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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 squeak-for fear, the bases roar :
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Sh call,
And Sh- they resound from Aston-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'At thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev’n the feet of thy own Psyche’s rhime:
Though they in number as in sense excel;
So juft, fo like Tautology they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er wou'd act Villerius more.

Here stopt the good old fire, and wept for joy,
In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.
Close to the walls which fair Augufta bind,
(The fair Augusta, 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, so 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,
VOL. I.

I

Where

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Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep,
And, undifturb’d by watch, in silence sleep.
Near these 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 socks appear ;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds :
Pure clinches the suburbian muse affords,
And Panton waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitioufly design'd his Sho's throne:
For ancient Decker prophesy'd, long since,
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
Born for a scourge of Wit, and fail of sense :
To whom true dulness should some Psyche's owe,
But worlds of Misers from his pen should flow;
Humourists and Hypocrites it should 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 distant Watling-street.
No Perfian carpets spread th' imperial way,
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay:
From dully shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.

Much

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Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay ;
But loads of Sh-

almost choak'd the way.
Bilk'd Stationers for yeomen stood prepard,
And H n was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majefty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Ascanius sate,
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 swore, nor should 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 sense.
The king himself the sacred unction made,
As king by office, and as prieit by trade.
In his finifter hand, instead of ball,
He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale;
Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,
At once his sceptre, and his rule of fway ;
Whose righteous lore the prince had practis'd young,
And from whose loins recorded Pfyche sprung.
His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread,
That, nodding, seem'd to confecrate his head.
Just 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 sway from twice fix vultures took.

I 2

5. 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 burst out in this prophetic mood :

“ Heav'ns bless my son, 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 son, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success iet others teach, learn thou, from me,
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuoso's in five years be writ;
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the ftage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage ;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And, in their folly, Thew the writer's wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And juttify 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 issue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and diff’ring but in name.

But let no alien Sedl-y interpose,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom profe.
And, when false flowers of Rhetoric thou wouldst cull,
Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull;
But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,
Sir Forinal's oratory will be thine :
Sir Formal, tho' unsought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Johnson's hoftile name.
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.
Thou art my blood, where Johnson has no part:
What share 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 dust in Psyche's humble ftrain ?
Where fold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss my arse,
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce ?
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge doit transfuse to thine ?
But so 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 boasted bias of thy mind,
By which, one way, to dulness ’tis inclin'd:
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.

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