Not register' d in Heav'n—he mocks at grace,
And in his creed God never found a place—
Look not for Conscience-^for he knows her not,
So lone a stranger, she is quite forgot—
Nor think thyself in law secure and firm—
Thy master is a lord, and thou a worm,
A poor mean reptile, never meant to think,
Who, heing well supplied with meat and drink,
And suffer'd just to crawl from place to place,
Must serve his lusts, and think he doesthee grace.

Fly, then, whilst yet 'tis in thy pow'r to fly:
But whither canst thou go? on whom rely
For wish'd protection? Virtue's sure to meet
An armed host of foes in ev'ry street
What hoots it, of Apicius fearful grown,
Headlong to fly into the arms of Stone?
Or why take refuge in the house of pray'r,
If sure to meet with an Apicius there?
Trust not old age, which will thy faith hetray,
Saint Socrates is still a goat, though grey;
Trust not green youth; Florio will scarce go down,
And, at eighteen, hath surfeited the town;
Trust not to rakes—alas! 'tis all pretence—
They take up raking only as a fence

'Gainst common fame—place H in thy view;

He keeps one whore as Barrowhy kept two;

Trust not to marriage—T took a wife,

Who chaste as Dian might have pass'd her life,
Had she not, far more prudent in her aim,
(To propagate the honours of his name,
And save expiring titles) taken care
Without his knowledge to provide an heir;Trust not to marriage, in mankind unread;

S—-'s a married man, and S new wed.

Would'st thou be safe? Society forswear,
Fly to the desert, and seek shelter there,
Herd with the brutes—they follow Nature's plan—
There's not one brute so dangerous as man
In Afric's wilds—'mongst them that refuge find,
Which lust denies thee here among mankind;
Renounce thy name, thy nature, and no more
Pique thy vain pride on manhood; on all four
Walk, as you see those honest creatures do,
And quite forget that once you walk'd on two.

But if the thoughts of solitude alarm,
And social life hath one remaining charm,
If still thou art to jeopardy decreed
Amongst the monsters of Augusta's breed,
Lay by thy sex, thy safety to procure;
Put off the man, from men to live secure;
Go forth a woman to the public view,
And with their garb assume their manners too.
Had the light-footed Greek of Chiron's school
Been wise enough to keep this single rule,
The maudlin hero, like a puling hoy
Rohh'd of his play-thing, on the plains of Troy
Had never hluhher'd at Patroclus' tomh,
And plac'd his minion in his mistress' room.
Be not in this than catamites more nice,
Do that for virtue, which they do for vice.
Thus shalt thou pass untainted life's gay bloom,
Thus stand uncourted in the drawing-room,
At midnight thus, untempted, walk the street,
And run no danger but of heing heat.

Where is the mother, whose officious zeal
Discreetly judging what her daughters feel
By what she felt herself in days of yore,
Against that letcher man makes fast the door?
Who not permits, e'en for the sake of pray'r,
A priest, uncastrated, to enter tucre,

TIMES. 369Nor (could her wishes and her care prevail)
Would suffer in the house a fly that's male?
Let her discharge her cares, throw wide her doors,
Her daughters cannot, if they would, he whores;
Nor can a man be found, as times now go,
Who thinks it worth his while to make them so.
Though they more fresh, more lively than the

And hrighter than the noon-day Sun, adorn
The works of Nature; though the mother's grace
Revives, improv'd, in every daughter's face;
Undisciplin'd in dull Discretion's rules,
Untaught, and undchauch'd hy hoarding-schools,
Free and unguarded, let them range the town,
Go forth at random, and run Pleasure down,
Start where she will, discard all taint of fear,
Nor think of danger, when no danger's near.
Watch not their steps—they 're safe without thy
Unless, like jennets, they conceive by air, [care,
And ev'ry one of them may die a nun,
Unless they breed, like carrion, in the sun.
Men, dead to pleasure, as they 're dead to grace,
Against the law of Nature set their face,
The grand primeval law, and seem comhin'd
To stop the propagation of mankind;
Vile Pathics read the marriage act with pride,
And fancy that the law is on their side.

Broke down, and strength a stranger to his hed,

Old L , though yet alive, is dead;

T lives no more, or lives not to our isle;

No longer blest with a Cz 's smile,

T is at P •• disgrac'd,

And M grown grey, perforce grows chaste;

Nor, to the credit of our modest race,
Rises one stallion to supply their place.
A maidenhead, which, twenty years ago,
In mid December the rank fly would blow
Though closely kept, now, when the dog-star's heat
Inflames the marrow in the very street,
May lie untouch'd, left for the worms, hy those
Who daintily pass by, and hold their nose.
Poor, plain Concupiscence is in disgrace,
And simple Letch'ry dares not show her face,
Lest she be sent to Bridewell: bankrupts made,
To save their fortunes, bawds leave off that trade,
Which first had left off them; to Welldose Square
Fine, fresh, young strumpets (for Dodd preaches
there) Throng for subsistence; pimps no longer thrive,
And pensions only keep L alive.

Where is the mother, who thinks all her pain,
And all her jeopardy of travail, gain,
When a man-child is horn; thinks ev'ry pray'r
Paid to the full, and answer'd in an heir?
Short-sighted woman! little doth she know
What streams of sorrow from that source may flow;
Little suspect, while she surveys her hoy,
Her young Narcissus, with an eye of joy
Too full for continence, that Fate could g ve
Her darling as a curse; that she may live,
Ere sixteen winters their short course have run,
In agonies of soul, to curse that son. Pray then for daughters, ye wise mothers, pray;
They shall reward your love, not make you grey
Before your time with sorrow; they shall give
Ages of peace and comfort, whilst ye live
Make life most truly worth your care, and save,
In spite of death, your mem'ries from the grave.

That sense, with more than manly vigour fi auglit, That fortitude of soul, that stretch of tliought, B h

That genius, great beyond the narrow bound Of Earth's low walk, that judgment perfect found When wanted most, that purity of taste Which critics mention by the name of chaste; Adorn'd with elegance, that easy flow Of ready wit which never made a foe, That face, that form, that dignity, that ease, Those pow'rs of pleasing with that will to please, By which Lepel, when in her youthful days, E'en from the currish pope extorted praise, We see, transmitted, in her daughter shine, And view a new Lepel in Caroline. Is a son born into this world of woe? In never-ceasing streams let sorrow flow; Be from that hour the house with sables hung, Let lamentations dwell upon thy tongue, E'en from the moment that he first began To wail and whine; let him not see a man; ~Lock, lock him up, far from the public eye, Give him no opportunity to buy, Or to be bought: B , though rich, was sold, And gave his body up to shame for gold.

Let it be bruited all about the town, That he is coarse, indelicate, and brown, An antidote to lust, his face deep scarr'd With the small-pox, his body maim'd and marr'd, Eat up with the king's evil, and his blood, Tainted throughout, a thick and putrid flood, Where dwells Corruption, making him all o'er, From head to foot, a rank and running sore. Should'st thou report him as by Nature made, He is undone, and by thy praise betray'd; Give him out fair, letchers in number more, More brutal and more fierce, than throng'd the door Of Lot in Sodom, shall to thine repair, And force a passage, though a God is there.

Let him not have one servant that is male; Where lords are baffled, servants oft prevail. Some vices they propose, to all agree;

H was guilty, but was M free?

Give him no tutor—throw him to a punk, Rather than trust his morals to a monk— Monks we all know—we, who have liv'd at home, From fair report, and travellers, who roam, More feelingly—nor trust him to the gown, 'Tis oft a covering in this vile town For base designs; ourselves have liv'd to see More than one parson in the pillory. Should he have brothers, (image to thy view A scene, which, though not public made, is true) Let not one brother be to t' other known, Nor let his father sit with him alone. Be all his servants female, young, and fair, And if the pride of Nature spur thy heir To deeds of venery, if, hot and wild, He chance to get some score of maids with child, Chide, but forgive him; whoredom is a crime, Which, more at this than any other time, Calls for indulgence, and, 'mongst such a race, To have a bastard is some sign of grace.

Born in such times, should I sit tamely down, Suppress my rage, and saunter through the town As one who knew not, or who shar'd these crimes? Should I at lesser evils point my rhymes, And let this Giant Sin, in the full eye Of Observation, pass unwounded by? Though our meek wives, passive obedience taught, Patiently bear those wrongs for which they ought, With the brave spirit of their dams possess'd, To plant a dagger in each husband's breast,

To cut oft* male increase from this fair isle,
And turn our Thames into another Nile;
Though, on his Sunday, the smug pulpiteer,
Loud 'gainst all other crimes, is silent here,
And thinks himself absolv'd, in the pretence
Of decency, which meant for the defence
< )f real Virtue, and to raise her price,
Becomes an agent for the cause of Vice; [take
Though the Law sleeps, and through the care they
To drug her well, may never more awake;
Born in such times, nor with that patience curst
Which saints may boast of, I must speak, or bunt-
But if, too eager in my bold career,
Haply I wound the nice and chaster ear,
If all unguarded, all too rude, I speak,
And call up blushes in the maiden's cheek,
Forgive, ye fair—my real motives view,
And to forgiveness add your praises too.
For you I write—nor wish a better plan,
The cause of woman is most worthy man—For you I still will write, nor hold my hand,
Whilst there's one slave of Sodom in the land.

Let them fly far, and skulk from place to place,
Not daring to meet manhood face to face,
Their steps I Ml track, nor yield them one retreat
Where they may hide their heads, or rest their feet,
Till God in wrath shall let his vengeance fall,
And make a great example of them all,
Bidding in one grand pile this town expire,
Her tow'rs in dust, her Thames a lake of fire;
Or they (most worth our wish) convine'd, though
Of their past crimes, and dangerous estate, [late.
Pardon of women with repentance buy,
And learn to honour them, as much as I.


Happy the bard (though few such bards we find) Who, 'bove controlmcnt, dares to speak his mind; Dares, unabash'd, in ev'ry place appear, And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear. Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need Cannot compel, him Pride cannot mislead To be the slave of Greatness, to strike sail, When, sweeping onward with her peacock's tail, Quality, in full plumage, passes by; He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye. And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due state, And is above conversing with the great. Perish those slaves, those minions of the quill, Who have conspir'd to seize that sacred hill Where the Nine Sisters pour a genuine strain, And sunk the mountain level with the plain; Who, with mean, private views, and servile art, No spark of virtue living in their heart, Have basely turn'd apostates, have debas'd Their dignity of office, have disgrae'd, Like Eli's sons, the altars where they stand, And caus'd their name to stink through all tinHave stoop'd to prostitute their venal pen For the support of great but guilty men, Have made the bard, of their own vile accord, Inferior to that thing we call a lord.

What is a lord * Doth that plain, simple word Contain some magic spell? As soon as heard, Like an alarum-bell on Night's dull ear, Doth it strike louder, and more strong appear Than other words? Whether we will or no, Through Reason's court doth it nnquestion'd ge

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Pen on the mention, and of course transmit
Notions of something excellent, of wit
Pleasing though keen, of humour free though chaste,
Of sterling genius with sound judgment grae'd,
Of virtue far ahove temptation's reach,
And honour which not malice can impeach ?,
Believe it not—'twas Nature's first intent,
Before their rank became their punishment,
They should have pass'd for men, nor hlush'd to

The blessings she hestow'd.—She gave them eyes, And they could see—she gave them ears—they heard— The instruments of stirring, and they stirr'd— Like us, they were design'd to eat, to drink, To talk, and (ev'ry now and then) to think:Till they, by pride corrupted, for the sake Of singularity, disclaim'd that make;Till they, disdaining Nature's vulgar mode, Flew off, and struck into another road, More fitting quality, and to our view Came forth a species altogether new, Something we had not known, and could not know, Like nothing of God's making here below;Nature exclaim'd with wonder—" Lords are things, Which, never made by me, were made by kings."

A lord (nor let the honest and the brave, The true, old noble with the fool and knave Here mix his fame; curst be that thought of mine, Which with a B— and F— should Grafton join) A lord (nor here let censure rashly call My just contempt of some, abuse of all, And as of late, when Sodom was my theme, Slander my purpose, and my Muse hlaspheme, Because she stops not, rapid in her song, To make exceptions as she goes along, Though well she hopes to find, another year, A whole minority exceptions here) A mere, mere ford, *ith nothing but the name, Wealth all his worth, and title all his fame, Lives on another man; himself a blank, Thankless he lives, or must some grandsire thank For smuggled honours, and ill-gotten pelf; A hard owes all to Nature and himself.

Gods, how my soul is burnt up with disdain, When I see men, whom Phoebus in his train Might view with pride, lacquey the heels of those Whom Genius ranks amongst her greatest foes! And what's the cause? Why these same sons of No thanks to them, were to a title horn, [Scorn, And could not help it; by chance hither sent, And only deities hy accident. Had fortune on our getting chane'd to shine, Their hirthright honours had heen your's or mine. Twas a mere random stroke; and should the Throne Eye thee with favour, proud and lordly grown, Thou, though a hard, might'st he their fellow yet, But Felix never can he made a wit . No, in good faith—that's one of those few things Which Fate has plae'd heyond the reach of kings. Bards may be lords, but 'tis not in the cards, Play how we will, to turn lords into bards.

A hard—a lord—why let them hand in hand Go forth as friends, and travel through the land; Ohserve which word the people can digest Most readily, which goes to market hest, Which gets most credit; whether men will trust A hard hecause they think he may he just, Or on a lord will choose to risk their gains, Though privilege in that point still remains.

A hard—a lord—let Reason take her scales, And fairly weigh those words; see which prevails, Which in the balance lightly kicks the beam, And which by sinking, we the victor deem.

Tis done, and Hermes, by command of Jove, Summons a synod in the sacred grove. Gods throng with gods to take their chairs on high, And sit in state the senate of the sky; Whilst, in a kind of parliament helow, Men stare at those ahove, and want to know What they 're transacting. Reason takes her stand Just in the midst, a balance in her hand, Which o'er and o'er she tries, and finds it true. From either side, conducted full in view, A man comes forth, of figure strange and queer; We now and then see something like them here.

The ,^r»f was meagre, flimsy, void of strength, But Nature kindly had made up in length What she in hreadth denied. Erect and proud, A head and shoulders taller than the crowd. Fie deem'd them pigmies all: loose hung his skin O'er his hare hones; his face so very thin, So very narrow, and so much heat out. That physiognomists have made a douht, Proportion lost, expression quite forgot, Whether it could he call'd a face or not; At end of it howe'er, unhless'd with heard. Some twenty fathom length of chin appear'd: With legs, which we might well conceive that Fate Meant only to support a spider's weight, Firmly he strove to tread, and with a stride Which show'd at once his weakness and his pride, Shaking himself to pieces, seem'd to cry, "Ohserve, good people, how I shake the sky."

In his right-hand a paper did he hold, On which, at large, in characters of gold, Distinct, and plain for those who run to see, Saint Archibald had wrote L, O, R, I). This, with an air of scorn, he from afar Twirl'd into Reason's scales, and on that bar, Which from his soul he hated, yet admir'd, Quick turn'd his back, and as he came retir'd. The judge to all around his name declar'd; Each goddess titter'd, each god laugh'd, Jove star'd, Aml the whole people cried, with one accord, "Good Heaven bless us all, is that a lord."'

Such was the Jlrtt—the second was a man, Whom Nature built on quite a diffrent plan; |,A heart whom from the moment he was horn, His dam despis'd, and left unlich'd in scorn; A Babel, which, the pow'r of Art outdone, She could not finish when she had begun; An utter chaos, out of which no might But that of God could strike one spark of light. Broad were his shoulders, and from blade to blade

A H might at full length have laid;

Vast were his hones, his muscles twisted strong;
His face was short, hut hroader than 'twas lung;
His features, though by Nature they were large,
Contentment had contriv'd to overcharge,
And bury meaning, save that we might spy
Sense low'ring on the penthouse of his eye;
His arms were two twin oaks; his legs so stout
That they might bear a mansion-house ahout;
Nor were they, look but at his hody there,
Design'd hy Fate a much less weight to hear.

O'er a hrown cassoe, which had once heen hlach,
Which hung in tatters on his hrawny hack,
A sight most strange, and awkward to hehold,
He threw a covering of hlue aml gold.

Just at that time of life, when man by rule,
The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool.
Ho started up a fop, and, fond of show,
Look'd like another Hercules tum'd beau.
A subject, met with only now and then,
Much fitter for the pencil than the pen;
Hogarth would draw him (envy must allow)
E'en to the life, was Hogarth living now.

With such accoutrements, with such a form,
Much like a porpoise just before a storm,
Onward he roll'd: a laugh prevailed around,
E'en Jove was seen to simper; at the sound
(Nor was the cause unknown, for from his youth
Himself he studied by the glass of Truth)
He join'd their mirth, nor shall the gods condemn,
If, whilst they laugh'd at him, he laugh'd at them.
Judge Reason view'd him with an eye of grace,
Look'd through his soul, and quite forgot his face,
And, from his hand receiv'd, with fair regard
Plac'd in her other scale the name of bard. Then (for she did as judges ought to do,
She nothing of the case beforehand knew,
Nor wish'd to know; she never stretch'd the laws,
Nor, basely to anticipate a cause,
Compell'd solicitors, no longer free,
To show those briefs she had no right to see)
Then she with equal hand her scales held out,
Nor did the cause one moment hang in doubt;
She held her scales out fair to public view,
The lord, as sparks fly upwards, upwards flew,
More light than air, deceitful in the weight;
The bard, preponderating, kept his state.
Reason approv'd, and with a voice, whose sound
Shook Earth, shook Heaven, on the clearest ground,
Pronouncing for the bards a full decree
Cried—"Those must honour them, who honour me;
They from this present day, where'er I reign,
In their own right, precedence shall obtain:
Merit rules here; be it enough that birth
Intoxicates, and sways the fools of Earth." Nor think that here, in hatred to a lord,
I 've forg'd a tale, or alter'd a record;
Search when you will (I am not now in sport)
You '11 find it registerM in Reason's court.

Nor think that Envy here hath strung my lyre, That I depreciate what I most admire; And look on titles with an eye of scorn, Because I was not to a title born. Ry Him that made me, I am much more proud, More inly satisfied to have a crowd Point at me as I pass, and cry—" That's he— A poor, but honest bard, who dares be free Amidst corruption," than to have a train Of flick'ring levee-slaves, to make me vain Of things I ought to blush for; to run, fly, And live but in the motion of my eye; When I am less than man, my faults t' adore, And make me think that I am something more. Recall past times, bring back the days of old, When the great noble bore his honours bold, And in the face of peril, when he dar'd Things which his legal bastard, if declar'd. Might well discredit; faithful to his trust, In the extremest points of justice just, Well knowing all, and lov'd by all he knew, True to his king, and to his country true; Honest at court, above the baits of gain, Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain; Mod'rate in wealth, gen'rous but not profuse, Well worthy riches, for he knew their use;

Possessing much, and yet deserving more;
Deserving those high honours which he wore
With ease to all, and in return gain'd fame,
Which all men paid, because he did not claim;
When the grim war was plac'd in dread array,
Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey,
Or lioness of royal whelps foredone,
In peace, as mild as the departing Sun,
A gen'ral blessing wheresoe'er he tum'd,
Patron of learning, nor himself unleam'd;
Ever awake at Pity's tender call,
A father of the poor, a friend to all;Recall such times, and from the grave bring back
A worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack.
My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim,
And ev'ry Muse conspire to swell his fame,
Till Envy shall to him that praise allow,
Which she cannot deny to Temple now.

This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget,
Delighted with the task, to pay that debt,
To pay it like a man, and in his lays,
Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise-
But let not Pride and Prejudice misdeem,
And think that empty titles are my theme;
Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth,
I rev'rence virtue, but I laugh at birth.
Give me a lord that's honest, frank, and brave,
I am his friend, but cannot be his slave;
Though none indeed but blockheads would pretend
To make a slave, where they may make a friend.
I love his virtues, and will make them known,
Confess his rank, but can't forget my own.
(Jive me a lord, who, to a title born,
Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn.
What, shall my pride (and pride is virtue here)
Tamely make way, if such a wretch appear t
Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my knee
To such a shadow of nobility,
A shred, a remnant? He might rot unknown
For any real merit of his own,
And never had come forth to public note,
Had he not worn by chance his father's coat. To think a M worth my least regards, Is treason to the majesty of bards.

By Nature form'd (when for her honour's sake She something more than common strove to make, When, overlooking each minute defect, And all too eager to be quite correct, In her full heat and vigour she imprest Her stamp more strongly on the favour'd breast) The bard (nor thiuk too lightly that I mean Those little, piddling witlings, who o'erween Of their small parts, the Murphys of the stage, The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age, Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse) The real bard, whom native genius fires, Whom every maid of Castaly inspires, Let him consider wherefore he was meant, Let him but answer Nature's great intent, And fairly weigh himself with other men. Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen, Would in full state, like a true monarch, lire, Xor 'bate one inch of his prerogative.

Methinks I see old Wingate frowning here, (Wingato may in the season be a peer, ,..Though now, against his will, of figures sicsv , He 's fore'd to diet on arithmetic, E'en whilst he envies ev'ry Jew he meets

Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets) t


Methinks (his mind with future honours big,
His Tyhurn hoh tum'd to a dress'd bag wig)
I hear him cry—" What doth this jargon mean?
Was ever such a damn'd dull hlockhead seen?

Majaty hard prerogative Disdain

Hath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain;To Bethlem with him—give him whips and straw—
1 'm very sensihle he is mad in law.
A saucy groom who trades in reason, thus
To set himself upon a par with us;If this here's suffer'd, and if that there fool
May when he pleases send us all to school,
Why then our only business is outright
To take our caps, and bid the world good night .
T 've kept a bard myself this twenty years,
But nothing of this kind in him appears.
He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel licks
The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which
kicks; He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes,
Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse;
A creature of the right cameleon hue,
He wears my colours, yellow or true blue,
Just as I wear them; 'tis all one to him,
Whether I change through conscience, or through

How this is something like; on such a plan A bard may find a friend in a great man;But this proud coxcomb—zounds, I thought that all Of this queer tribe had been like my old Paul."

Injurious thought! accursed be the tongue On which the vile insinuation hung, The heart where 'twas engender'd! Curst be those, Those bards, who not themselves alone expose, But me, but all, and make the very name By which they 're call'd, a standing mark of shame.

Talk not of custom—'tis the coward's plea,
Current with fools, but passes not with me;
An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often tried
By numbers to o'erpow'r the better side.
Why tell me, then, that from the hirth of Rhyme,
No matter when, down to the present time,
As by th' original decree of Fate,
Bards have protection sought amongst the great;
Conscious of weakness, have applied to them
As vines to elms, and twining round their stem,
Flourish'd on high ; to gain this wish'd support,
E'en Virgil to Maecenas paid his court?
As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed,
But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need,
From which it rose: had hards hut truly known
That strength, which is most properly their own,
Without a lord, unpropp'd, they might have stood,
And overtopp'd those giants of the wood.

But why, when present times my care engage,
Must I go back to the Augustan age?
Why, anxious for the living, am I led
Into the mansions of the ancient dead?
Can they find patrons no where but at Rome,
And must I seek Maecenas in the tomb?
Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of note
Start up, and from report Maecenas quote;
Under his colours lords are proud to fight,
Forgetting that Maecenas was a knight;
They mention him, as if to use his name
Was in some measure to partake his fame,
Though Virgil, were he living, in the street
Might rot for them, or perish in the Fleet.
See how they redden, and the charge disclaim—
Virgil, and in tha Fleet .t—Forhid it shame.

Hence, ye vain boasters, to the Fleet repair, And ask, with blushes ask, if I.tovo is there '. Patrons, in days of yore, were men of sense, Were men of taste, and had a fair pretence To rule in letters.—Some of them were heard To read off-hand, and never spell a word; Some of them too, to such a monstrous height Was learning risen, for themselves could write, And kept their secretaries, as the great Do many other foolish things, for state.

Our patrons are of quite a diff'rent strain, With neither sense nor taste, against the grain, They patronize for fashion sake—no more— And keep a bard, just as they keep a whore, Meleomhe' (on such occasion I am loth To name the dead) was a rare proof of hoth. Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read, Nor could deserve their clergy by their creed ( Others can write, but such a pagan hand, A Willes i should always at our elbow stand; Many, if begg'd, a chancellor, of right, Would order into keeping at first sight. Those who stand fairest to the public view, Take to themselves the praise to others due; They rob the very spital, and make free With those, alas I who've least to spare.—We see, hath not a word to say,

Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech away.

Patrons in days of yore, like patrons now, Expected that the haid should make his bow At coming in, and ev'ry now and then Hint to the world that they were more than men; But, like the patrons of the present day, They never bilk'd the poet of his pay. Virgil lov'd rural ease, and, far from harm, Maecenas fix'd him in a neat, snug farm, Where he might, free from trouble, pass his days In his own way, and pay his rent in praise. Horace lov'd wine, and, through his friend at court, Could buy it off the key in ev'ry port; Horace lov'd mirth, Maecenas lov'd it too, They met, they laugh'd, as Goy * and I may do, Nor in those moments paid the least regard To which was minister, and which was bard.

Not so our patrons—grave as grave can be, They know themselves, they keep up dignity; Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit That men of fortune rank with men of wit; Wit, if familiar made, will find her strength— Tis hest to keep her weak and at arms-length. Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give, From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live. Such is their language, and their practice such, They promise little, and they give not much. Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain, Praise that proud Scot, whom all good men disdain; What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone, He may obtain a patent for the run Of his lord's kitchen, and have ample time, With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme; Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace) May at the second tahle get a place,

i Mr. Lloyd died in the Fleet, Dec. IS, 1'76*, shortly after the publication of this poem.

'George Buhh Dodington, lord Meleomhe. He died July 28, I762.

i Decypherer to the state. * A Frenchman, secretary to Mr. Wilkes.

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