satire you may safely pass, Unless to be a Wit's to be an A—. To the same upon his calling Sir R— B— re's Composures; Coffee Rhimes. IF Coffee does Awake the Senses keep, And guards our Eyelids from approaching Sleep, Well hast thou given the Doctor's Rhimes the Name, And praised his Merits, which thou wouldst defame; For we with wakeful Pleasure can peruse, And meditate the Beauties of his Muse, When Thy Composures we for Opiates take, And only run 'em o'er for Sleeping sake. To the Quibbling, Drib'ling, Scribbling Poetaster, who has let himself out for Scandal to the Wits at Will's Coffeehouse. BE not puffed up with Punning, Friend of mine, I've Slept o'er many Jests as good as thine; And tho' at present thou may'st strut and stare, Blown up with Treats and Covent-Garden Air; Yet when their Turns are served, believe it, than Spark thou must Dine on Smoke at How's again; So different is thy wretched State from his, Thou hast been Ush, but never canst be phiz. To thesame Trifling Fellow, T— B— n. DAme Fortune's just, malicious Fool, I see By what sh' has done for Blackmore, and for thee. He in his Chariot, which is paid for, sits, And dares the feeble Spleen of Threadbare Wits, Who just like thou brushed out in Tally Suit, Laugh at his Coach, but Rascals, laugh a foot. Even take thy fill, and play a Zany's part, And censure Judgement, and reflect on Art, While he by Parents, and by Children blessed, By Husbands prayed for, and by Wives caressed, Brings Health and Safety at the Patient's call, And rises when thou canst not lower fall. Upon seeing a Man wipe his A—se with T— B—'s satire against the French King. IF shitten Lines should wipe a shitten Ace, Thomas, the Man does Justice to thy Verse; As it was Born, whatever thou may'st think, Thy Ballad makes its Exit too in Stink. When Mortal Man is buried, than the Word Is Dust to Dust, but here it's T— d to T— d. An Epigram, occasioned by Mr. B—dy's, about his Friend Mr. Tate. PRithee, my gentle Man of Crape, and Prayer, Why so concerned, and full of Noise and Care? T— e, 'tis allowed, makes Payments when he can, And slowly shows himself an Honest Man: But I ne'er heard of B—dy's Payments yet, Either in ready Money, or in Wit. Then rest contented, as a Man should be, Sir Richard ne'er will say the same of Thee. A Reply to the Story of the Greek Chevalier. IF Monarch's (as you'll have't) on Trust reward, I shall not ask why Sh—ld was preferred? But I'll be sworn, and vouch, it as 'tis true, That Author's balked, who waits Rewards from you. To the same. IF you're a L— d, as whispering Fame reports, And know the Constitutions well of Courts, Does not your Honour think 'twould be a hard case, He could not make a Knight, who made a M—ss. To the Unworthy Author of the Verses on the satire against Wit. IF B—re labours as he writes, to please, Why dost not thou consult thy Reader's Ease? And hammer out a Thought may show thy pains, To countenance thy Scarcity of Brains? Sense may decline, and Wit consummate may Wear itself out in time, and know decay; But Wit like thine, and stumbling into Rhyme, Defies the Injuries of Fate, or Time: 'Tis still the same amongst the Learned and Wise, And as it cannot fall, it cannot rise. Merry Thoughts on Dr. B—d's Melancholy Reflections on the Deficiency of Useful Learning. THat B— d Raves, both Friends and Foes conclude, Yet neither Friends nor Foes can say he's rude; Rudeness they knows a meditated Crime, But B— d never thought in all his Time: Absolve him then from Gild, his Soul is clean, For he that never thinks, can nothing mean. On the same, to a Friend who said Dr. B— d Talked like an Apothecary. WILL, thou dost much mistake the Doctor's Parts, And wrong'st his Knowledge, and his great Deserts. He mimics no Discourse, or Talks by Rule, But prattles like Himself, and that's a F— l. On the same Eternal Tatler. B— d with noisy Cures may make us smile, Yet cannot show one Bill on any File: What can it be that thus obstructs his Fame? Because his Patients cannot say the same. He on his own Report prescribes his Pills, But Fame gives out, He neither Cures nor Kills. To a midnight Author who does not Cant I'll be Sworn. THat c— Drinks hard, and late in Taverns sits, 'Tis known for Truth amongst the B— w-street Wits; But I deny that Witness can be brought That c— k was ever Drunk with too much Thought. The Adviser taken to Task. IF Knighthood only be the Hero's Right, What made a certain Man at Will's, a Knight, Who never burned a Town, or gained a Fight? Sir, you remember certainly what scores Your Bombs defeated, of dull Sunburned Moors, And how 'twas counted Valour to retreat, And Nobler to be beaten than be beat. Then pray deal fairly, and with Fame agree, Owning the Justice of the Doctor's Plea; Since He for saving many lives, is known, When Thou just savedst thyself, and that is One. To the same. THe Parliament who cried down Squibbs and Rockets, Provided for our Safeties and our Pockets. Not thinking Engineers in warlike times, Instead of Squibbs would fall a making Rhimes. But 'tis no matter, Knight, pursue thy Punns; They'll do as little Mischief as thy Guns. To a Great Man who makes himself Little. WEre I to turn Physician, and prescribe To certain P— a most facetious Tribe, I'd not make use of Syringes, and Tricks To cure their Ulcers, and to mend their That Ladies foul might hug 'em in their Arms, And praise their Money, while They praise their Charms. No, I'd another sort of Cure begin, And leave their Running-Nags to smart for Sin, As I prescribed Restringents in my Bills, To cure the running Humours of their Quills, And make 'em some more noble Frolic seek; Not try to write that Sense, They cannot speak. To T. B— upon His concealing his Name, when He made the Author of the satire against Wit, the Subject of his harmless satire for concealing His. SOme Folks may write, and writing be concealed, When such as Thou take pains to be revealed. Scandal's a sort of Wit thou giv'st the Town, And a B— n Works speak nothing but a B— n. As thy lewd Muse with Infamy her Task Cannot, because she's poor, provide a Mask. No more than when her Master in a heat, Resolving to be Cudgelled, or to Beat; For want of Cane-Man's Faith, and want of Pence, Can get a Stick to show his want of Sense. To the same. JOB, as thou sayest, being willing to forget The Cause, for which thou mad'st him storm and fret, Plunge into Lethe's Streams to seek relief, And lost the sad remembrance of his Grief. But take my word, Sir Richard need not use That method for the Scandal of thy Muse: For what e'er flows from such a trifling Sot, Dies of it self, and's born to be forget. To the same. TOM, take my word, thou'st done like Man of Skill, And I applaud the Conquest of thy Quill; The Wife and Satan failed in Their design; But thou hadst brought their Wish about in thine. Thou teachest Job most hearty to Curse; Satan could ne'er have taught him what was worse. So well thou'st played the subtle Tempter's part; Yet he must give precedence to thy Art. As full of Wonder we can neither grant, Or Job the greater Fiend, or B— n the greater Saint. To an Epigrammatic Parson. 'TIs false, lewd Priest, I speak it to thy Face, As are thy Actions infamous and base. His satire tickle? No, it cannot be; Especially that part which touches Thee. Wounds almost cured, Experience will teach, May have a Titillation, and an Itch. But as for Thine, I'd have Thee rest assured, Thou'l ne'er be tickled, who canst ne'er be cured '. A Gonsolatory Paper of Verses to Dr. D—ke, upon the News that He commended the 4th. Edition of Dr. Garth's Dispensary, and could not get His own Translation of Herodotus to bear One. BOld thy Attempt, let Truth and Friendship speak, In these dull Times to venture forth at Greek. And dare to Construe and Translate with speed, What Gentlemen of Practice could not read. Yet as Success not always waits the Brave, And Heroes lose the Laurel for the Grave; So tho' thy Volumes by their Bulk disclose, What havoc thou hast made of Sense and Prose. Yet to our sorrow We, thy Friends, behold Thy Price beat down, and every Sheet unsold; While other Versions are received and bought, Pigmies in Mischief to the Giant thought. However, Man, take heart of Oak, and dare Even still to show the World thy stupid Care, To mangle other's Works thy time employ, Fools may, perhaps, at last be found to buy; And thou acknowledged with thy skilful Pen, As fit to murder Sense, as murder Men. O D—ke! How great shall be thy future Name? What multitudes of Trunks shall speak thy Fame! Band-Box shall in thy Vindication rise, And many a Cook with thee defend his Pies, Which otherwise (I'm to thy merit just) Would never tempt Young Children with their Crust. Then take Thy Pen, as Men of Letters should, And Scribble for succeeding Trader's good. What! If some certain Booksellers agree Not to be Broke by such a Scribe as Thee, 'Tis Ten to One, but Thou a Chap may'st find Among the Trading sort of Human Kind, Who for the sake of dealing once in Greek, Will take it off Thy hands, and nobly break. Arise then, Friend, and reassume thy Pen, And swear B— G— d, 'tis good, like Ancient Ben; Like a true Author magnify thy Pains, And tell Ben T— k he has no Guts in's Brains, Who durst such useful Knowledge to decry, He cannot understand who does not buy. These are the ways preceding Writers used When once fling by, and Their own Price refused, And These, my Friend, are what the present tread, As soon as slighted and returned unread. Curse every thing in Print which has Success, Make Author's write, and Readers buy, by guess; Like Paper Kites, let other's Labours fly, And by mere force of Wind be born on high. But rest assured, and easy in Thy Mind, Thy Volumes dare the most Tempestuous Wind, Though North and South, and each contending Blast Should in united Storms their Furies cast, Unmoved by Force, and uninformed by Sense, Stupidity shall be their safe Defence; Fixed to their Shelu's no Winds can make 'em rise, And there Thou'lt let 'em lie if thou art wise. To Mr. F. M. on his Incomprehensible Farce, which goes by the Name of the Generous Choice. By a Lady. THy Thoughts were never great, it's very plain, By this poor Trifling product of Thy Brain; But I, in question do my Judgement call, If Thou hadst Brains, Thou wouldst not write at all. To the same, on his Poem, called Greenwich-Hill. By another Lady. LAwyer, and Bard, believe me for Thy Friend, If I Thy stupid Poem don't Commend. The Lady's are Indebted to Thy Quill, And Greenwich must acknowledge Thy good will; But now Thou'st praised 'em both, dear Scribbler see, If any Fools will do the same by Thee. A Pun, by Mr. D— P— To T— B— upon his Witches Trusty Broomstaff. BY all the Punns that D— l ever made, Most wisely fitted, and most bravely said, Broomstaff must own, if Broomstaff had a Tongue, It owes its chiefest glory to thy Song. Trusty's a Noble Epithet, and Safe, A Witch can never fall from such a Staff: But Thou must own, if Thou'dst too Truth be just, Thou'dst sooner give't a Vintner, if He'd Trust. To the same, by one who is Free of the Sadler's Company. THat we have wooden Horses at our Doors, Is full as True as Thine has Chalks and Scores, Ours stand without, but Thomas, 'tis no Sin, To say, Thy Garret has an A—ss within. To the Infamous Poetastors at Will's Coffeehouse. IF Wit (as Thou art told) is a Disease, Thou needest not give Sir R—Bl— re Fees, For every Fool, with any Brains, must own, He cannot Purge off Humours, where are none. To the Gentleman whom Dr. C—lb— ch Cured of the Gout. SIR, If you'd show the Doctor's Worth and Skill, Ask Him, who Cured your Legs to cure your Quill, And You will never Writ so cursed iii. To the same. SIR, We Rejoice to hear that You are sound, That you drink Wine, and send the Glasses round; That Punks no more your want of Strength upbraid, But all Love's reckon now are fully paid. Even take the Manly Pleasures of the Field, And follow the Delights which Dramas yield. But be Advised, and once, I beg You, think, Quit the Debauches of Lewd Pen and Ink. The Doctor's Mother Thought, 'tis very plain Amongst Her Childbed Pangs, and felt the Pain; But Yours ne'er Thought at all, I durst believe, By the few signs of Thought Your Writings give. To a Blustering Poet, who never Spoke or Wrote any thing that was taken notice of before. I Tell Thee Man, thy Charges I defy, Straddle and Damn Thyself, why, what care I. Put off the Fool, and he'll put off his Rhimes, For Fool's make Poets in our Senseless Times: Be Wise in Daytime, and be chaste at Night, And That's the way to make Him cease to Write. An Epigram on T— m B— n. HOW B— n was born in Garret or in Cell, Let those determine who can better tell; Or for what Ends the vengeful heavens designed This Pestilence of Wit and human Kind: But this I dare affirm, without a Lie, His Epigrams are only born to die. On the Same. IF Artbur from a Ravished Parent came, Thy Balla's merry Birth is much the same; For Thou (believe it Bard without Offence) Writing, dost still commit a Rape on Sense. An Epigram fling away on a certain Ballad-making Senator. WHere N— n lives I cannot tell, If ne'er so fain I would; But N— n this I know full well, Wherever the Maggot makes you dwell, You'll never do much good. Notes on the two Celebrated Copies in the Commendatory Verses, to let the Reader know the difference between the faithfulness of their Epitome and our Copies; taken verbatim from their own Words, without the omission of one Line. BY Nature meant, by Want a Pedant made, Bl—re at first set up the Whipping-Trade, Hadst Thou been whipped Thou ne'er wouldst Schools upbraid. Grown fond of Buttocks he would lash no more, But kindly cured the A—se he galled before: And prithee where's the Sin to cure a Sore? So Quack commenced; thence fierce with Pride he swore That Toothache, Gripes, and Corns, should be no more: Had he said Fops, thou'dst call his Mother Whore. In vain his Drugs, as well as Birch he tried, His Boys grew Blockheads, and his Patients died, Then Thou hast got the Blockheads on thy Side. Next he turned Bard and mounted on a Cart; Whose hideous Rumbling made Apollo start; Doubtless thy Coachman drives with Ease and Art. Burlesqued the bravest, wisest Son of Mars, In Ballad-Rhimes and all the Pomp of Farce. A Commendation fit to wipe his A—se. Still he changed Callingo, and at length has hit On Business, for his matchless Talon fit To give us Drenches for the Plague of Wit. Thou needest no Drench take Bl—re ' s Word for it. Bold thy Attempt in these hard Times to raise In our unfriendly Clime the tender Bays, But bolder thine thy Country to dispraise. While Northern Blasts drive from the neighbouring Flood, And nip the springing Laurel in the Bud; That thine e'er sprung I never understood. On such bleak Paths our present Poets tread, The very Garland withers on each Head, When thou hast none to whither, as it's said. In vain the Critics strive to Purge the Soil, Fertile in Weeds it mocks their busy Toil, And D—ke ' s shoot up to be a C—er ' s Foil. Spontaneous Crops of Job's and Arthur's rise, Whose towering Nonsense braves the very Skies, While poor Herodotus unprinted lies. Like Paper-Kites the empty Volumes fly, And by mere force of Wind are raised on high; Thy Works would do the same if T—ke would buy. While we did these with stupid Patience spare, And from Apollo's Plants withdrew our Care; The Plants fared ne'er the worse I durst to swear. The Muse's Garden did small Product yield, And Hemp and Hemlock overran the Field; I warrant 'twas because thou laidst concealed. Till skilful Garth with Salutary Hand, Taught us to Weed and Cure Poetic Land; But thou ne'er learnd'st the Cure I understand. Grubbed up the Brakes and Thistles which 〈…〉 And sowed with Verse and Wit the sacred Ground, Not Verse and Wit like thine, which cannot wound. But now the Riches of that Soil appear, Which four fair Harvests yield in half a Year; Four more than thy Translation e'er will bear. No more let Critics of the Want complain, Of Mantuan Verse or the Maeonian Strain: For those two Books are in the Press again. Above 'em Garth does on their Shoulders rise, And, what our Language wants, his Wit supplies; Who says the same of Thine by Heaven lies. Famed Poets after him shall stretch their Throats, And unfledged Muses chirp their Infant Notes; Unfledged I guess because they have no Coats. Yes Garth; thy Enemies confess thy Store, They burst with Envy, yet they long for more, A sort of Envy never known before. Even we, thy Friends, in doubt thy Kindness call, To see thy Stock so large and Gift so small; Some Folks had liked him, if no Gift at all. But Jewels in small Cabinets are laid, And richest Wines in little Casks conveyed; Thou seldom drinkest those Wines I am afraid. Let lumpish Bl—re his dull Hackney Fight, And break his Back with heavy Folio's Weight, For which if I were He, I'd break thy Pate. His Pegasus is of the Flanders Breed, And Limbed for Draught or Burden, not for Speed; A Sign his Strength of Thought does thine exceed With Carthorse Trot he sweats beneath the Pack Of Rhyming Prose, and Knighthood on his Back; A Burden thou'lt ne'er have, malicious Quack. Made for a Drudge even let him beat the Road, And tug of senseless Reams th' Heroic Load; Thou hast Reams by thee cannot get abroad. Till overstrained, the Jade is set, and tires, And sinking in the Mud with Groans expires: Who say thy Muse can sink are errand Liars. Then Bl—re shall this Favour own to Thee; That thou perpetuatest his Memory; Collier has done the very same by Thee. Bavius and Maevius so their Works survive, And in one single Line of Virgil's live; A Gift which all Thy Lines can never give. FINIS.