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Ye goodly dray-nymph Muses, hail ! MUM, PORTER, STINGO, MILD and STALE, And chiefly thou of boasted fame, Of ROMAN and IMPERIAL name; O Purl! all hail! thy vot'ry steals, His stockings dangling at his heels, To where some pendent head invites The Bard to set his own to rights, Who seeks thy influence divine, And pours libations on thy shrine, In wormwood draughts of inspiration, To wbet his soul for defamation.

Hail too, your Domes! whose Master's skill Takes up illustrious folks at will, And careless or of place or name, Beheads and hangs to public fame Fine garter'd Knights, blue, red, or green, Lords, Earls and Dukes, nay King, or Queen, And sometimes pairs them both together, To dangle to the wind and weather ; Or claps some mighty General there, Who has not any head to spare. Or if it more his fancy suit, Pourtrays or fish, or bird, or brute. And lures the gaping, thirsty guest, To Scott's entire, or TRUEMAN's best.

Ye chequer'd Domes thrice hail! for hence The fire of Wit, the froth of Sense; Here gentle Puns, ambiguous Joke, Burst forth oracular in smoke, And Inspiration pottle deep Forgets her sons, and falls asleep. Hence issue Treatises and Rhymes, The Wit and. Wonder of the Times, Hence Scandal, Piracies and Lies, Defensive Pamphlets on Excise, The Murd'rous Articles of News, And pert THEATRICAL Reviews, Hither, as to their Urns, repair, Bard, Publisher, and minor Play'r, And o'er the Porter's foaming head Their venom'd malice nightly shed, And aim their batteries of dirt At Genius, which they cannot hurt.

Smack not their works, if verse or prose Offend your eye, or ear, or nose, So frothy, vapid, stale, bum-drum, Of STINGO, PORTER, PURL and MUM And when the muse politely jokes, Cannot you find the Lady smokes? And spite of all her inspiration, Betrays her ale-house education?

Alas! how very few are found, Whose style tastes neat and full and sound! In WILmot's loose ungovern'd vein There is, I grant, much burnt CHAMPAIGN, And Dorset's lines all palates hit, The very BURGUNDY of wit. But when, obedient to the mode Of panegyric, courtly ode, The bard bestrides his annual hack, In vain I taste, and sip and smack, I find no flavour of the SACK. But while I ramble and refine On flavour, Style, and Wit and Wine, Your Claret, which I would not waste, Recalls me to my proper taste ; So ending, as 'tis more than time, At once my Letter, glass, and rhyme, I take this bumper off to you, 'Tis SHEPHERD's health-dear Friend, adieu..





The praise of Genius will offend
A foe no doubt, sometimes a friend ;
But curse on genius, wit, and parts ;
The thirst of science, love of arts,
If inconsistent with the plan
Of social good from man to man.
For me, who will, may wear the bays,
I value not such idle praise :
Let wrangling wits abuse, defame,
And quarrel for an empty name,
What's in this shuffling pace of rhyme,
Or grand pas stride of stiff sublime,
That vanity her trump should blow,
And look with scorn on folks below!
Are wit and fully close allied,
And match’d, like poverty, with pride?
When rival bards for fame contend,
The poet often spoils the friend;

Genius self-center'd feels alone
That merit he esteems his own,
And cold, o'er-jealous, and severe,
Hates, like a Turk, a brother near ;
Malice steps in, good nature flies,
Folly pre vails, and Friendship dies.
Peace to all such, if peace can dwell
With those who bear about a hell;
Who blast all worth with Envy's breath,
By their own feelings stung to death.
None but a weak and brainless fool,
Undisciplin'd in fortune's school,
Can hope for favours from the wit :
He pleads prescription to forget,
Unnotic'd let him live or rot,
And, as forgetful, be forgot ;
Most wags, whose pleasure is to smoke,
Wou'd rather lose their friend, than joke;
A man in rags looks something queer,
And there's vust humour in a sneer;
That jest, alike all witlings suits,
Which lies no further than the boots.
Give me the man whose

Means social good to all mankind;
Who when his friend, from fortune's round,
Is toppled headlong to the ground,



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