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Methinks I fee the new Arion fail,

The lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-sharpen'd thumb, from shore to shore
The trebles fqueak for fear, the bases roar :
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Sh- call,

And Sh

they refound from Afton-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'ft thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not even the feet of thy own Pfyche's rhime:
Though they in number as in fenfe excel;
So juft, fo like Tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and fword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er wou'd act Villerius more.

Here ftopt the good old fire, and wept for joy,
In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, perfuade,
That for anointed dulnefs he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augufta bind,
(The fair Augufta, much to fears inclin'd)
An antient fabric, rais'd t' inform the fight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight;
A watch-tow'r once; but now, fo fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains :
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,

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Where

Where their vaft courts the mother-ftrumpets keep,
And, undisturb'd by watch, in filence fleep.
Near thefe a nursery erects its head,

Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred;
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the Gods defy.

Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,

Nor greater Johnson dares in focks appear;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds

Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds :
Pure clinches the fuburbian mufe affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitioufly defign'd his Sh's throne:
For ancient Decker prophefy'd, long fince,
That in this pile fhould reign a mighty prince,
Born for a fcourge of Wit, and flail of sense:
To whom true dulness should fome Pfyche's owe,
But worlds of Mifers from his pen fhould flow;
Humourifts and Hypocrites it fhould produce,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.
Now empress Fame had publish'd the renown
Of Sh's coronation through the town.
Rouz'd by report of Fame, the nations meet,
From near Bun-hill, and diftant Watling-street.
No Perfian carpets fpread th' imperial way,
But fcatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:
From duty fhops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.

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Much

Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay;
But loads of Sh- almost choak'd the way.
Bilk'd Stationers for yeomen ftood prepar'd,
And H―n was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Afcanius fate,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent Dulness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,

Swore by his fire a mortal foe to Rome;

So Sh fwore, nor fhould his vow be vain,
That he, till death, true dulness would maintain;
And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with fenfe.
The king himself the facred unction made,
As king by office, and as priest by trade.
In his finifter hand, inftead of ball,
He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;
Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,
At once his fceptre, and his rule of sway;
Whofe righteous lore the prince had practis'd young,
And from whofe loins recorded Pfyche fprung.
His temples, laft, with poppies were o'erfpread,
That, nodding, feem'd to confecrate his head.
Juft at the point of time, if fame not lye,
On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did fly.
So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tyber's brook,
Prefage of fway from twice fix vultures took.
I 2
Th' admiring

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Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The fire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dullness: long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging god;
At length burft out in this prophetic mood:
"Heav'ns blefs my fon, from Ireland let him reign
To far Barbadoes on the western main;
Of his dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his father's be his throne;
Beyond Love's kingdom let him ftretch his pen!"--
He paus'd, and all the people cry'd, Amen.
Then thus continu'd he: " My fon, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Succefs let others teach, learn thou, from me,
Pangs without birth, and fruitless induftry.
I.et Virtuofo's in five years be writ;

Yet not one thought accufe thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And, in their folly, fhew the writer's wit.
Yet ftill thy fools fhall ftand in thy defence,
And juftify their author's want of sense.,
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulnefs, and defire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but iffue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the fame,
All full of thee, and diff'ring but in name.

But let no alien S-dl-y interpofe,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom profe.

And, when falfe flowers of Rhetoric thou wouldst cull, Truft Nature, do not labour to be dull;

But write thy beft, and top; and, in each line,

Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:

Sir Formal, tho' unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.
Nor let falfe friends feduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Johnson's hoftile name.

Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raife.

Thou art my blood, where Johnfon has no part:
What fhare have we in nature or in art?
Where did his wit on Learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in prince Nicander's vein,
Or swept the duft in Pfyche's humble strain ?
Where fold he bargains, whip-stitch, kifs my arfe,
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce ?
When did his mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge doft transfufe to thine?
But fo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow;
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play :
This is that boafted bias of thy mind,

By which, one way, to dulnefs 'tis inclin’d :
Which makes thy writings lean on one fide ftill,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.

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