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But rebel wit deserts thee oft in vain :
Lost in the maze of words he turns again,
And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign.

Afflicted sense thou kindly dost set free,
Oppress'd with argumental tyranny,

And routed reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

With thee in private modest dulness lies,
And in thy bosom lurks in thought's disguise!
Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise!

Yet thy indulgence is by both confest;
Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast,
And 'tis in thee at last that wisdom seeks for rest.

Silence! the knave's repute, the whore's good name,
The only honour of the wishing dame;

The very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame.

But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are free, How church and state should be oblig'd to thee! At senate and at bar how welcome wouldst thou be!

Yet speech, e'en there, submissively withdraws
From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause:
Then pompous silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws.

Past services of friends, good deeds of foes,
What favourites gain, and what the nation owes,
Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.

The country wit, religion of the town,
The courtier's learning, policy o' the' gown,
Are best by thee express'd, and shine in thee alone.

The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry,
Lord's quibble, critic's jest; all end in thee;
All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.

EARL OF DORSET.

Artemisia.

THOUGH Artemisia talks by fits

Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;
Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke:
Yet in some things methinks she fails:-
"Twere well if she would pare her nails,
And wear a cleaner smock.

Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,
Such nastiness and so much pride
Are oddly join'd by fate:

On her large squab you find her spread,
Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in state.

She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part except her face;
All white and black beside:
Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,

And masculine her stride.

So have I seen, in black and white,
A prating thing, a magpie hight,
Majestically stalk;

A stately worthless animal,

That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,
All flutter, pride, and talk.

PHRINE.

PHRYNE had talents for mankind;
Open she was and unconfin'd,

Like some free port of trade:
Merchants unloaded here their freight,
And agents from each foreign state
Here first their entry made.

Her learning and good breeding such,
Whether the' Italian or the Dutch,
Spaniards or French, came to her;
To all obliging she'd appear;

'Twas Si Signior, 'twas Yaw Mynheer,
'Twas S'il vous plait, Monsieur.

Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes,
Still changing names, religions, climes,
At length she turns a bride:

In di'monds, pearls, and rich brocades,
She shines the first of batter'd jades,
And flutters in her pride.

So have I known those insects fair
(Which curious Germans hold so rare)
Still vary shapes and dyes;

Still gain new titles with new forms;
First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms,
Then painted butterflies.

то

THE

DUNCIA D.

TO DR. JONATHAN SWIFT.

BOOK I.

ARGUMENT.

The Proposition, Invocation, and Inscription. Then the original of the great Empire of Dulness, and cause of its continuance. The College of the Goddess in the City, with her private academy for poets in particular; the governors of it, and the four cardinal virtues. The Poem hastes into the midst of things, presenting the Goddess, on the evening of a Lord Mayor's day, revolving the long succession of her sons, and the glories past and to come. She fixes her eye on Bayes, to be the instrument of the event which is the subject of the Poem. He is described among his books. After debating whether to betake himself to the church, to gaming, or to party-writing, he raises an altar of proper books, and purposes thereon to sacrifice all his unsuccessful writings. As the pile is kindled, the Goddess, beholding the flame, flies and puts it out, by casting upon it the Poem of Thule. She reveals herself to him, transports him to her Temple, unfolds her arts, and initiates him into her mysteries, then announcing the death of the Poet-Laureat, anoints him, carries him to Court, and proclaims him successor.

THE mighty mother, and her son, who brings
The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings,
I sing. Say you, her instruments, the great!
Call'd to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate;

REMARKS.

This Poem was written in the year 1726. In the next year an imperfect edition was published at Dublin, and reprinted at London in twelves; as were another at Dublin, and another at London in octavo; and three others in twelves the same year: but there was no perfect edition before that of London in quarto, which was attended with

You by whose care, in vain descry'd and curst, Still dunce the second reigns like dunce the first; Say how the goddess bade Britannia sleep,

And pour'd her spirit o'er the land and deep.

REMARKS.

notes. We are willing to acquaint posterity, that this poem was presented to King George II. and his Queen, by the hands of Sir Robert Walpole, on the 12th of March, 1728-9. Schol. Vet.

It was expressly confessed in the preface to the first edition, that this Poem was not published by the author himself. It was printed originally in a foreign country. And what foreign country? Why, one notorious for blunders; where finding blanks only, instead of proper names, they filled them up at their pleasure.

The very hero of the Poem hath been mistaken to this hour; so that we are obliged to open our notes with a discovery of who he really was. We learn from the former editor, that this piece was presented by the hands of Sir Robert Walpole to King George II. Now the author tells us, his hero is the man

who brings

The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings.

And it is notorious who was the person on whom this Prince conferred the laurel,

It appears as plainly from the apostrophe to the great, in the third verse, that Tibbald could not be the person, who was never an author in fashion, or caressed by the great: whereas this single characteristic is sufficient to point out the true hero; who was the delight and companion of the nobility of England; and wrote, as he himself tells us, certain of his works at the earnest desire of persons of quality.

Lastly, the sixth verse affords full proof; this poet being the only one who was universally known to have had a son so exactly like him, in his poetical, theatrical, political, and moral capacities, that it could justly be said of him,

Still dunce the second reigns like dunce the first.

IMITATIONS.

Bentley.

Alluding to a verse of Mr. Dryden, in his verses to Mr. Congreve,

"And Tom the second reigns like Tom the first."

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