For pity's fake it would be just,
A rod fhould turn them back to duft.
Let folks in high or holy stations
Be proud of owning fuch relations ;
Let courtiers hug them in their bofoi,
As if they were afraid to lofe 'em :
While I, with humble Job, had rather
Say to corruption- thou'rt my father.
For he that has fo little wit
To nourish vermin may be bit.
LL human race would fain be wits,
And millions miss for one that hits. Young's univerfal paffion, pride, Was never known to spread fo wide. Say Britain, could you ever boast Three poets in an age at most? Our chilling climate hardly bears A fprig of bays in fifty years:
While ev'ry fool his claim alledges,
As if it grew in common hedges.
What reafon can there be affign'd
For this perverfeness in the mind?
Brutes find out where their talents lie:
A bear will not attempt to fly;
A founder'd horfe will oft debate
Before he tries a five-barr'd gate:
A dog by instinct turns afide,
Who fees the ditch too deep and wide.
But man we find the only creature
Who, led by folly, combats nature;
Who, when he loudly cries forbear,
With obftinacy fixes there;
And where his genius leaft inclines,
Abfurdly bends his whole defigns.
Not empire to the rifing fun
By valour, conduct, fortune won;
Not highest wisdom in debates
From framing laws to govern states;
Not skill in sciences profound
So large to grafp the circle round;
Such heav'nly influence require,
As how to strike the Mufe's lyre.
Not beggar's brat on bulk begot ; Not baftard of a pedlar Scot;
Not boy brought up to cleaning fhoes,
'The spawn of Bridewell, or the ftews;
Not infants dropt, the fpurious pledges
Of gypfies littʼring under hedges,
Are fo difqualify'd by fate
To rife in church, or law, or ftate,
As he, whom Phoebus in his ire
Hath blafted with poetic fire.
What hope of cuftom in the fair,
While not a foul demands your ware?
Where you have nothing to produce
For private life, or public use?
Court, city, country want you not :
You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.
For poets law makes no provision:
The wealthy have you in derifion;
Of state affairs you cannot fmatter;
Are aukward, when you try to flatter;
Your portion, taking Britain round,
* Was just one annual hundred pound;
Now not fo much as in remainder,
Since Cibber brought in an attainder;
For ever fixt by right divine
(A monarch's right) on Grubftreet line.
* Paid to the poet laureat, which place was given to Mr. Colley Cibber, a player.
Poor ftarv❜ling bard, how fmall thy
How unproportion'd to thy pains!
And here a fimile comes pat in:
Though chickens take a month to fatten,
The guests in less than half an hour
Will more than half a fcore devour.
So, after toiling twenty days
To earn a stock of pence and praise,
Thy labours, grown the critick's prey,
Are fwallow'd o'er a difh of tea;
Gone to be never heard of more,
Gone where the chickens went before.
How fhall a new attempter learn
Of diff'rent spirits to discern,
And how diftinguifh which is which,
The poet's vein, or fcribbling itch?
Then hear an old experienc'd finner,
Inftructing thus a young beginner.
Consult yourself, and if you find
A pow'rful impulfe urge your mind,
Impartial judge within your breaft
What fubject you can manage best
Whether your genius moft inclines
To fatire, praife, or hum'rous lines,
VOL. VII.
To elegies in mournful tone,
Or prologue fent from hand unknown.
Then rifing with Aurora's light,
The Muse invok'd, fit down to write;
Blot out, correct, infert, refine,
Enlarge, diminish, interline;
Be mindful, when invention fails,
To fcratch your head, and bite your nails.
Your poem finish'd, next your care
Is needful to transcribe it fair.
In modern wit, all printed trash is
Set off with num'rous breaks--and dafbes.--
To statesmen would you give a wipe, You print it in Italic type.
When letters are in vulgar fhapes,
'Tis ten to one the wit efcapes ;
Eut when in capitals expreft,
The dullest reader fmoaks the jeft:
Or elfe perhaps he
A better than the poet meant ;
As learned commentators view
In Homer more than Homer knew.
Your poem in its modifh drefs, Correctly fitted for the press,,,
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