What

What numbers, floth with gloomy humours fills!
Racking their brains with visionary ills.

Hence what loud outcries, and well-meaning rage,]
What endless quarrels at the present age!

How many blame! how often may we hear,

"Such vice!-well, fure, the last day must be near!"
T' avoid such wild, imaginary pains,
The fad creation of diftemper'd brains,

Dispatch, dear friend! move, labour, sweat, run, fly!
Do aught-but think the day of judgment nigh.
There are, who've loft all relish for delight:

With them no earthly thing is ever right.
T' expect to alter to their taste, were vain';
For who can mend so fast, as they complain?
Whate'er you do, fhall be a crime with fuch;
One while you've loft your tongue, then talk too much:
Thus fhall you meet their wafpifh censure still;
As hedge-hogs prick you, go which fide you will.
Oh! pity thefe whene'er you see them fwell!
Folks call 'em cross-poor men! they are not well.
How many fuch, in indolence grown old,
With vigour ne'er do any thing, but fcold?
Who fpirits only from ill-humour get;
Like wines that die, unless upon the fret.
Weary'd of flouncing to himself alone,
Acerbus keeps a man to fret upon.

The fellow's nothing in the earth to do,

But to fit quit and be scolded to.

VOL. III.

E

Pishes

Pishes and oaths, whene'er the mafter's four'd,
All largely on the fcape-goat flave are pour'd.
This drains his rage; and tho' to John fo rough,
Abroad you'd think him complaifant enough.
As for myself, whom poverty prevents
From being angry at fo great expence ;
Who, fhould I ever be inclin'd to rage,
For want of flaves, war with myfelf muft wage;
Muft rail, and hear; chaftifing, be chaftis'd:
Be both the tyrant, and the tyranniz'd ;
I chufe to labour, rather than to fret :
What's rage in fome, in me goes off in sweat.
If times are ill, and things feem never worfe;
Men, manners to reclaim,---I take my horse.
One mile reforms 'em, or if aught remain
Unpurg'd, 'tis but to ride as far again.
Thus on myself in toils I spend my rage:
I pay the fine; and that abfolves the
age.

Sometimes, ftill more to interrupt my ease,

I take my pen, and write-fuch things as thefe:
Which tho' all other merit be deny'd,
Shew my devotion ftill to be employ❜d.

Add too, tho' writing be itself a curfe,

Yet fome diftempers are a curfe for worse :
And fince 'midft indolence, fpleen will prevail,
Since who do nothing else, are fure to rail;
Man fhould be fuffer'd thus to play the fool,
To keep from hurt, as children go to school.

You

You should not rhyme in spite of nature ?–
Yet fure 'tis greater trouble, if you do ;

And if 'tis lab'ring only, men profess,

True;

Who writes the hardest, writes with most fuccefs.
Thus for myself, and friends, I do my part;
Promoting doubly the pains-taking art:
Firft to myself, 'tis labour to compose;
To read fuch lines, is drudgery to those.

On

SCRIBLING against GENIUS.

An EPISTLE.

TO fingle rule's more frequently enjoin'd,
Ο

N Than this; Obferve the byafs of your mind."

However juft by ev'ry one confess'd,

There's not a rule more frequently tranfgrefs'd,
For mortals, to their int'reft blind, pursue
The thing they like, not that they're fit to do.
This Verro's fault, by frequent praises fir'd,
He feveral parts had try'd, in each admir'd.
That Verro was not ev'ry way compleat,
'Twas long unknown, and might have been so yet:

But mufick-mad, th' unhappy man pursu'd
That only thing heav'n meant he never shou❜d;
And thus his proper road to fame neglected,
He's ridicul'd for that he but affected.

Wou'd men but act from nature's fecret call,
Or only, where that fails, not act at all:

If not their skill, they'd fhew at least good sense,
They'd get no fame- nor wou'd they give offence.
Not that where fome one merit is deny'd,

Men must be ev'ry way unqualify'd;

Nor hold we, like that wrong-concluding wight,

A man can't fish

because he cou'd not write.

View all the world around: each man defign'd

And furnish'd for some fav'rite part you

find.

'That, fometimes low: yet this, fo small a gift,
Proves nature did not turn him quite adrift.

The phlegmatick, dull, aukward, thick, grofs-witted,
Have all fome clumfy work for which they're fitted.
"Twas never known, in men a perfect void,

Ev'n I and Tld might be well employ'd;

Wou'd we our poverty of parts furvey,

And follow as our genius led the way.

What then? obedient to that turn of mind.
Shou'd men jog on to one dull path confin'd;
From that small circle never dare depart,
To ftrike at large, and fnatch a grace from art?
At least with care forbidden paths pursue ?
Who quits the road, fhould keep it ftill in view:

From

From

From genius fome few 'fcapes may be allow'd;
But ever keep within its neighbourhood.

But C

r, faithlefs to his byafs fee,
With giant-fin oppofing heav'n's decree.
Still fond where he shou'd not, he blunders on
With all that hafte fools make tɔ be undone:
Want of fuccefs his paffion but augments;
Like eunuchs rage of love, from impotence.

'Mongft all the inftances of genius croft,
The rhyming tribe are those who err the most.
Each piddling wretch who hath but common sense,
Or thinks he hath, to verfe fhall make pretence :
Why not? 'tis their diverfion, and 'twere hard
If men of their eftates fhou'd be debarr'd.
Thus wealth with them gives every thing befide;
-As people worth fo much are qualify'd :
They've all the requifites for writing fit,

All but that one fome little fhare of wit.
Give way, ye friends, nor with fond pray'rs proceed
To stop the progress of a pen full speed.

'Tis heav'n, incens'd by fome prodigious crime,

Thus for men's fins determines them to rhyme.

Bad men, no doubt; perhaps 'tis vengeance due
For fhrines they've plunder'd, or fome wretch they flew.
Whate'er it be, fure grievous is th' offence,

And grievous is (heaven knows!) its recompence.
At once in want of rhyme, and want of reft;
Plagues to themselves, and to mankind a jest: