human
Can you write me a poem about silk?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about silk:
  emphasized Hervey's firm and deliberate alliance with Cibber.
Evidently it was the strangeness of this alliance between the two
commercialization of art.
How many, who have Reams of Paper spoil'd,
Have often sleepless Nights obscurely toil'd,
And buried in their Eggs, like Silkworms, lay
'Till his warm Satire shew'd them Life and Day?
Here then, my Sons, is all your living Hope,
To be immortal Scriblers, rail at POPE.
The Chiefs were sate, the Scriblers waited round
When he, the Master of the Seven-fold Face,
Rose gleaming thro' his own _Corinthian_ Brass.
The Chiefs were set; the Soldiers crown'd the Field:
To these the Master of the seven-fold Shield
Upstarted fierce.
ATTACK upon Mr. _POPE_,
_No Author ever spares a Brother;
Wits are_ Game Cocks _to one another._    GAY.
The Wits are jarring, and the Witlings strive,
To keep the _dying_ Quarrel still _alive_;
So shallow Gamesters, tho' they nothing get,
All blind the _Dupe_, and aid the _sly Deceit_.
Attend, ye SCRIBLERS! to your Leader's Call,
Good Sense condemn, and pointed Satire maul;
Ye DUNCES too! for ye not differ more
Mounts rich _Sir Dunce_, and seems to ape the Great;
Whilst low beneath the wretched Scribler lies,
And his Inscription unrewarded eyes;
Equal are they, whom _blund'ring Measures_ raise,
And Bards who sasly censure, as they praise;
The _Statesman_, well examin'd, will appear
But Counterpart of his dear _Gazetteer_:
Tho' One in his gilt Chariot proudly rolls,
Or heads in _D----g-Room_ his Brother Tools--
And Th' other labours hard whate'er he says,
Shining in Coffee-house with doubtful Phrase;
Still restless in all Stations, pleas'd with none;
For ever climbing, yet for ever down:
Oft have we seen, that _Noblemen_ have wrote,
And _Authors_ sometimes, strutting in _lac'd Coat_;
But widely then from Nature's Ends they err,
And play the Farce quite out of Character.
As well may pious Jobbers of the Alley
Pretend the _flying_ Troops of _France_ to rally.
To proper Spheres, my Friends! yourselves confine!
When COLLEY writes, a _Dunce_ may praise each Line;
Whether _my Lord at Length_, he views the Plan,
Or sculks beneath a _certain Gentleman_;
But if that Lord the _Pen_ or _Press_ invade,
Rouse, rouse, ye Tribe! he'll undermine your Trade,
Tho' not one brilliant Thought should hurt the whole,
And ev'ry Verse be bad, or lame, or stole,
Still, like a _mad Dog_, hunt th' Usurper dead,        }
Tho' he _for Fame_, ye scribble to _be fed_;           }
He stands condemn'd, who robs ye of your _Bread_.      }
But if a Genius rise, whose pointed Wit
Corrects your Morals, and all Tastes shall fit,
Claim then the Privilege to be his Foes,
Ye cannot shine, but when ye Worth oppose.
When ye _deny_ him _Fame_, ye _fix_ your _own_,
And to be satirized, is to be known.
Some hold, they're better in a cursed State,
Than to be totally annihilate;
Thrice happy then, ye deathless, duncely Train!
The Subjects of the higher DUNCIAD's Strain.
How many, who have Reams of Paper spoil'd,
Have often sleepless Nights obscurely toil'd,
And buried in their Eggs, like Silkworms, lay
'Till his warm Satire shew'd them Life and Day?
Here then, my Sons, is all your living Hope,
To be immortal Scriblers, rail at POPE.
Snatch'd from Oblivion, there the _Dunces_ soar,
TIBBALD their Monarch dubb'd, can ask no more,
Nor less shall ye----now COLLEY gives the Word,
Rouse up! and crowd into the next Record,
Or, lost to Memory, no other Page
Can possibly retrieve ye half an Age;
And now the glad Occasion aptly calls,
To _break_ more _Printers_, and to _spread_ more _Stalls_;
To save your _Names_ from _Lethe_, tho' your Books
Are doom'd the Prize of _Fruiterers_ and _Cooks_.
The Streams of _Helicon_ once clearly flow'd,
And Heav'n in their resplendent Bosom shew'd,
Whilst verdant Groves the sacred Mountain spread;
Then _Pegasus_ on Balms and Myrtles fed:
Now blighted _Thistles_ only crown the Top,
Which Herds of young _poetic Asses_ crop;
And, choak'd with common Sew'rs, like _Fleet-ditch_ Flood,
Its sable Waters writhe along the Mud;
Nor murm'ring wake, nor seem they quite asleep,
Whilst _Wits_, like _Water-rats_, around them creep.
If any shou'd attempt to cleanse your Streams,
Or wake ye from your kind lethargic Dreams,
Assert your Right, and render vain their Toil;
Yours is the Filth, then join and guard your Soil!
And lest ye're diffident to aid the Cause,
Not wholly yet broke loose from Reason's Laws,
View the strange Wonders of the present Times,
Let Empires sleep, but hear the Fate of Rhimes.
Let POPE lull all his _Dunces_ with a Yawn,
Wrapt in their Robes of _P--ple_ or of _L--wn_,
Whilst he shall leave one tatter'd _Muse_ awake;
That _Muse_ his own and others Rest shall break.
A Prostitute, her Charms their Vigour lose,
Now COLLEY keeps her, and she sups on Prose;
But free and common, hack'd about the Town,
Each of ye claim her! for she's all your own.
With him, unmov'd by Salary or Sack,
She d----ns his Impotence of _Brain_ and _Back_;
That thus in Age he strains at Wit's Embrace,
And follows W--FF--N from Place to Place;
But tho' _cold Prose_ to him she'll only give,
Ye, my pert Sons! who with more Ardour strive,
To wear the wither'd _Bays_, or deck his _Hearse_.
Now for six Months had O----D shook the State
With _grand Removals_, and _a grand Debate_:
_Dunce_ elbow'd _Dunce_, each foremost wou'd advance,
But backward fell, as in old _Bayes_'s Dance:
When _Dulness_ spread her pow'rful YAWN around,
"And Sense and Shame, and Right and Wrong were drown'd,
_Enquiry_ ceas'd, and, touch'd by magic Wand,
Ev'n _Opposition's_ self was at a Stand;
On well-oil'd Hinges creaks the Prison Gate,
And _Pains and Penalties_ will come too late.
'Twas Night's high Noon at _P--is_ and the _H--ge_,
And _Politics_ had died, but for poor _P--gue_;
For why, "The Goddess bade BRITANNIA sleep,
"And pour'd her Spirit o'er the Land and Deep."
And now the _Scriblers_, motionless and mute,
Sit down to count their Gains by the Dispute,
To see on which Side Victory hath run;                 }
Like _Mackbeth's Witches_, when the Mischief's done,   }
They tell ye, that the Battle's _lost_ and _won_:      }
Contriving whom to _greet_, or whom _disgrace_,
As _Gazettes_ speak them _in_ or _out_ of _Place_;
For _Panegyrics_ drein their tilted Wit
On Peers _new-made_, against the House shall sit,
Or saucily appear before their Betters
In _sage Advice_, or on an _old Member's Letters_:
Thus fate, they waiting the approaching Yawn,
Wishing for Sleep till the next _Sessions' Dawn_,
When the kind Goddess did her Jaws unclose,
She snor'd aloud, and strait a Vapour rose,
Unwholsome as the Damps a Collier meets
Too often in his subterraneous Pits;
For _Dulness_ taints all round her where she breathes,
As witness, COLLEY, thy dry blighted Wreaths:
Nor cou'd the upward Gasp disperse the Steam,
But from below disturb'd her _Consort's_ Dream;
Yet from her downy Lap he started not,
But mutter'd something thus--as loose of Thought;
"He hurts not me--my CAESAR--Satire--dull,
"Why all the World knows I've been long--a F--l;
Salutes his Queen's Effulgence, and thus stops.
The Throne where _Dulness_ sate, maintaining Right,
Resembled much some Monarch's of the Night,
Where gloomy Myrmidons and Punks resort,
And snore on Benches round his ample Court.
Both there and here, as in the busy World,
Lords, Draymen, Linkboys, in Confusion hurl'd;
Beneath the Monarch, fond to be employ'd,
NARCISSUS lay with _too much_ TULLY cloy'd;
As Gluttons gorg'd at City Feasts too soon,
Oft get their Naps before the rest lye down;
Their heaving Stomachs turn'd at something tart,
When others doze, oft make them wildly start:
So he--"Why, what a Pax! who'd be a L--d,
"If Worth and Merit only Praise afford?
"But that dem'd _Twick'nam_ Bard my Parts will jeer;
"If I can't write myself, here's COLLEY shall;
"I've often heard him swear--he'll stand _'em all_:
"If he refuse me, I have still another,
"I'll _hammer_ him conjointly with my B----r;
"But sure the _Laureat Harp_ must tune a Strain,
"For he, to give his Due unto the _Devil_,
"Was always to us Folks of Fashion civil."
Resolv'd at once, he tweaks the Monarch's Nose,
The Monarch snor'd--new Streams from _Dulness_ rose.
Close to his Ear he lays his dimpled Cheek,
And in soft Accents speaks, or seem'd to speak,
"Dear _Laureate_, rouse, the Enemy's at Hand,
"Another DUNCIAD travels round the Land,
"Whence all the sole Proprietors of Trash,
"Thy Friends and mine, most justly fear the Lash.
Vain are his Efforts--yet again he tries,
"If not for _Odes_--yet for _Love's Riddle_ wake--
"Nor that?--thy _Careless Husband_'s then at Stake.
All wou'd not do--his soft Distress preferr'd,
Nor the great Mother, nor the _Laureat_ heard;
For on her Lap so _daintily_ he lay,
His Senses, breath'd into her, stole away;
All Aims at a Recovery were vain,
Till she vouchsaf'd to breathe them back again.
"One gentle Imprecation more and then,
"He cries, Farewel the _Laureat_ and his _Pen_:
"Thy Country calls, if thou resign'st thy Sense,
"Yet rouse to be a Man of Consequence.
"Who calls thee _Dunce_, abuses too thy K--g,
"Whose Praises, by thy Place, thou'rt bound to sing;
"O! grant me Aid, assume the pleasing Task,
"In thy _Nonjuror_'s fav'rite Name I ask.
Thrice groan'd the _Ompha_, and in Thunder spoke,
The Blast his Sense return'd, and Slumber broke;
_Nonjure!_ That Word alone unbinds the Charms,
For _Party_-Dulness always sounds to _Arms_;
Upstarts the Sire--"Mistake me not, he cries,
"Whoever says I was asleep------he lies;
"You know, my L--d, how I my Wits exert,
"How always pleasing, and how always pert;
"I know your Grief, before the Cause is told;
"Then here my Pen in Readiness I hold.
"Since by Desire I enter thus the Lists,
"I vow Revenge--know, COLLEY ne'er desists:
"Then I'll pursue him with my latest Breath,
"Nor drop _this Pen_ 'till quite _benum'd_ with _Death_.
High on the Muses _Pegasus_ DAN P--PE
Mounts _full of Spirit_, nor vouchsafes to stoop,
But hears the Murmurs of the Dull upborn,
Low empty Curses, or vain stingless Scorn;
One Dash strikes all the mean Revilers down,
As sure as JOVE should swear by ACHERON:
Whether his _Person_ be their standing Jest,
Or his _Religion_ suits their Libels best;
Whether the _Author_ forms his crude Designs,
As the _deserted Bookseller_ repines,
Who, after all his _Boasts_, is tumbled by,
And looks at D----LEY with an evil Eye;
Or if their standing Topics, _Spleen_ and _Spite_,
In all their hard-strain'd Labours, squeez'd by Bits,
Mark well the Triumph of these wou'd-be Wits;
Like _Village Curs_, kick'd backward by the _Steed_,
Their _Noise_ and _Yelping_ their _Destruction_ breed;
Or if the Rider _smacks_ them with his _Whip_,
'Tis more _t' unbend the Lash_, than make them _skip_:
Yet still they rise and at it----Goddess hail!
Who o'er thy Suns spread'st such a thick'ning Veil,
That Sense of Pain, as well as Shame, is lost,
And you _reward_ those best, who _blunder_ most;
For where are Honours, Places, Gifts bestow'd,
But where thy Influence is most avow'd?
Rest, while more modern Miracles I sing,
Of _Minor Dunces_ that from thee first spring;
But all who Recreants thy Pow'r disclaim,
And, Laureat-like, to _Pertness_ change thy Name;
And ye, her Sons, who've nothing else to do,
Wait, if you please, the----Vision thro':
You, who in Manuscript your Works retale,
And tag with Rhimes the latter Ends of Ale,
But vow th' ungrateful Age shall never see,
In Print, how wond'rous wise and smart ye be;
Or you, whose Muse has run you out of Breath,
Or rode you like a Night-mare hagg'd to Death;
Attend and learn from _Dulness'_ sleeping Shade,
Another Goddess rises to your Aid.
Pleas'd with the Vow, the glad submissive P--r,
Thence leads the Monarch to a nobler Chair;
For why shou'd he at _Dulness'_ Footstool wait,
Who knows so well to entertain with Prate;
Some _g--rt--r'd Dupes_ no nobler Titles boast,
Than to have been the Objects of his _Roast_;
For which they fill his Groupe, his Praises have,
And shine like SALMON'_s Dolls_ in MERLIN'_s Cave_.
The young NARCISSUS, whom (wou'd you believe,
The _Cornhill_ Priest, who never cou'd deceive)
Had robb'd the _Sibil_ of whate'er was sage,
Or _Good_, or _Wise_, except her _Gums_ and _Age_,
Was the old Woman, tho' in Youth renew'd,
Who led AENEAS when he _H--ll_ review'd;
Wrapt in the Steam that spread from _Dulness'_ Jaws,
From her Posterior's, perch'd, pert C----R draws,
Conveys him to the Club--the Club despair,
Till they the Snuff-box smell, and see the Chair.
Then all the _Dunciad_ d----n, and, grown elate,
Prick up their Ears, and bray, "_To the Debate!_
"The Chiefs were sate, the Scriblers waited round
"The Board with Bottles, and with Glasses crown'd,
"When he, the Master of the Seven-fold Face,
"Rose" gleaming thro' his own _Corinthian_ Brass,
And thus--my L--s, we once again are met,
Nor Sense hath robb'd us of a Vot'ry yet;
Pleas'd, I the present Danger undertake,
And gladly suffer, for my Country's Sake;
For I a prompt Alacrity agnize
To be esteem'd or witty, smart or wise.
This present War then with the POPE be mine;
But one Thing beg, I, bending to your Shrine,
And _your Desires_ my Title Page to grace,
He said and bow'd--a Whisper trill'd the Air
Much as when C--MP--N wou'd have been L--d M--r.
However, each assents, then forth he drew
An Oglio Letter ready cook'd for _View_;
_Taste_ it had none; for, having long lain by,
'Twas lost like Camphire that doth quickly fly;
But, as it never was in Print before,
'Twas new, they all believe, for COLLEY swore.
When one, as Deputy for all the rest,
Thus, in due Form, their Advocate addrest.
_Great Laureat_, thou whose yearly tuneful Notes
Deafen the Court from Chappel-royal Throats,
Oft has this Enemy to our Repose
Wak'd us from Slumbers where we quiet doze,
Reeking with Malice, and of Satire full,
He neither lets us sin in quiet, or be dull:
You too, with us, have his Attacks withstood,
Have answer'd not, or wou'd not, if you cou'd;
And to receive his Insults, in your _Life_,
You offer'd him Release from all your Strife:
So once did CU--L, but he accepted not,
As if ye both contemptible he thought;
But sure this last Affront must give you Pain;
Can you your usual Temper now retain?
If this not rouse you, all our Hopes we'll quit,
And sue out Bankruptcy against your Wit:
Therefore, as _Monarch_ of the _scribling Crew_,       }
This is a Debt to both our Int'rests due,              }
For us he _d--ns_ at once, in _lashing_ you.           }
Let L--IS then the happy Offspring rear,
Tis safe, if once committed to his Care.
He yields to their Intreaties, and then smil'd,
The Goddess spread her Vapour round more mild,
And strait a Form appear'd, like _ancient Fame_,       }
Her Wings, her Trumpet, and her Robe the same,         }
Each rous'd at once, and thought he grasp'd the Dame;  }
But found 'twas all a Cloud or empty Space;
No Substance, tho' the Out-line they cou'd trace.
And, thus disturb'd, a strange unsav'ry Fume
Diffus'd itself around th' Assembly Room:
The Scent each mad'ning Brain did instant strike,
All star'd, and thought it FAME, it look'd so like;
COLLEY at once disclaim'd her--"For, says he,
"I even _Bread and Cheese_ prefer to _thee_;
"The Smiles of Monarchs may no Comfort bring;
"But then the _Sack's_ a wholsome pleasing Thing:
"Had I won thee, I might have scap'd a Sneer,
"And lost the _twice One Hundred Pounds a Year_.
"Then pray, dear Madam, if you please, be gone;
"Come you a Spy to make our Counsels known?"
When thus the Fantom----"Ye're my Children all;
"Thee, COLLEY, I my eldest Darling call;
"Mistake not, I usurp no borrow'd Name,
"And hate, as much as you, the Sound of FAME;
"Tho' I a Shadow on her Steps attend,
"When she appears, my Empire's at an End:
"Your stern Antagonist draws _Dulness_ right,
"Daughter of CHAOS, and _eternal Night_;
"Wits boast their PALLAS sprung from Brain of JOVE;
"We too had our Original above,
"And claim the Heraldry of God-like Race,
"Part of the Cloud IXION did embrace;
"Whence form'd in Aid of _Dulness_ and her Train,
"I oft her sinking Works in Air sustain;
"And when they otherwise wou'd fall downright,
"I waft them upwards to a second Flight:
"So when the new-made Honours were confer'd
"On all your earthly Recantation Herd,
"Made me a Goddess, and allow'd a Court;
"Long ye have known me--I o'er PUFFS preside,
"But ne'er, till now, appear'd in so much Pride.
The whole Assembly to her Presence press,            }
All own her, but, their Ignorance, confess,            }
Was wholly owing to th' inverted Dress:                }
But both her Hands _Eliza_ first uprear'd,
Insisting only she the Pow'r rever'd:
Oh make my Shop, she cries, thy fav'rite Shrine;
You must, you shall, I have you on my Sign:
All scold, and Indignation bent each Brow,
None wou'd the other's Privilege allow;
When lo, a Youth of most distinguish'd Grace
(Well known for pressing first in ev'ry Place,
Whether he heads the _Orders_ in the _Pit_,
Or doth at _B----n_'s Judge of Boxing sit)
Conspicuous mounts, and thus, in formal Speech,
Begins----"Statesmen and Morals I impeach,
"Write Satires, and deny them for my own
"In Advertisements, that I may be known;
"Grant me thy Aid, great Goddess, but once more;
"Not for myself alone I thee implore,
"But for this _Saint_, who breathing now her last,
"Wou'd fain retrieve Disreputation past.
"If Gold you ask, long-hoarded Bags shall fly"--
The Goddess smil'd, and puff'd it to the Sky.
"Children, says she, Distinction should be made
"To _Scriblers_, who are thus above the Trade;
"For ye, who equal in all Prospects are,
"To gain our Favour, we a _Test_ prepare.
"He that has oft'nest most disguis'd the Truth,
"And render'd Sense and Reason quite uncouth;
"Who Learning hath, by Artifice abus'd,
"And by false Glasses vulgar Eyes amus'd;
"Who seldom in his real Shape was seen,
"For ever different to what h' hath been;
"Him for our royal Consort we select:
"Begin--and Pertness all your Aims direct;
"And still to urge ye on to further Hope,
"These Trophies wait the Man who lashes POPE.
"The Wings from one of MERCURY's new Suits;
"These grac'd his _Cap_, and these adorn'd his _Boots_;
"But who shall mention _Merit_, or presume
"To talk of _Wit_, him we forbid the Room."
Then first a Sage, of rev'rend hoary Years,
The Chief of the translating Bards appears;
And thus, in their Behalf--O pow'rful Maid!
"Daily and nightly we invoke thy Aid;
"In Pamphlets, numberless, have fully shown,
"Nor Language _dead_ or _live_ to SAWNEY's known;
"Yet, spite of all the Methods we can try,
"The silly _World_ will yet his HOMER buy:
"But next we think"--the Goddess stopt them short!
"All ye have done, but makes the _Learned_ Sport;
"To rail and call his HOMER wretched Stuff;
"To censure and condemn, is well enough;
"But here's the Curse on't, ye're such silly Elves
"To shew the _Diff'rence_ ye _translate_ yourselves,
"Or T----LD else had, not five Years and more,
"Hawk'd AESCHYLUS about from Door to Door.
"TERENCE's Eunuch the same Fate partook,
"Murder'd by merciless and mangling C----K.
"But cease we this, the recent Matter try,
"All who the present pidling Quarrel ply,
"Stand forth"----In Party-colour'd Vest
CLODDY appear'd, his _Dialogue_ addrest,
And swore he'd study'd SWIFT with so much Pains,
He thought, at last, he'd gain'd his very Strains:
The Piece perus'd, this Answer she return'd,
"Obscenity, when dull, is always scorn'd;
"And who _puffs_ this, will, to his Sorrow, find
"'Tis but a _F--t_ will _stink_ to all _Mankind_."
BLAST claim'd the Prize, and said, he did deride
The POET, by appearing on his Side;
The Goddess sent her Maid to kick him down,
But e'er she rais'd her Foot, the Wretch was gone.
Next, in a borrow'd Shape, by CLYTUS worn,
In fierce theatric Battles hackt and torn,
A Wight stalkt in, and, under VIRTUE's Name,
_False English!_ baul'd he loud--the Goddess heard,
And to the School-boys his Address preferr'd.
He disappear'd, nor know we if he's found,
But _horse him, horse him_, dy'd in distant Sound.
And now of ev'ry Sort came rushing in,
_Scriblers_ and _Puffers_, with a horrid Din;
All who in various Occupations strive
To keep their sev'ral Mist'ries alive,
From _Statesmen_, who, for Coronets resign'd,
But far above the rest, each Rival Stage
The Favour of the Goddess wou'd engage;
The angry _Quack_ his Nostrums all forsakes,
And, in Revenge, his Gallipots he breaks,
'Cause _R--ch_ bestows an ORPHEUS on the Town,
When _he_ had, long before, run mad with one:
Then Paper Wars, and long-ear'd Quarrels rise,
And each the Goddess sues for fresh Supplies.
In spite of City Wrath and Aldermen,
A _Concert_ takes the Dregs of _Drury-Lane_:
In pompous Stanzas they their Genius raise,
And sound, in ev'ry Paper, their own Praise,
From _Rome_ and Death old surly CATO tear,
To see the modern _Liliputian_ lear,
_Greece_ is outdone, and learned _Athens_ yields
_Ambivius Turpia_, the Stage 'Squire appear'd,
The Nurse, who ev'ry modern TERENCE rear'd;
A meagre Shade, quite uninform'd and wild,
Yet still he flatter'd, smooth'd, and still he smil'd:
Ne'er, but when frighten'd, cou'd he be sincere,
And ne'er ap'd _Honesty_, but 'twas thro' _Fear_;
Revil'd, exploded on a rival Stage,
To dull the Sting the Libellers engage;
If double Pay is given them on his own,
He smil'd Consent, and turns them on the Town.
Then thus--Great Pow'r! thy darling Child behold,
I've courted thee with _Orders_ and with _Gold_,
This Scheme let the contending POLLYS tell,
This ev'ry _Inns o' Court_ Man knows full well.
But mark, dear Goddess, this my Master-piece,
Thus I revive the Arts of _Rome_ and _Greece_;
For SHAKESPEAR's Monument I gave a Play,               }
And stopp'd the starving Actors hard-got Pay,          }
Yet bore I all the _Praise_ and _Puff_ away.           }
_Beasts_ graze the _Plain_, the _Fishes_ skim the _Sea_,
_Cars_ are for _Peers_, _Streets_ for _Mechanics_ free;
Thy Empire, Goddess, still hath been my Care,
He spake, to grasp the Prize his Fingers stretch,
As feeble Reeds spent Swimmers strive to catch;
But finds himself pusht instantly away,
And by young PTOLOMY is kept at Bay.
Give him the Prize, O Goddess, if thou durst,
A _Wretch_ beneath his lowest Puppets curst.
The Claim he makes is owing to my Parts;
I taught him _Management_, and all its Arts,
From my great Sire alone deriv'd, to me
He gave it yet a living Legacy:
In what theatric Region are unknown
Our _Puffs_ in ev'ry Bill, in ev'ry Paper shown?
And where his short ones fail'd, I, better skill'd,
The groaning Page with long Epistles fill'd:
If Falsehood claims it, end the vain Dispute;
'Tis mine, avaunt, ye _Puffers_, and be mute;
All _Grubstreet_ tells----At this CONUNDRUM rose,
And thus--Fond Youth, no more thy Gifts expose;
Tho' the Foundation of this Art is Lies,
Yet TRUTH is sometimes proper for Disguise:
He who is always false, is ne'er believ'd,
Who's always _honest_, is sometimes _deceiv'd_;
The Prize we'll yield, prove it upon Record,
That _he_ or _you_ e'er spoke but one _true Word_.
Dismist--The Fantoms hover round the Place,
And shew their Crimes in Mirrors to their Face?
Each on the other gazing, ghastly stood,
And wou'd have _blush'd_, or hid them, _if they cou'd_.
Then thus the Goddess--"Cease all further Strife,
"COLLEY, thy Hand! I'm thine alone for Life;
"Which tho' not so, yet some will take for it:
"But 'tis not long, ev'n me thou must forsake;
"My last, my best, Advice then friendly take,
"Who scorn the Field of fell Debate to quit,
"Howe'er he lash ye, still the War pursue,
"Your _Ignorance_ brings all his _Wit_ to View;
"The Insects hov'ring in the breezy Air
"Shew th' approaching vernal Season near;
"The _Maggot_ that in Sun-beams basking lies,
"Tho' the _Heat_ scorch him, by that _Heat_ he flies."
She spake, and then, unseen, unheard retir'd,
Born in a Breath, she with a Sigh expir'd.
_I grant all_ Courses _are in vain,
Unless we can_ get in _again:
The only Way that's left us now,
But all the Difficulty's_ How?
WITH A Prefatory Epistle from Mr. _C--b--r_ to Mr. _P._
Printed for J. ROBERTS, near the _Oxford-Arms_ in _Warwick-Lane_.
In some Eminent Instances both Ancient and Modern.
What awkard Judgments must they make of Men,
Who think their Hearts are pictur'd by their Pen;
That _this_ observes the Rules which _that_ approves,
And what one praises, that the other loves.
Few Authors tread the Paths they recommend,
Or when they shew the Road, pursue the End:
Few give Examples, whilst they give Advice,
Or tho' they scourge the vicious, shun the Vice;
But lash the Times as Swimmers do the Tide,
And kick and cuff the Stream on which they ride.
His tuneful Lyre when polish'd _Horace_ strung,
In Practice still his courtly Conduct show'd
His Talents still to Perfidy apply'd,
Three Times a Friend and Foe to either Side.
_Horace_ forgot, or hop'd his Readers would,
That he who once had own'd his Country's Cause,
Now kiss'd the Feet that trampled on her Laws:
That till the Havock of _Philippi_'s Field,
Where Right to Force, by Fate was taught to yield,
He follow'd _Brutus_, and then hail'd the Sword,
Which gave Mankind, whom _Brutus_ freed, a Lord:
Nor to the Guilt of a Deserter's Name,                 }
Like _Menas_ great (tho' with dishonest Fame)          }
Added the Glory, tho' he shar'd the Shame.             }
For whilst with Fleets and Armies _Menas_ warr'd,
Poor _Horace_ only follow'd with a Verse
That Fate the Freedman balanc'd, to rehearse;
Singing the Victor for whom _Menas_ fought,
And following Triumph which the other brought.
Talk'd of fair Virtue's Charms and Vice's Stains,
And said the happy were the chaste and poor;           }
Whilst plunder'd Provinces supply'd his Store,         }
But tho' he rail'd at Flattery's dangerous Smile,
A _Claudius_, and a _Nero_, all the while,
With every Vice that reigns in Youth or Age,           }
The Gilding of his venal Pen engage,                   }
And fill the slavish Fable of each Page.               }
See _Sallust_ too, whose Energy divine
Lashes a vicious Age in ev'ry Line:
With Horror painting the flagitious Times,
The profligate, profuse, rapacious Crimes,
That reign'd in the degenerate Sons of _Rome_,
And made them first deserve, then caus'd their Doom;
With all the Merit of his virtuous Pen,
Leagu'd with the worst of these corrupted Men;
The Day in Riot and Excess to waste,
The Night in Taverns and in Brothels past:
Struck him, indignant, from the _Senate_'s Roll,
From Justice he appeal'd to _Caesar_'s Sword,
Harrass'd in Peace with Ills surpassing War;
Each Purse by Peculate and Rapine drain'd,
Each House by Murder and Adult'ries stain'd:
Till _Africk_ Slaves, gall'd by the Chains of _Rome_,
Wish'd their own Tyrants as a milder Doom.
If then we turn our Eyes from Words to Fact,
Comparing how Men write, with how they act,
How many Authors of this Contrast kind
In ev'ry Age, and ev'ry Clime we find.
Thus scribbling _P----_ who _Peter_ never spares,
Feeds on extortious Interest from young Heirs:
And whilst he made Old _S--lkerk_'s Bows his Sport,
Dawb'd minor Courtiers, of a minor Court.
Thus in their Morals then so well agree;
By what Ingredient is the Difference known?            }
The Difference only in their Wit is shown,             }
For all their Cant and Falshood is his own.            }
He rails at Lies, and yet for half a Crown,
Coins and disperses Lies thro' all the Town:
Of his own Crimes the Innocent accuses,
And those who clubb'd to make him eat, abuses.
But whilst such Features in his Works we trace,
And Gifts like these his happy Genius grace;
Let none his haggard Face, or Mountain Back,
The Object of mistaken Satire make;
Faults which the best of Men, by Nature curs'd,
May chance to share in common with the worst.
Let those who blame, some truer Blemish find,          }
And lash that worse Deformity, his Mind.               }
Like prudent Foes attack some weaker Part,
And make the War upon his Head or Heart.
Prove his late Works dishonest as they're dull;        }
That try'd by Moral or Poetic Rule,                    }
The Verdict must be either Knave or Fool.              }
Betray the double Darkness of his Mind;
The Temple so adapted to the God,
It seems the Counterpart by Heav'n design'd
As at some Door we find hung out a Sign,
Type of the Monster to be found within.
From his own Words this Scoundrel let 'em prove
Unjust in Hate, incapable of Love;
For all the Taste he ever has of Joy,                  }
Is like some yelping Mungril to annoy                  }
And teaze that Passenger he can't destroy.             }
To cast a Shadow o'er the spotless Fame,
Or dye the Cheek of Innocence with Shame;
To swell the Breast of Modesty with Care,
Or force from Beauty's Eye a secret Tear;
And, not by Decency or Honour sway'd,
Libel the Living, and asperse the Dead:
Prone where he ne'er receiv'd to give Offence,
But most averse to Merit and to Sense;
Base to his Foe, but baser to his Friend,
Lying to blame, and sneering to commend:
Defaming those whom all but he must love,
And praising those whom none but he approve.
Then let him boast that honourable Crime,
Of making those who fear not God, fear him;
When the great Honour of that Boast is such
That Hornets and Mad Dogs may boast as much.
Such is th' Injustice of his daily Theme,
And such the Lust that breaks his nightly Dream;
That vestal Fire of undecaying Hate,
Which Time's cold Tide itself can ne'er abate,
But like _Domitian_, with a murd'rous Will,
Rather than nothing, Flies he likes to kill.
And in his Closet stabs some obscure Name,
Such now his Works to all the World are known,
Who undeceiv'd, their former Error own;
Whilst not one Man who likes his rhyming Art,
Allows him Genius, or defends his Heart:
But thus from Triumph snatch'd, and giv'n to Shame
Lash'd _into_ Penitence, and _out_ of Fame.
Since all Mankind these certain Truths allow,
And speak so freely what so well they know;
No wonder doom'd such Treatment to receive,
That he _can_ feel, and that he _can't_ forgive.
Were I dispos'd to curse the Man I hate,
Such would I wish his miserable Fate.
Thus striving to inflict, to meet Disgrace,
And wasted to the Ghost of what he was;
And like all Ghosts which Men of Sense despise,
Only the Dread of Folly's coward Eyes.
Thus would I have him despicably live,
Himself, his Friends, and Credit to survive,
Into Contempt from Reputation hurl'd,
His own Detractor thro' a scoffing World.
----Tu pulses omne quod obstat
Ad Maecenatem memori si mente recurras.
Hoc juvat, & melli est; ne mentiar. _Sat. 6. Lib. 2._
O saepe mecum tempus in ultimum
Deducte, Bruto militiae Duce.----
Tecum Philippos & celerem fugam
Sensi, relicta non bene parmula
Cum fracta virtus, & minaces
Turpe solum tetigere mento. HOR. _Ode. 7. B. 2._
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