Or, not a more laborious task,
Could not you pen a Claffic MASQUE?
With will at large, and unclogg'd wings,
I durft not foar to fuch high things.
For I, who have more phlegm than fire,
Muft understand, or not admire,
But when I read with admiration,
Perhaps I'll write in IMITATION.
But business of this monthly kind,
Need that alone engross your mind.
Affiftance muft pour in a-pace,
New paffengers will take a place,
And then your friends-
Might make a better work succeed,
And with the helps which they fhall give,
I and the Magazine fhall live.
Yes, live, and eat, and nothing more.
AN EPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL.
WELL-fhall I wish you joy of fame,
That loudly echoes CHURCHILL's name,
And fets you on the Muses' throne,
Which right of conqueft made your own?
Or fhall I (knowing how unfit
The world efteems a man of wit,
That wherefoever he appears,
They wonder if the knave has ears)
Address with joy and lamentation,
CONDOLANCE and CONGRATULATION,
As colleges, who duly bring
Their mess of verse to every king,
Too economical in tafte,
Their forrow or their joy to waste;
Mix both together, sweet and fow'r;
And bind the thorn up with the flow'r?
Sometimes 'tis Elegy, or Ode.
Epifle now's your only mode.
Whether that style more glibly hits,
The fancies of our rambling wits,
Who wince and kick at all oppreffion,
But love to ftraggle in digreffion;
Or, that by writing to the GREAT
In letters, honours, or eftate,
We flip more easy into fame,
By clinging to another's name,
And with their strength our weakness yoke,
As ivy climbs about an oak;
AS TUFT-HUNTERS will buzz and purr
About a FELLOW-COMMONER,
Or Crows will wing a higher flight,
When failing round the floating kite.
Whate'er the motive, 'tis the mode,
And I will travel in the road.
The fashionable track purfue,
And write my simple thoughts to You,
Juft as they rife from head or heart,
Not marshall'd by the herald Art.
By vanity or pleasure led,
From thirft of fame, or want of bread,
Shall any start up fons of rhime
PATHETIC, EASY, or SUBLIME?
-You'd think, to hear what Critics fay, Their labour was no more than play:
And that, but fuch a paultry ftation
Reflects difgrace on education,
(As if we could at once forfake
What education helps to make)
Each reader has fuperior skill,
And can write better when he will.
In fhort, howe'er you toil and drudge,
The world, the mighty world, is judge,
And nice and fanciful opinion.
Sways all the world with ftrange dominion;
Opinion! which on crutches walks,
And founds the words another talks.
Bring me eleven Critics grown,
Ten have no judgment of their own :
But, like the Cyclops watch the nod
Of fome informing mafter god.
Or as, when near his latest breath,
The patient fain would juggle death,
When DOCTORS fit in CONSULTATION
(Which means no more than converfation,
A kind of comfortable chat
'Mongst social friends, on This and That,
As whether stocks get up or down,
And tittle-tattle of the town;
Books, pictures, politics, and news,
Who lies with whom, and who got whofe)
Opinions never disagree,
One doctor writes, all take the fee.
DULLNESS alarm'd, collects her Force,
And FOLLY fcreams till fhe is hoarse.
Then far abroad the LIBEL flies
From all th' artillery of lies,
MALICE, delighted, flaps her wing,
And EPIGRAM prepares her fting.
Around the frequent pellets whiftle
From SATIRE, ODE, and pert EPISTLE;
While every blockhead strives to throw
His fhare of vengeance on his foe:
As if it were a Shrove-tide game,
And cocks and poets were the fame.
Thus fhould a wooden collar deck
Some woe-full 'fquire's embarrass'd neck,
When high above the croud he stands
With equi-diftant sprawling hands,
And without hat, politely bare,
Pops out his head to take the air;
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