Her golden locks of classic hair, Are nets to catch the wanton air; Her forehead ivory, and her eyes Each a bright sun to light the skies, Orb'd in whose centre, Cupid aims His darts, protect us! tipt with flames; While the sly god's unerring bow Is the half circle of her brow. Each lip a ruby, parting, shows The precious pearl in even rows, And all the Loves and Graces sleek Bathe in the dimples of her cheek.

Her breasts pure snow, or white as milk,
Are ivory apples, smooth as silk,
Or else, as Fancy trips on faster,
Fine marble hills of alabaster.

A figure made of wax would please
More than an aggregate of these,
Which though they are of precious worth,
And held in great esteem on Earth,
What are they, rightly understood,
Compar'd to real flesh and blood?

And I, who hate to act by rules
Of whining, rhyming, loving fools,
Can never twist my mind about
To find such strange resemblance out,
And simile that's only fit

To show my plenteous lack of wit.
Therefore, omitting flames and darts,

Wounds, sighs and tears, and bleeding hearts,
Obeying, what I here declare,
Makes half my happiness, the fair,
The favourite subject I pursue,

And write, as who would not, for you.
Perhaps my Muse, a common curse,
Errs in the manner of her verse,
Which, slouching in the doggrel lay,
Goes tittup all her easy way.
Yes-an acrostic had been better,

Where each good natured prattling letter,
Though it conceal the writer's aim,
Tells all the world his lady's name.

But all acrostics, it is said,
Show wond'rous pain of empty head,
Where wit is cramp'd in hard confines,
And Fancy dare not jump the lines.
I love a fanciful disorder,
And straggling out of rule and order;
Impute not then to vacant head,
Or what I've writ, or what I've said,
Which imputation can't be true,
Where head and heart's so full of you.

Like Tristram Shandy, I could write
From morn to noon, from noon to night,
Sometimes obscure, and sometimes leaning,
A little sideways to a meaning,
And unfatigu'd myself, pursue
The civil mode of teasing you.

For as your folks who love the dwelling
On circumstance in story telling,
And to give each relation grace,
Describe the time, the folks, the place,
And are religiously exact

To point out each unmeaning fact,
Repeat their wonders undesired,
Nor think one hearer can be tired;
So they who take a method worse,
And prose away, like me, in verse,
Worry their mistress, friends or betters,
With satire, sonnet, ode, or letters,

And think the knack of pleasing follows
Each jingling pupil of Apollo's.

-Yet let it be a venial crime
That I address you thus in rhyme.
Nor think that I am Phoebus'-bit
By the tarantula of wit,

But as the meanest critic knows
All females have a knack at prose,
And letters are the mode of writing
The ladies take the most delight in;
Bold is the man, whose saucy aim
Leads him to form a rival claim;
A double death the victim dies,
Wounded by wit as well as eyes.

-With mine disgrace a lady's prose,
And put a nettle next a rose?
Who would, so long as taste prevails,
Compare St. James's with Versailles?
The nightingale, as story goes,
Fam'd for the music of his woes,
In vain against the artist try'd,
But strain'd his tuneful throat-and died.
Perhaps I sought the rhyming way,
For reasons which have pow'rful sway.
The swain, no doubt, with pleasure sues
The nymph he's sure will not refuse.
And more compassion may be found
Amongst these goddesses of sound,
Than always happens to the share
Of the more cruel human fair;
Who love to fix their lover's pains,
Pleas'd with the rattling of their chains,
Rejoicing in their servant's grief,
As 't were a sin to give relief.
They twist each easy fool about,
Nor let them in, nor let them out,
But keep them twirling on the fire,
Of apprehension and desire,
As cock-chafers, with corking pin
The school-boy stabs, to make them spin,
For 't is a maxim in love's school,
To make a man of sense a fool;

I mean the man, who loves indeed,
And hopes and wishes to succeed;
But from his fear and apprehension,
Which always mars his best intention,
Can ne'er address with proper ease
The very person he would please.

Now poets, when these nymphs refuse,
Straight go a courting to the Muse.
But still some difference we find
'Twixt goddesses and human kind;
The Muses' favours are ideal,
The ladies' scarce, but always real.
The poet can, with little pain,
Create a mistress in his brain,
Heap each attraction, every grace
That should adorn the mind or face,
On Delia, Phyllis, with a score
Of Phyllisses and Delias more.
Or as the whim of passion burns,
Can court each frolic Muse by turns;
Nor shall one word of blame be said,
Altho' he take them all to bed.
The Muse detests coquetry's guilt,
Nor apes the manners of a jilt.

Jilt! O dishonest hateful name,
Your sex's pride, your sex's shame,
Which often bait their treacherous hook
With smile endearing, winning look,

And wind them in the easy heart

Of man, with most ensnaring art,
Only to torture and betray

The wretch they mean to cast away.

No doubt 'tis charming pleasant angling To see the poor fond creatures dangling, Who rush like gudgeons to the bait, And gorge the mischief they should hate. Yet sure such cruelties deface Your virtues of their fairest grace. Aud pity, which in woman's breast, Should swim at top of all the rest, Must such insidious sport condemn, Which play to you, is death to them. So have I often read or heard, Though both upon a trav'ller's word, (Authority may pass it down, So, vide Travels, by Ed. Brown) At Metz, a dreadful engine stands, Form'd like a maid, with folded hands, Which finely drest, with primmest grace, Receives the culprit's first embrace; But at the second (dismal wonder!) Unfolds, clasps, cuts his heart asunder. You'll say, perhaps, I love to rail, We'll end the matter with a tale:

A Robin once, who lov'd to stray, And hop about from spray to spray, amiliar as the folks were kind, for thought of mischief in his mind, light favours make the bold presume, Vould flutter round the lady's room, and careless often take his stand 'pon the lovely Flavia's hand.

The nymph, 'tis said, his freedom sought, -In short, the trifling fool was caught; nd happy in the fair one's grace, Would not accept an eagle's place. And while the nymph was kind as fair, Vish'd not to gain his native air, at thought he bargain'd to his cost, o gain the liberty he lost. Till at the last, a fop was seen, parrot, dress'd in red and green, ho could not boast one genuine note, at chatter'd, swore and ly'd-by rote. Nonsense and noise will oft prevail, ben honour and affection fail." he lady lik'd her foreign guest, or novelty will please the best; nd whether it is lace or fan, r silk, or china, bird or mau,

one sure can think it wrong, or strange, hat ladies should admire a change. he parrot now came into play, he Robin! he had had his day,

ut could not brook the nymph's disdain, › filed and ne'er came back again.

He'd tell you when 't would rain, and when
The weather would be fine agen;
Precisely when your bones should ache,
And when grow sound, by th' almanack.
For he knew ev'ry thing, d'ye see,
By, what d'ye call 't, astrology,
And skill'd in all the starry system,
Foretold events, and often mist'em.
And then it griev'd me sore to look
Just at the heel-piece of his book,
Where stood a man, Lord bless my heart!
(No doubt by matthew metics art,)
Naked, expos'd to public view,

And darts stuck in him through and through.

I warrant him some hardy fool,
Who scorn'd to follow wisdom's rule,
And dar'd blasphemiously despise
Our doctor's knowledge in the skies.
Full dearly he abides his laugh,
I'm sure 'tis Swift, or Bickerstaff.

Excuse this bit of a digression,
A cobbler's is a learn'd profession.
Why may not I too couple rhymes?
My wit will not disgrace the times;
I too, forsooth, among the rest,
Claim one advantage, and the best,
I scarce know writing, have no reading,
Nor any kind of scholar breeding;
And wanting that's the sole foundation
Of half your poets' reputation.
While genius, perfect at its birth,
Springs up, like mushrooms from the earth.
You know they send me to and fro

To carry messages or so;

"And though I'm somewhat old and crazy, I'm still of service to the lazy,

For our good squire has no great notion
Of much alacrity in motion,

And when there's miles betwixt you know
Would rather send by half than go;
Then I'm dispatch'd to travel hard,
And bear myself by way of card.
I'm a two-legg'd excuse to show
Why other people cannot go;
And merit sure I must assume,
For once I went in Garrick's room.

In my old age, 't were wond'rous hard To come to town, as trav'lling card. Then let the post convey me there, The clerk's direction tell him where. For, though I ramble at this rate, He writes it all, and I dictate; For I'm resolv'd-by help of neighbour, (Who keeps a school, and goes to labour) To tell you all things as they past; Cobblers will go beyond their last, And so I'm told will authors too, -But that's a point I leave to you; Cobbling extends a thousand ways, Some cobble shoes, some cobble plays; Some-but this jingle's vastly clever, It makes a body write for ever. While with the motion of the pen, Method pops in and out agen, So, as I said, I thought it better, To set me down, and think a letter, And without any more ado, Seal up my mind, and send it you. You'll ask me, master, why I choose To plague your worship with my Muse;

Garrick, to whom with lath and plaster
You try to raise a fine pilaster,
And found on Lear and Macbeth,
His monument e'en after death,
Garrick's a dealer in grimaces,
A haberdasher of wry faces,
A hypocrite, in all his stages,

Who laughs and cries for hire and wages;
As undertakers' men draw grief
From onion in their handkerchief,
Like real mourners cry and sob,
And of their passions make a job.

And Colman too, that little sinner, That essay-weaver, drama-spinner, Too much the comic sock will use, For 'tis the law must find him shoes, And though he thinks on fame's wide ocean He swims, and has a pretty motion, Inform him, 'Lloyd, for all his grin That Harry Fielding holds his chin.

Now higher soar, my Muse, and higher, To Bonnel Thornton, hight esquire! The only man to make us laugh,

A very Peter Paragraph;

The grand conducter and adviser

In Chronicle, and Advertiser,

Who still delights to run his rig

On citizen and periwig!

The body thrives, and so the mind,
When both are free and unconfin'd;
But harness'd in like hackney tit,
To run the monthly stage of wit,
The racer stumbles in the shaft,
And shows he was not meant for draft.
Pot-bellied gluttons, slaves of taste,
Who bind in leathern belt their waist,
Who lick their lips at ham or haunch,
But hate to see the strutting paunch,
Full often rue the pain that's felt
From circumscription of the belt.
Thus women too we idiots call,
Who lace their shapes too close and small.
Tight stays, they find, oft end in humps,
And take, too late, alas! to jumps.
The Chinese ladies cramp their feet,
Which seem, indeed, both small and neat,
While the dear creatures laugh and talk,
And can do ev'ry thing-but walk;
Thus you,
"who trip it as you go

On the light fantastic toe,"
And in the ring are ever seen,
Or Rotten-row of Magazine,

Will cramp your Muse in four-foot verse,

And find at last your ease your curse.
Clio already humbly begs

You'd give her leave to stretch her legs,

dity,

In Thornton is no scarce commodity :

Much learning too I can descry,
Beneath his periwig doth lie.-

-I beg his pardon, I declare,
His grizzle's gone for greasy hair,
Which now the wag with ease can screw,
With dirty ribband in a queue~.
But why neglect (his trade forsaking
For scribbling, and for merry-making,)
With tye to overshade that brain,

Which might have shone in Warwick-lane?
Why not, with spectacles on nose,
In chariot lazily repose,

A formal, pompous, deep physician,
Himself a sign-post exhibition?

But hold, my Muse! you run a-head:
And where's the clue that shall unthread
The maze, wherein you are entangled?
While out of tume the bells are jangled
Through rhyme's rough road that serve to deck
My jaded Pegasus his neck.

My Muse with Lloyd alone contends:
Why then fall foul upon his friends;
Unless to show, like handy-dandy,

Or Churchill's ghost, or Tristram Shandy,
Now here, now there, with quick progression,
How smartly you can make digression:
Your rambling spirit now confine,
And speak to Lloyd in ev'ry line.

Tell me then, Lloyd, what is't you mean
By cobbling up a magazine?
A magazine, a wretched olio
Purloin'd from quarto and from folio,
From pamphlet, newspaper, and book;
Which tost up by a monthly cook,
Borrows fine shapes, and titles new,
Of fricasee and rich ragout,
Which dunces dress, as well as you.
Say, is't for you, your wit to coop,
And tumble through this narrow hoop?

Yet quadrupeds can only creep.

While namby-pamby thus you scribble, Your manly genius a mere fribble, Pinn'd down, and sickly, cannot vapour, Nor dares to spring, or eut a caper.

Rouse then, for shame, your ancient spirit!
Write a great work! a work of merit!
The conduct of your friend examine,
And give a Prophecy of Famine;
Or like yourself, in days of yore,
Write actors, as you did before:
Write what may pow'rful friends create you,
And make your present friends all hate you.
Learn not a shuffling, shambling, pace,
But go erect with manly grace;
For Ovid says, and pr'ythee heed it,
Os homini sublime dedit.

But if you still waste all your prime
In spinning Lilliputian rhyme,
Too long your genius will lie fallow,
And Robert Lloyd be Robert Shallow.

ON RHYME.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

BRING paper, Ash, and let me send
My hearty service to my friend.

How pure the paper looks and white!
What pity 'tis that folks will write,
And on the face of candour scrawl
With desperate ink, and heart of gall!
Yet thus it often fares with those
Who, gay and easy in their prose,
Incur ill-nature's ugly crime,
And lay about 'em in their rhyme.

No man more generous, frank and kind,
Of more ingenuous social mind,
Than Churchill, yet though Churchill hear,

I will pronounce him too severe,

For, whether scribbled at or not,
He writes no name without a blot.
Yet let me urge one honest plea:
Say, is the Muse in fault or he?
The man, whose genius thirsts for praise,
Who boldly plucks, nor waits the bays;
Who drives his rapid car along,
And feels the energy of song;
Writes, from the impulse of the Muse,
What sober reason might refuse.

My lord, who lives and writes at ease,
(Sure to be pleas'd, as sure to please)
And draws from silver-stand his pen,
To scribble sonnets now and then;
Who writes not what he truly feels,
But rather what he slily steals,
And patches up, in courtly phrase,
The manly sense of better days;
Whose dainty Muse is only kist;
But as his dainty lordship list,
Who treats her like a mistress still,
To turn her off, and keep at will;
Knows not the labour, pains, and strife
Of him who takes the Muse to wife.
For then the poor good-natur'd man
Must bear his burthen as he can;
And if my lady prove a shrew,
What would you have the husband do?
Say, should he thwart her inclination
To work his own, and her vexation?
Or giving madam all her rein,
Make marriage but a silken chain?
Thus we, who lead poetic lives,
The hen-peck'd culls of vixen wives,
Receive their orders, and obey,
Like husbands in the common way:

And when we write with too much phlegm,
The fault is not in us, but them:

True servants always at command,
We hold the pen, they guide the hand.
Why need I urge so plain a fact

To you who catch me in the act?
And see me, (ere I've said my grace,
That is, put sir in proper place,
Or with epistolary bow,

Have prefac'd, as I scarce know how,)
You see me, as I said before,

Run up and down a page or more,
Without one word of tribute due
To friendship's altar, and to you,
Accept, then, in or out of time,

My honest thanks, though writ in rhyme.
And these once paid, (to obligations
Repeated thanks grow stale vexations,
And hurt the liberal donor more
Than all his lavish gifts before,)
I skip about, as whim prevails,
Like your own frisky goats in Wales,
And follow where the Muse shall lead,
O'er hedge and ditch, o'er hill or mead.
Well might the lordly writer praise.
The first inventor of Essays,
Where wanton Fancy gaily rambles,
Walks, paces, gallops, trots, and ambles;
And all things may be sung or said,
While drowsy Method's gone to bed.
And blest the poet, or the rhymist,
(For surely none of the sublimest)

Shaftsbury.

Who prancing in his easy mode,
Down this epistolary road,

First taught the Muse to play the fool,
A truant from the pedant's school,
And skipping, like a tasteless dunce,
O'er all the unities at once;

(For so we keep but clink and rhyme,
A fig for action, place, and time.)

But critics, (who still judge by rules,
Transmitted down as guides to fools,
And howsoe'er they prate about 'em,
Drawn from wise folks who writ without 'em;)
Will blame this frolic, wild excursion,
Which Fancy takes for her diversion,
As inconsistent with the law,
Which keeps the sober Muse in awe,
Who dares not for her life dispense,
With such mechanic chains for sense.

Yet men are often apt to blame
Those errours they'd be proud to claim,
And if their skill, of pigmy size,
To glorious darings cannot rise,
From critic spleen and pedant phlegm,
Would make all genius creep with them.

Nay, e'en professors of the art,

To prove their wit betray their heart,
And speak against themselves, to show,
What they would hate the world shou'd know.
As when the measur'd couplets curse,
The manacles of Gothic verse,
While the trim bard in easy strains,
Talks much of fetters, clogs, and chains;
He only aims that you should think,
How charmingly he makes them clink.
So have I seen in tragic stride,
The hero of the Mourning Bride,
Sullen and sulky tread the stage,
Till, fixt attention to engage,
He flings his fetter'd arms about,
That all may find Alphonso out.

Oft have I heard it said by those,
Who most should blush to be her foes,
That rhyme's impertinent vexation,
Shackles the brave imagination,
Which longs with eager zeal to try
Her trackless path above the sky,
But that the clog upon her feet,
Restrains her flight, and damps her heat.
From Boileau down to his translators,
Dull paraphrasts, and imitators,
All rail at metre at the time

They write and owe their sense to rhyme.
Had he so maul'd his gentle foe,
But for that lucky word 2uineaut?
Or had his strokes been half so fine
Without that closing name Cotin?
Yet dares he on this very theme,
His own Apollo to blaspheme,
And talk of wars 'twixt rhyme and sense,
And murders which ensu'd from thence,
As if they both resolv'd to meet,
Like Theban sons, in mutual heat,
Forgetful of the ties of brother,
To maim and massacre each other.
'Tis true, sometimes to costive brains,
A couplet costs exceeding pains;
But where the fancy waits the skill
Of fluent easy dress at will,

The thoughts are oft, like colts which stray
From fertile meads, and lose their way,