That ample list the Tyburn-Herald gives,
And each known knave, who still for Tyburn lives.

So grows the work, and now the Printer tries His powers no more, but leans on his allies.

When lo! the advertising tribe succeed, Pay to be read, yet find but few will read; And chief th' illustrious race, whose drops and pills Have patent powers to vanquish human ills : These, with their cures, a constant aid remain, To bless the pale Composer's fertile brain; Fertile it is, but still the noblest soil

Require's some pause, some intervals from toil; And they at least a certain ease obtain

From KATTERFELTO's skill, and GRAHAM's glowing strain.

I too must aid, and pay to see my name
Hung in these dirty avenues to Fame;

Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen
And sung, could make those avenues more clean;
Could stop one slander ere it found its way,
And gave to public scorn, its helpless prey.
By the same aid, the Stage invites her friends,
And kindly tells, the banquet she intends;
Thither from real life, the many run,

With SIDDONS weep, or laugh with ABINGDON ;
Pleas'd in fictitious joy or grief, to see
The mimic passion with their own agree;

To steal a few enchanted hours away
From Care, and drop the curtain on the day.

But who can steal from Self, that wretched wight,
Whose darling work is try'd, some fatal night?
Most wretched man! when, bane to every bliss,
He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss;
Then groans succeed; not traitors on the wheel,
Can feel like him, or have such pangs to feel.

Nor end they here; next day he reads his fall,
In every Paper, critics are they all;

He sees his branded name, with wild affright,
And hears again the cat-calls of the night.

Such help the stage affords; a larger space,
Is fill'd by puffs and all the puffing race.
Physic had once alone the lofty style,

The well-known boast, that ceas'd to raise a smile:
Now all the province of that tribe invade,
And we abound in quacks of every trade.

The simple barber, once an honest name,
CERVANTES founded, FIELDING rais'd his fame :
Barber no more; a gay perfumer comes,
On whose soft cheek his own cosmetic blooms;
Here he appears, each simple mind to move,
And advertises beauty, grace, and love.

"Come, faded Belles, who would your youth re

new,

And learn the wonders of Olympian Dew;

Restore the roses that begin to faint,
Nor think celestial washes vulgar paint;

Your former features, airs, and arts assume,
Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom.

"Come, batter'd beaux, whose locks are turn'd to gray, And crop discretion's lying badge away;

Read where they vend these smart engaging things, These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs;

No female eye the fair deception sees,

'Not Nature's self so natural as these."

Such are their arts, but not confin'd to them,
The muse impartial, must her sons condemn;
For they, degenerate! join the venal throng,
And puff a lazy Pegasus along:

More guilty these, by Nature less design'd
For little arts that suit the vulgar kind.

That barber's boys, who would to trade advance, Wish us to call them, smart frizeurs from France; That he who builds a chop-house, on his door Paints "The true old original Blue Boar!"

These are the arts by which a thousand live,
Where truth may smile, and justice may forgive:
But when amid this rabble-rout we find

A puffing Poet to his honour blind;
Who slily drops quotations all about

Packet or Post, and points their merit out;
Who advertises what Reviewers say,
With sham editions every second day;
Who dares not trust his praises out of sight,
But hurries into fame with all his might;

Although the verse some transient praise obtains,
Contempt is all the anxious poet gains.

Now puffs exhausted, advertisements past,
Their correspondents stand expos'd at last :
These are a numerous tribe, to Fame unknown,
Who for the public good forego their own;
Who volunteers in paper war engage,
With double portion of their party's rage:
Such are the BRUTII, DECII, who appear
Wooing the Printer for admission here;
Whose generous souls can condescend to pray
For leave to throw their precious time away.

Oh! cruel WoODFALL! when a patriot draws His grey-goose quill in his dear country's cause, To vex and maul a Ministerial race,

Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place?
Alas! thou know'st not with what anxious heart
He longs his best-lov'd labours to impart;
How he has sent them to thy brethren round,
And still the same unkind reception found:
At length indignant will he damn the State,
Turn to his trade, and leave us to our fate.

These Roman souls, like Rome's great sons, are known To live in cells on labours of their own.

Thus MILO, could we see the noble chief,
Feeds, for his conntry's good, on legs of beef:
CAMILLUS Copies deeds for sordid pay,
Yet fights the public battles twice a day:

Ev'n now the godlike BRUTUS views his score
On the scroll'd bar-board, view'd too long before;
Where, tipling punch, grave CATO's self you'll see,
And AMOR PATRIA vending smuggled tea.

Last in these ranks and least, their art's disgrace, Neglected stand the Muse's meanest race; Scribblers who court contempt, whose verse the eye Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by: This Poet's Corner is the place they choose, A fatal nursery for an infant Muse;

Unlike that corner where true poets lie,

For these no more shall live, than they shall die : Hapless the lad whose mind such dreams invade, And win to verse, the talents due to trade.

Curb then, O Youth! these raptures as they rise, Keep down the evil spirit, and be wise;

Follow your calling, think the Muses foes,
Nor lean upon the pestle, and compose.

I know your day-dreams, and I know the snare Hid in your flow'ry path, and cry "beware."

Thoughtless of ill, and to the future blind, A sudden couplet rushes in your mind; Here you may nameless print your idle rhymes, And read your first-born work a thousand times; Th' infection spreads, your couplet grows apace, Stanzas to Delia's Dog, or Celia's Face;

R