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LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write,
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite:
'Till reading, I forgot what day on,
A chapter out of Took's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair ;
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to God Mercurius!
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side---mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed ;
A just comparison,-proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes ;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air ;
And here my simile unites,
For in a modern poet's fights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-incircled wand;
By classic authors, term’d caduceus,
And highly fam’d for several uses.
To wit-most wond'rously endu'd,
No poppy water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue 's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then; His wand 's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep,
This difference only as the God
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goosequill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript, Yet grant a word by way of postcript. Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing : Well! what of that ? out with it-stealing ; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he : But ev'n this deity's existence Shall lend my simile assistance. Our modern bards! why what a pox Are they but senseless stones and blocks.
WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaign,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:
The Royal game
goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, And brave prince William shew'd his lamp-black face: The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire :
With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board;
A night-cap deck d his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!