Richard Savage: Verses about Memory

Let gaudy Mirth, to the blithe Carrol-song,
In loose light-measur'd Numbers dance along;
Thou, Muse no flow'ry Fancies here display,
Nor warble with the chearful Lark thy Lay.
In the dark Cypress Grove, or moss-grown Cell,
Where dreary Ravens haunt, would Sorrow dwell!
Where Ghosts, that shun the Day, come sweeping by,
Or fix in melancholy Frenzy's Eye;
Yet now she turns her Flight to Scenes of State,
Where Wealth and Grandeur weep the Frowns of Fate!
Wealth, Want, Rank, Power, here each alike partakes,
As the Shrub bends, the lofty Cedar shakes;
To her wide View is no Contraction known,
Tis Youth, 'tis Age, the Cottage and the Throne.


O Exclamation! lend thy sad Relief!
O Dodington! indulge the righteous Grief!
Distant, I've long beheld, in Thee, transcend
The Poet, Patron, Patriot, and the Friend.
Thou, who must live in Truth's remotest Page,
Form'd to delight, and dignify an Age;
Whose Words, whose Manners, and whose Mind declare,
Each Grace, each Moral, and each Muse are there;
Accept this Po'esy, void of venal Aim,
Made sacred by thy Royal Master's Name.


But why, O Muse! are songful Hours thy Choice?
Lost is the Life, whose Glory lifts thy Voice!
George is no more! As at the doomful sound
Of the last Trump, all Nature feels the Wound!
Each private, each distinguish'd Virtue bleeds!
And what but Lamentation long succeeds?
Where wilt thou then for apt Allusions fly?
What Eloquence can throbbing Grief supply?


Late, golden Pleasures urg'd their shining Way,
With George they flourish'd, and with George decay!
Now dusky Woes, o'er varied Scenes extend,
Groans rise! Rocks echo! and chill Damps descend!
Grief strikes my View with ever-weeping Eyes,
At her wan Look, each lively Fancy dies.
In fear, in hope, dull rest, or rufling Storms,
Thus Woe besets us, tho in various Forms!
That dire Event of Youth's ungovern'd Rage!
That dear-bought Knowledge to declining Age!
In Want, in Scorn, it haunts an humble State,
Tis Care, 'tis Envy, to perplex the Great!
A Kingdom's Curse, it in Dissention brings;
Or heavier falls, when falls the best of Kings!
Worth it exalts, when aiming to debase;
Tis Virtue's Triumph, or 'tis Guilt's Disgrace!
It humbles Life, yet dignifies our End;
Reflection's Torment, yet Reflection's Friend!
Then let the Muse her meaning Notes resume,
And pay due Sorrows to the hallow'd Tomb.


Was there a Glory, yet to Greatness known,
That not in Brunswick's Soul superiour shone?
Ill fare the Man, who, rob'd in purple Pride,
To wounded Worth has no Relief apply'd!
Benevolence makes Pow'r to Prudence dear,
When Pity weeps, what Pearl excells the Tear?
When not one Virtue glows to bless Mankind,
When Pride's cold Influence petrifies the Mind;
Let the Prince blaze with Jems!-in Wisdom's View,
An Emblem of the Rock, where once they grew!
Yet Springs gush out, to prove ev'n Rocks can flow
In Rills refreshful to the Vales below.
Why has he pow'r, and why no heart to chear,
Unseeing Eyes, and Ears that will not hear?
Swift, as his Bliss, shall his light Name decay,
Who, self-indulgent, sports his Hours away!
But, Oh!-what Love, what Honour shall he claim,
Whose Joy is Bounty, and whose Gift is Fame?
He (truly Great!) his useful Pow'r refines,
By him discover'd Worth exalted shines;
Exalted Worth, th'enlivening Act, repeats,
And draws new Virtues from obscure Retreats;
He, as the first, creative Influence, prais'd,
Smiles o'er the Beings, which his Bounty rais'd.
Such Dodington, thy Royal Master shin'd,
Such Thou, the Image of thy Monarch's Mind.


Nations were ballanc'd by his guardian Skill,
Like the pois'd Planets by the all-powerful Will.
Mark the Swede succour'd! mark th'aspiring CZAR!
Check'd are his Hopes, and shun'd the naval War.
By George the Austrian Eagle learns to tower,
While the proud Turk shakes conscious of her Power;
But when her Menace braves our envied Shore,
She trembles at the British Lyon's Roar;
Trembles, tho' aided by the Force of Spain,
And India's Wealth!-'gainst Brunswick, All how vain?
He bad thy Honour, Albion, foremost shine!
His was the Care, unmeasur'd Bliss was Thine!
Yet oft against his Virtue Faction rose!
An Angel, if thy Monarch, would have Foes.


Come Charity, First-born of Virtue's Line!
Come meek-ey'd Mercy from the Seat divine!
Pure Temp'rance, Mistriss of a tranquil Mind,
By whom each sensual Passion stands confin'd!
Fix'd Fortitude, from whom fierce Peril flies!
By whom (O Soul of Action!) Empires rise!
Fair Justice, Author of a Godlike Reign!
Peace, Plenty, Liberty adorn thy Train!
Lov'd Prudence! Queen of Virtues! blissful Dame!
Parent, and Guide of each illustrious Aim!
From whose firm Step Confusion turns in Flight,
That shapeless Spawn of Anarchy and Night!
From whom kind Harmony deduc'd her Race,
Then Order, all in one united Grace!
And thou Religion! truest, heav'nly Friend!
Whom these alone establish, These defend!
Assemble to the wailing Muse's call!
Weep o'er the clay-cold Breast, that held you All!


O Death, rouze all those Terrors to thy Aid,
Weak Fear, or wisest Valour wou'd evade!
Whether foul Pestilence in dire Array,
Red War, or pale-ey'd Famine point your Way,
What can you more than Kingdoms overthrow?
What aim'd you less, when Brunswick felt the Blow?
But mark!-Augustus, still above thy Rage,
Steps forth to give a second Golden Age.


Ye great Plantagenets! distinguish'd Race!
One greater meets you on celestial Space.
And thou, Nassau the fairest noblest Name!
Ev'n mid the Blest, superior still thy Flame!
Behold an Equal now!-How dear th'Embrace!
Oh, fly!-present him at the Throne of Grace!
'Tis done!-He's crown'd with a resplendent Joy,
Which Care shall never dim, nor Time destroy.


See!-from yon golden Cloud, amidst a Band
Of Angel-Pow'rs, once Patriots of the Land,
Soft-leaning o'er Britania's weeping Isle,
And shedding sweet, a fond, paternal Smile;
Pointing, the visionary Seraph cries,
Suspend thy Tears!-Behold a Sov'reign rise,
Thy Second George! whose Reign shall soon disclose
All that mine gave, and Heav'n, in Grace bestows.


He said.-Again, with Majesty refin'd,
Up-wing'd to Realms of Bliss, th'Ætherial Mind.

Finis

Oldfield's no more!-And can the Muse forbear,
O'er Oldfield's Grave to shed a grateful Tear?
Shall she, the Glory of the British Stage,
Pride of her Sex, and Wonder of the Age;
Shall she, who living charm'd th'admiring Throng,
Die undistinguish'd, and not claim a Song?
No. Feeble as it is, I'll boldly raise
My willing Voice to celebrate her Praise,
And with her Name immortalize my Lays.


Had but my Muse her Art to touch the Soul,
Charm ev'ry Sense, and ev'ry Pow'r controul.
I'd paint her as she was-the Form divine,
Where ev'ry lovely Grace united shine;
A Mein, majestick as the Wife of Jove,
An Air, as winning as the Queen of Love;
In every Feature rival Charms should rise,
And Cupid hold his Empire in her Eyes.


O! she was more than Numbers can express,
Creation's Darling in her fairest Dress.
A Form so charming, with such Beauties fraught,
As might have nigh excus'd the Want of Thought;
And yet a Mind with such Perfections stock'd,
As made the Beauties of her Form o'er look'd.
A Soul with ev'ry Elegance refin'd,
By Nature, and the Converse of Mankind,
Wit, which could strike assuming Folly dead;
And Sense-which temper'd every thing she said;
Judgment, which ev'ry little Fault could spy;
But Candor, which would pass a Thousand by.
That native Force-that Energy of Mind,
Which left the toiling Pedant far behind.
Such finish'd Breeding, so polite a Taste,
Her Fancy always for the Fashion past:
So sweetly serious, so discreetly gay,
None went unpleas'd, or unimprov'd away.
And yet so negligent she seem'd of Fame,
As if she thought Applause beneath her Aim.
Disdaining Flattery, she was still sincere;
Warm to approve, and modestly severe.
Whilst every social Virtue fir'd her Breast,
To help the Needy, succour the Distrest,
A Friend to all in Misery she stood.
And her chief Pride was plac'd in doing Good.


But say, ye Few, ye happy Few, who e'er
Enjoy'd the private Friendship of the Fair;
Who saw the Charmer in a nearer Light,
All open, free, and unreserv'dly bright;
Who felt the Raptures which her Smiles bestow'd,
And prov'd the Joys which from her Converse flow'd:
Oh speak her friendly, affable, and mild,
Brave, generous, firm, by no false Shows beguil'd.
With ev'ry Art and Talent form'd to please,
The Scholars Learning, and the Ladies Ease;
The Gay, the Grave, the Florid and Serene,
Mix'd in her Soul, and sparkling in her Mein.


Thrice happy Churchill! who her Love could gain,
For whom so many Thousands sigh'd in vain;
Whose wondrous Charms made every one her Slave
Dear to the Wise, the Witty, and the Brave.
And justly did she judge to place her Name
With thine, the greatest in the Books of Fame.
Thus join'd, Advantages to each accrue,
Renown to her, Beauty and Wit to you.
Renown should ever on the Fair One wait,
And Beauty be the Portion of the Great,
From such a Pair we well may hope to see
Another Malbro', Charles, appear in thee.


But now, my Muse, the arduous Task engage,
And show the Charming Figure on the Stage,
Describe her Look, her Action, Voice and Mein,
The gay Coquette, soft Maid, or haughty Queen,
So bright she shone in every different Part,
She gain'd despotick Empire o'er the Heart,
Knew how each various Motion to controul,
Sooth every Passion, and subdue the Soul:
As she, or gay, or sorrowful apears,
She claims our Mirth, or triumphs in our Tears:
Whilst from her Eyes delusive Sorrows flow,
Our Breasts are touch'd with undissembled Woe;
Or if Ambition calls her forth to Arms,
The Thirst of Glory every Bosom warms;
No Souls so senseless but what felt her Flame,
Nor Breast so savage but her Art could tame.
Ev'n the Pert Templer, and the City Prig,
Who come to Plays to show their Wit-or Wig.
The snarling Critick, and the sneering Beau,
Who neither Sense of Worth, or Manners know,
Aw'd by her Looks their Brutish Din forbear,
And for a while a little Human are,
So Orpheus charm'd the Savages of old,
And all Hell's Furies with his Harp controul'd.


Painters may sketch the Image of a Face,
And Sculptors Form and Attitude express;
Poets the Graces of the Mind relate,
And Hist'ry tells the Actions of the Great.
Still each wants something to compleat the Whole,
The Poet wants a Form, the Painter Soul.
But Oldfield all the Heroine display'd,
Show'd how she look'd, she mov'd, she wept, she pray'd
And was herself the Character she play'd,
When Cleopatra's Form she chose to wear,
We saw the Monarch's Mien, the Beauty's Air;
Charm'd with the Sight, her Cause we strait approve,
And like her Lover, gave up all for Love;
Antony's Fate, instead of Cæsar's, chuse,
And wish for her, we had a World-to lose.
But when a more familiar Part did please,
Letitia's Artifice, or Townley's Ease
Each Beauty in the finest Light she plac'd,
Improv'd each Charm, and every Action grac'd.
Nay, so enchanting was her lovely Frame,
She spoilt, against her Will, the Poet's Aim;
Making those Follies which we should despise,
When seen in her, seem Virtues in our Eyes.
So, when with Cytherea's Girdle bound,
The homeliest Hag, a shining Fair is found.


But now the gay delightful Scene is o'er,
And that sweet Form must glad the World no more;
Relentless Death has stop'd the tuneful Tongue,
And clos'd those Eyes, for all but Death too strong;
Blasted that Face where every Beauty bloom'd,
And to eternal Rest the graceful Mover doom'd.


Calm and serene she met the fatal Hour,
Smil'd at Death's Terrors, and contemn'd its Power.
Sustain'd unmov'd the cruel Scourge of Pain.
Whilst blund'ring Doctors try'd their Art in vain;
(Those lawful Executioners, whose Skill
Is shown not when they cure-but when they kill.)
She only griev'd to see her Churchill grieve,
And for his Sake alone desir'd to live?
Her long-imprison'd Soul rejoyc'd to see
The wish'd-for Moment come to set it free;
Then bravely strugling leapt its Bounds of Day,
And to the Place from whence it came, impetuous wing'd its Way.


Thus subterranean Fire in Ætna pent,
Which long in vain has labour'd for a Vent,
(When once some weaker Part begins to yield
Its long resisted Enemy the Field)
Grows more enrag'd, with double Fury plays,
And once got Air, it mounts into a Blaze.


O'ercharg'd with Sorrow at the Thought-the Muse
Drooping-no more her airy Flight pursues;
With Oldfield all her flattering Hopes are fled,
In her the Muses dearest Friend is dead:
For lo! the sinking Stage attends her Fall,
Whilst Opera, Farce, and Trick prevail o'er all,
Wilks, Nature's Master, soon, by Years opprest,
And tir'd with Bus'ness, must retire to Rest;
And Cibber, baulk'd by the ungrateful Town,
Will lay th'unprofitable Burthen down,
Mourn then ye Muses, all your Sorrows vent;
Your Shafts are useless, and your Bows unbent.
Now weep, ye Forrests; droop, ye shady Bowers;
Be dry, ye Fountains; sicken all ye Flowers;
The Night of universal Ign'rance comes,
In Darkness e'ry pleasing Scene entombs;
With Oldfield the last Glympse of Light is fled,
Wit, Nature, Sense, with her their Exits made:
The Goddess Dulness lifts her cloudy Head,
And smiles to see her dark Dominions spread,
Chaos o'er all his Leaden Scepter rears,
And not one Beam throughout the Gloom appears.

Finis

Bright Arts, abus'd, like Gems, receive their Flaws;
Physick has Quacks, and Quirks obscure the Laws.
Fables to shade Historic Truths combine,
And the dark Sophist dims the Text Divine.
The Art of Reasoning in Religion's Cause,
By Superstition's Taint a Blindness draws.
The Art of Thinking Free (Man's noblest Aim!)
Turns, in Half-thinking Souls, his equal Shame.
Colours, ill-mingled, coarse, and lifeless grow!
Violins squeak, when Scrapers work the Bow!
Distortion deadens Action's temper'd Fire!
Belab'ring Poetasters thrum the Lyre!
Gesture shuns Strut, and Elocution, Cant!
Passion lies murder'd by unmeaning Rant!
Wit we debase, if Ribaldry we praise,
And Satire fades, when Slander wears the Bays.

YOU, to whose Scrolls a just Neglect is shewn,
Whose Names, tho' printed oft, remain unknown;
I war not with the Weak, if wanting Fame,
The Proud, and Prosp'rous Trifler is my Game.
With usual Wit, unfelt while you assail,
Remark unanswer'd, and unheeded Rail!
Or heeded, know I can your Censure prize,
For a Fool's Praise is Censure from the Wise;
If then my Labour your kind Malice draws,
Censure from you is from the Wise Applause.

YOU, who delineate strong our Lust of Fame,
These mimic Lays your kind Protection claim!
My Frown, like your's, would to Improvement tend,
You but assume the Foe, to act the Friend.
Pleasing, yet wounding, you our Faults rehearse,
Strong are your Thoughts! Inchanting rolls your Verse!
Deep, clear, and sounding! decent, yet sincere;
In Praise impartial, without Spleen severe.

'HOLD, Criticks cry-Erroneous are your Lays,
'Your Field was Satire, your Pursuit is Praise.'
True, you Profound!-I praise, but yet I sneer;
You're dark to Beauties, if to Errors clear!
Know my Lampoon's in Panegyric seen,
For just Applause turns Satire on your Spleen.

SHALL Ignorance and Insult claim my Rage?
Then with the World a gen'ral War I wage!
No-to some Follies Satire scorns to bend,
And Worth (or press'd, or prosp'rous) I commend.

FIRST, let me view what noxious Nonsense reigns,
While yet I loiter on Prosaic Plains;
If Pens impartial active Annals trace,
Others, with secret Hist'ry, Truth deface:
Views and Reviews, and wild Memoirs appear,
And Slander darkens each recorded Year.
Each Prince's Death to Poison they apply,
No Royal Mortals sure by Nature die.
Fav'rites or Kindred artful Deaths create,
A Father, Brother, Son, or Wife is Fate.
In a past Reign was form'd a secret League,
Some Ring, or Letter, now reveals th' Intrigue:
A certain Earl a certain Queen enjoys,
A certain Subject Fair her Peace destroys;
The jealous Queen a vengeful Art assumes,
And scents her Rival's Gloves with dire Perfumes:
Queens, with their Ladies, work unseemly things,
And Boys grow Dukes, when Catamites to Kings.
A lying Monk on Miracles refines,
And Vengeance glares from violated Shrines.

THUS Slander o'er the Dead-One's Fame prevails,
And easy Minds imbibe Romantic Tales:
Thus from feign'd Facts a false Reflection flows,
And by Tradition Superstition grows.

NEXT, Pamphleteers a Trade licentious drive,
Like wrangling Lawyers, they by Discord thrive.
If Hancock proves Cold Water's Virtue clear,
His Rival prints a Treatise on Warm Beer.
If next Inoculation's Art spreads wide,
(An Art, that mitigates Infection's Tide)
Loud Pamphleteers 'gainst Innovation cry,
Let Nature work - 'Tis natural to die.

IF Heav'n-born Wisdom, gazing Nature thro',
Thro' Nature's Optics forms Religion's View,
Priestcraft opposes Demonstration's Aid,
And with dark Myst'ry dignifies her Trade.

IF Ruin rushes o'er a Statesman's Sway,
Scribblers, like Worms, on tainted Grandeur prey
While a poor Felon waits th' impending Stroke,
Voracious Scribes, like hov'ring Ravens, croak.
In their dark Quills a dreary Insult lies,
Th' Offence lives recent, tho' th' Offender dies;
In his last Words they suck his parting Breath,
And gorge on his loath'd Memory after Death.

WRETCHES, like these, no Satire wou'd chastise,
But Follies here to ruthless Insult rise;
Distinguish'd Insult taints a Nation's Fame,
And various Vice deserves a various Shame.

PAMPHLETS I leave-sublime my Fancy grows!
No more she sweeps the humble Vale of Prose.
Now I trace swift the Muse's airy Clime,
The Dance of Numbers, and the Change of Rhime!
In measur'd Rounds Imagination swims,
And the Brain whirls with new, surprizing Whims!
Poets are mad! 'tis granted:-So are you,
Grave Critics, who those Lunatics pursue:
You labour Comments, dry on Classic Lays,
Partial alike in Censure, and in Praise;
Where most abstruse, you most assert they shine,
Where Homer raves, his Allegory's fine!
But if a Modern with an Ancient vies,
Spirit grows Phrensy, to a Wit so wise.

PHLEGM without Fire, your flat Encomiums bear,
When you declaim, a Mark revers'd you wear;
If not inspir'd, at least possess'd you seem,
You boil with Choler, and dismiss your Phlegm.
None unprefer'd, in Parliament more loud!
No worn-out Fair more peevish, or more proud!
No City-Dame, when to the Birth-Night drawn,
More vain of Gems!-(some Female Courtier's Pawn!)
Proud as a Judge, when Equity's a Trade,
Or Lord, whose Guilt was with a Title paid.

MARK cautious Cinna mimic Poesy's Flame,
Coarse are his Colours, and obscure his Aim!
Cinna, thy Genius weds not with the Muse;
No longer then thy well-known Parts misuse!
Cinna, thus doctor'd, stifles all he writ,
But sneers malignant at another's Wit.
Some beauteous Piece applauded, He replies,
The Sun has Spots, and a wish'd Error spies.

SO some warm Lass grows pregnant e'er she marries,
Takes Physic, and for Honour's sake miscarries;
Jealous of Praise, pale Envy taints her Lip,
And her Tongue tattles of each Virgin's Trip.

THEOCRITUS's Ape, dry, proud, and vain,
Shews the stiff Quaker for the simple Swain.
In Tragic Scenes, how soft he moves Distress?
His Lamb-like Princess in the Pure-one's Dress:
Plain in Expression, and in Passion tame,
Propriety of Words is all his Aim.

SCRIBLERS grow fast-One, who gains least Applause,
(His Works reprinting) a Subscription draws.
Ape of an Ape! How is the Species grown?
Inferior Apes this Ape a Viceroy own!
O'er a learn'd Tribe, He Grand Dictator plays,
And points young Wits new Models in his Lays.
Flat Odes, Epistles, and Translations rise,
And a new Preface words it with the Wise!
Art is School Trash-Horace and Pope are Fool
Sonnets and Madrigals require no Rules.
Milton runs rough-Here plainer Lays allure!
Nor Low, nor Grand, nor Simple, nor Impure.

A Love-sick Youth, who sighs about Eighteen,
Whines in Blank Verse, and tries a Tragic Scene.
One Poet, damn'd, turns Critick, storms in Prose;
His railing Pamphlet his wrong'd Merit shows.
A trading Bard salutes the Lord in Place,
Whom he insults with Satire, in Disgrace.
One, jocund, sings Birth-Days, and Nuptial Rites:
One, of the Dead, a doleful Dirge recites,
Dull as deep Bells, that toll the Fun'ral's Time,
Or drowzy Echoes from the Bell-Man's Rhime.

A cast-off Dame, who of Intrigues can judge,
Writes Scandal in Romance-A Printer's Drudge!
Flush'd with Success, for Stage-Renown she pants,
And melts, and swells, and pens luxurious Rants.

BUT while her Muse a sulph'rous Flame displays,
Glows strong with Lust, or burns with Envy's Blaze!
While some black Fiend, that hugs the haggar'd Shrew,
Hangs his collected Horrors on her Brow!
Clio, descending Angels sweep thy Lyre,
Prompt thy soft Lays, and breathe Seraphic Fire.
Tears fall, Sighs rise, obedient to thy Strains,
And the Blood dances in the mazy Veins!
Crown'd with the Palm, Bays, Myrtle, and the Vine;
Love, Pity, Friendship, Music, Wit, and Wine,
In social Spirits, lead thy Hours along,
Thou Life of Loveliness, thou Soul of Song!

A Blade whose Life a Turn of Humour takes,
Cocks smart, trims fine, treats Harlots, scours with Rakes!
When his drain'd Purse no new Expence supplies,
Fond Madam frowns, each dear Companion flies!
Duns clamour, Bailiffs lurk, and Clothes decay,
Coin ebbs, he must recruit-He writes a Play.
'Bold Task! a Play?-Mark our young Bard proceed!
'A Play?-Your Wits in Want are Wits indeed.'
Here the Punk's Jokes are for Politeness wrote,
Some inconsistent Novel forms a Plot.
In the Gallant, his own wise Conduct glares!
Smut is sheer Wit!-Each Prank a Merit wears!
Bright Youth! He steals, to make the Piece entire,
A Cuckold, Beau, pert Footman, and a Squire.

WHEN Bards thus patch up Plays from various Scraps,
They dream of crouded Houses! thundring Claps!
False Hope! Poets are poor, and Fortune's blind,
Actors are saucy-or the Town's unkind.

BUT why should Satire war with ill Success?
Why should I add Affliction to Distress?
'Tis bold t' assail proud Vice with stinging Lays!
'Tis bolder yet, to give wrong'd Merit Praise!
Few dare accuse what stately Wits defend!
Few dare against the gen'ral Vogue commend!

JOHNNY's fine Works at Court obtain Renown!
Aaron writes Trash-He ne'er collogues the Town.
How Grand the Verse which My Lord's Feats declares.
Rude are Lampoons, that lash My Lady's Airs.
How arch the Wit, when Her Grace deigns a Laugh
Dull is the Satire on the Duke's white Staff.
Oh, You Polite! Your Smiles are Fame's sweet Road;
We praise, subscribe, or damn-because the Mode.

JOHNNY no more reflects a shining Page,
From that bright Genius, that has charm'd the Age!
More conscious now, his single Worth he rates!
Verses are made, like Med'cines, by Receipts.
Soft Phrases he collects-to scan, to chime,
Reads deep, and weighs vast Lexicons of Rhyme.
Hints from Fontaine, some smart Design compleat;
The Whim is pretty, and the Language neat.
Tho' smart, neat, pretty; yet ev'n Courtiers own,
It glitters not with Pope-aside 'tis thrown.

JOHNNY, who fosters next his Patron's Wit,
Strikes out a Play, with Thought, and Spirit writ!
To first-rank Beaus our artful Bard applies,
One writes to charm the Fair, and One the Wise.
Beaus fly the Fame, yet secret Talents know,
And read, revise, and ev'n Co-Authors grow;
And now anew th' inverted Work they frame,
New Thoughts they hatch!-But Johnny holds the Name.
So fruitful Madams, their Amours unknown,
Bear private Babes, which, born, their Midwives own.
At Grand Assemblies, Play and Bard appear,
Cabals are form'd, our Johnny's Debts to clear;
'Tis read, prais'd, acted!-Now the Poet's Trap!
Beaus heed your Scenes! You know your Cues to clap.

THUS thro' nine Nights loud Party-Praises roar,
Then die away at once, to noise no more.
In vain such Authors hope substantial Fame,
Such Praise must usher in a sequent Shame.
To the next Age, the present proves disgrac'd,
With the mean Wits we priz'd, it ranks our Taste;
But thro' a third, not ev'n their Shame they boast,
Their Names, their Works, and Shame alike are lost.

CALL you these Witlings a Poetic Brood?
Are Pies and Daws the Songsters of the Wood?
For Wit, not Nonsense, first was form'd the Stage,
Not to infect, but to refine the Age!
Here soften'd Virtue Rigours's Frown declines!
Precept, enforc'd by just Example, shines!
In each rais'd Tear a gen'rous Meaning flows!
In each pleas'd Smile a fair Instruction grows!
When we strike Nature, and improve the Mind,
Those deathless Works a sweet Remembrance find;
No chearless Merit unrewarded toils,
Still Compton lives, and still a Dorset smiles:
Some Noble Spirits still adorn the Great,
Still shines Argyle with ev'ry Grace of State;
Wisdom and Bounty sweet on Rutland sit,
And Howard's the lovely Patroness of Wit.

BUT say, whence liberal Arts thus feel Decay?
Why melt their Charms, like Fairy Towers, away?
Not Ignorance, oppos'd, their Strength impairs,
They break, they perish by intestine Jars.
Artists on Artists scoul with jealous Eyes,
And Envy Emulation's place supplies.
With Envy's Influence the dark Bosom's fraught,
But Emulation brightens ev'ry Thought!
Pale Envy pines, if Excellence aspires,
And most she slanders what she most admires;
Charm'd Emulation can, with Transport, gaze,
Yet wou'd outsoar the Worth, she loves to praise.

THUS thou, our Universal Passion's Foe,
Canst thy own Height, by praising Others, show.
Young well may Pope's and Congreve's Charms admire,
Young glows distinguish'd with an equal Fire:
So strong thy Learning, Wit, and Friendship shine,
What Praise true Merit claims, is justly thine.