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Can lend you an Allusion fitter,
Though flatt'ring Knaves may call it bitter:
you durft but give it Place,
Would Ahew you many a Statesman's Face.
Fresh from the Tripod of Apollo,
I had it in the Words that follow,
(Take Notice to avoid Offence
I here except His Excellence.)
So, to effect his Monarch's Ends,
From Hell a Vice-Roy Dev?l ascends,
His Budget with Corruptions crammid,
The Contributions of the Damn'd;
Which, with unsparing Hand, he strow's
Through Courts and Senates, as he goes ;
And then at Belzebub's Black-Hall,
Complains his Budget was too small.
YOUR Simile may better shine
In Verse; but there is Truth in mine.
For, no imaginable Things
Can differ more than God and ;
And Statesmen, by ten Thousand Odds,
Are Angels, just as are Gods.
To Dr. DELANY, on the Libels writ
S fome raw Youth in Country, bred,
To Arms by Thirst of Honour led,
When at a Skirmish first he hears
The Bullets whistling round his Ears ;
Will duck his Head, aside will start,
And feel a trembling at his Heart:
Till 'scaping oft without a Wound,
Leffens the Terror of the Sound :
Fly Bullets now.as thick as Hops,
He runs into a Cannon's Chops.
An Author thus, who pants for Fame,
Begins the World with Fear and Shame,
When first in Print, you see him him dread
Each Pot-Gun levelld at his Head :
The Lead yon? Critick's Quill contains,
Is deftin'd to beat out his Brains.
As if he heard loud Thunders roul,
Cryes, Lord bave Mercy on bis Soul ;
Concluding, that another Shot
Will strike him dead upon the Spot:
But, when with squibbing, Aashing, popping,
He cannot see one Creature dropping;
That missing Fire, or missing Aim,
His Life is fafe, I mean his Fame;
The Danger past, takes Heart of Grace,
And looks a Critick in the Face.
THOUGH Splendor gives the fairest Mark
To poison’d Arrows from the Dark.
Yet, * in your self when smooth and round,
They glance aside without a Wound.
'Tis faid, the Gods try'd all their Art,
How Pain they might from Pleasure part:
But little could their Strength avail;
Both ftill are fasten'd by the Tail.
Thus Fame, and Censure with a Tether
By Fate are always link'd together.
Why will you aim to be preferr'd In Wit before the common Herd ? And yet grow mortify'd and vext To pay the Penalty annext.
'Tis Eminence makes Envy rise ;
As faireft Fruits attract the Flies.
Shou'd stupid Libels grieve your Mind,
You soon a Remedy may find;
Lye down obscure like other Folks,
Below the Lash of Snarlers Jokes.
Their Faction is five Hundred Odds,
For, ev'ry Coxcomb lends them Rods ;
Can sneer as learnedly as they,
Like Females o'er their Morning Tea.
You say, the Muse will not contain ;
And write you must, or break a Vein :
Then, if you find the Terms too hard,
No longer my Advice regard :
But raise your Fancy on the Wing:
The Irish Senate's Praises sing ;
How jealous of the Nation's Freedom,
And, for Corruptions, how they weed 'em.
How each the publick Good pursues,
How far their Hearts from private Views.
Make all true Patriots UP to Shoe-Boys,
Huzza their Brethren at the * Blue-boys.
Thus grown a Member of the Club,
No longer dread the Rage of Grub.
How oft am I for Rhyme to seek ?
To dress a Thought, may toil a Week ;
And then, how thankful to the Town,
If all my Pains will earn a Crown.
Whilft ev'ry Critick can devour
My Work and me in half an Hour.
* The Iriß Parliament sat at the Blue-boys Hospital, while the new Parliament-House was building.
Would Men of Genius cease to write,
The Rogues must die for Want and Spite;
Must die for Want of Food and Rayment,
If Scandal did not find them Payment.
How chearfully the Hawkers cry
A Satyr, and the Gentry buy!
While my hard-labour'd Poem pines
Unfold upon the Printer's Lines.
A Genius in the Rev'rend Gown,
Must ever keep its Owner down;
'Tis an unnatural Conjunction,
And spoils the Credit of the Function.
Round all your Brethren cast your Eyes ;
Point out the sureft Men to rise,
That Club of Candidates in Black,
The least deserving of the Pack ;
Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud;
With Grace and Learning unendow'd:
Can turn their Hands to ev'ry Jobb,
The fitteft Tools to work for Bobb:
Will sooner coin a Thousand Lies,
Than suffer Men of Parts to rise :
They crowd about Preferment's Gate,
And press you down with all their Weight.
And, as of old, Mathematicians
Were by the Vulgar thought Magicians ;
So, Academick dull Ale-drinkers
Pronounce all Men of Wit, Free-thinkers.
Wit, as the Chief of Virtue's Friends, Difdains to serve ignoble Ends.