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of grief, which preyed on her spirits, and did not permit her long to survive them.

It is yet remarkable that Mr. Lloyd, though so excellent a classical scholar, had not the least tincture of the pedant in his character; none being more ready to turn pedants into ridicule ; particularly those affected pedagogues, who attempted to reduce the numbers of English verse to the scale of Greek and Roman feet. Our Author was indeed one of those whom he describes under the title of real scholars.

Whose knowledge unaffected flows
And sits as easy as their clothes ;
Who care not tho' an ac or sed
Misplac'd, endanger Priscian's head;
Nor think his wit a grain the worse,
Who cannot frame a Latin verse,
Or give a Roman proper word

To things a Roman never heard. It may be supposed that the loss of a writer of such eminence was, at least in verse, universally lamented. It was otherwise ; his brother bards seemed as loth to celebrate his talents, as the world, in general, to acknowledge his virtues.

His name-sake, however, Mr. Evan Lloyd, (tho' but a moderate Poet) gave to the world some verses on his death, which conclude with the following lines :Peace to thy ashes, LLOYD, ill treated Bard! Hard was thy lot, sweet bird ! in this rude age, That coop'd thee up to whistle in a cage : Yet thou could'st even Freedom's self survive, And blithly sing, while CHURCHILL was alive; But when your mate was snatch'd, you droop'd and died; Blest was the trial, for thy truth was tried. For ages hence your chaplet shall be green: And, ages past, no withering leaf be seen; Softly repose upon the Muse's breast, And Phoebus' self shall sing you to your rest.





My Works are advertis'd for sale,
And censures fly as thick as hail;
While my poor scheme of publication
Supplies the dearth of conversation.

What will the World say ?—That's your cry. Who is the World ? and what am I?

Once, but thank Heaven, those days are o'er, And persecution reigns no more, One man, one hardy man alone, Usurp'd the critic's vacant throne, And thence with neither taste nor wit, By powerful catcall from the pit, Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down. Who pass'd the sentence then the Town. So now each upstart puny elf Talks of the world, and means himself.

Yet in the circle there are those. Who hurt e'en more than


Whose friendship serves the talking turn,
Just simmers to a kind concern,
And with a wond'rous soft expression
Expatiates upon indiscretion;

Prefixed to the Quarto Edition published by subsctiption in his life time,

Flies from the Poems to the Man,
And gratifies the favourite plan
To pull down other's reputation,
Apd build their own on that foundation.

The scholar grave, of taste discerning, Who lives on credit for his learning, And has no better claim to wit Than carping at what others writ, With pitying kindness, friendly fear, Whispers conjectures in your ear. “ I'm sorry—and he's much to blame “ He might have publish'd—but his name! “ The thing might please a few, no doubt, As handed privately about“ It might amuse a friend or two, “ Some partial friend like me and you; “ But when it comes to press and print “ You'll find, I fear, but little in't. “ He stands upon a dangerous brink 66 Who totters o'er the sea of ink, " Where reputation runs aground, “ The Author cast away, and drown'd.

" And then--'twas wilful and absurd,

(So well approv'd, so well preferr’d) Abruptly thus a place to quit“ A place which most his genius hit, “ The theatre for Latin wit! " With critics round him chaste and terse, " To give a plaudit to his verse!".

Latin, I grant, shews college breeding, And some school-common-place of reading. But has in Moderns small pretension To real wit or strong invention. The excellence you critics praise Hangs on a curious choice of phrase;

Which pick'd and chosen here and there,
From prose or verse no matter where,
Jumbled together in a dish,
Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish,
You set the classic hodge-podge on
For pedant wits to feed upon.
Your wou'd-be Genii vainly seek
Fame from their Latin verse, or Greek;
Who would for that be inost admir'd
Which blockheads may, and have acquir’d.
A mere mechanical connection
Of favourite words,-a bare collection
Of phrases,----where the labour'd cento
Presents you

with a dull memento,
How Virgil, Horace, Ovid join,
And club together half a line.
These only strain their motly wits
In gathering patches, shreds, and bits,
To wrap their barren fancies in,
And make a classic Harlequin.

-Were I at once impower'd to shew
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremest rigour,
I could inflict no penance bigger
Than using him as learning's tool
To make him Usher of a school.
For, not to dwell upon the toil
Of working on a barren soil,
And lab’ring with incessant pains
To cultivate a blockhead's brains,
The duties there but ill befit
The love of letters, arts, or wit.
For whosoe'er, though slightly, sips,
Their grateful flavour with his lips,

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