Seduc'd by empty forms of false delight—
Such, in fome men, their deadly laft to write!

Ey'n I, whofe genius feems as much forgot,
(Mine when I write, as your's when you do not ;)
Who gravely thus can others' faults condemn,
My felf allowing, what I blame in them;
With no pretence to Phoebus' aid divine,
Nor the leaft int'reft in the tuneful Nine,
With all the guilt of impotence in view,
Griev'd for paft fins, but yet committing new;
Whate'er the wits may fay, or wife may think,
Am fooling ev'ry way with pen and ink.
When all who wish me beft, begin ť' advise,
That being witty, is not being wife;

• That if the voice of int'reft might be heard,

For one who wears a gown,---wou'd be prefer’d----
Incorrigibly deaf, I feign a yawn;

And mock their juft conclufions, ere they're drawn.
If to my practice, they oppos'd my theme;
And pointed, how I fwam against the stream:
With all the rancour of a bard in rage,

I'd

quote 'em half the writers of the age; Who in a wrath of verse, with all their might Write on, howe'er unqualify'd to write,

The

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The

T

The MIMICK.

By the Rev. Mr. PгTT.

HE Mimick's ductile features claim my lays,

Chang'd to a thousand shapes, a thousand ways:
Who with variety of arts puts on

All other persons, and throws off his own ;
Whose looks well disciplin'd his will obey,
Bloom at command, or at command decay:
Nor blush, my Mufe, thofe changes to impart,
Which ask an Ovid's or Apollo's art.

But who, Apollo, all the arts can trace,
All the deceits of that delufive face?
For lo! in fight the various artist comes;
Lo! how in beauty and in health he blooms:
Its fmootheft charms triumphant youth supplies,
Laughs in his cheeks, and sparkles in his eyes.
But fudden fee, the fcene is fnatch'd away,
See each inverted feature in decay;

His mufcles all relax'd, his face o'ergrown,
Rough and emboss'd with wrinkles not his own.
He trails his dangling legs: the wond'ring train
Laugh at the foleinn conduct of his cane;

Rapt thro' the scenes of life, he drops his prime;
A cripple fixty years before his time;
Runs in a moment all his ftages o'er,
And steps from four-and-twenty to fourscore.
Now he a venerable judge appears,

And the long garb of lazy purple wears;
Like drowsy P**'s looks his aged frame,
His mien, his habit, and addrefs the fame:
When to the fneering crowd he lisps a joke,
Puns from the law, or quibbles out of Coke;
With fettled air, and most judicious face,
Nods o'er the cushion, counsel, and the cafe;
Slumbers, and hears by ftarts the noify train
Catches a period, and drops down again.
And now his hearers in their turn to lull,
Himself stands up moft venerably dull;
Talks of old times; commends their loyal zeal,
Their wholfome ftatutes, difcipline, and ale;
On different themes beftows one common praife,
The Thames, the ftreets, the king, and king's highways.

You fee him quit the bench, and strait

An huge old gouty counsel at the bar;
Bawl for his client, wreft the tortur'd laws

appear

From their true fenfe, and mould them to the cause;
In folemn form harangue the lift'ning crowd,

And hem and cough emphatically loud;
Bleft art indeed! and glorious eloquence,,
Where empty noise fupplies the want of fenfe.

For

For

For meaning, figns, and motions he affords,
And interjections for the want of words.
What shape to you, O S**'s, is unknown!
What face, but you adopt into your own!
At the least hint, fictitious crowds you raife,
And multiply yourself ten thousand ways:
This moment, to indulge the mirthful vein,
A fool's or doctor's perfon you sustain ;
The next refume yourself and fenfe again.

Am I deceiv'd? or by fome fudden flight,

A starch'd tub-preacher now he strikes the fight,
(Quick the tranfition, and unseen the art!)

Pale and entirely chang'd in ev'ry part,
His short'ned visage, and fantastick dress,
The mad fantastick to the life express;
That small filk cap; thofe puritanick hairs,
Crop'd to the quick, and circling round his ears;
That rounded face the Mimick here proclaim,
How very different, yet how ftill the fame!
Now he, by juft degrees, his filence breaks;
His frantick filence mutt'ring ere he speaks:
Protracted hums the folemn farce begin,
And groans and paufes interrupt the scene;
As each in just fucceffion comes and goes,

Work'd to its pitch, the spirit ftronger grows,
And squeezes out his eyes, and twangs his vocal nose.
Now quick and rapid, and in rage more loud,
A ftorm of nonfenfe burfts upon the crowd :

}

}

His

His hand and voice proclaim the gen❜ral doom,

While this the hour-glass shakes, and that the room.
On nature's ruins all his doctrines dwell,

And throw wide open every gate of hell.

1

A thousand other fhapes he wears with grace;
A thousand more varieties of face:

But who, in every fhape, can count him o'er,
Who multiplies his perfon every hour?
What Mufe his flying features can pursue,
Or keep his wand'ring countenance in view ?
Had I a thousand mouths, a thousand tongues,
A throat of brafs, and adamantine lungs,
I could not celebrate this Proteus' skill,
Who fhifts his person and his face at will;
This Proteus, who out-numbers hofts alone;
A crowd himself; a multitude in one.

An