To spend your money, fir, is all a jeft;
Matters are settled, fet your heart at rest:
We've made a compromife, and, fir, you know,
That fends one member high, and t' other low.
But if his good advice you would not take,
He'd scorn your fupper, and your punch forsake,
Leave you of mighty interest to brag,
And poll two voices like fir Robert Fag.
Parliamenteering is a fort of itch,
That will too oft unwary knights bewitch.
Two good eftates fir Harry Clodpole spent ;
Sat thrice, but spoke not once, in parliament;
Two good eftates are gone-Who'll take his word?
Oh! should his uncle die, he'd spend a third;
He'd buy a house his happiness to crown,
Within a mile of fome good borough-town;
Tag, rag, and bobtail to fir Harry's run,
Men that have votes, and women that have none;
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam infumebat inanem,
Quin fine rivali teque & tua folus amares.
h Ut mala quem fcabies aut morbus regius urguet,
Nec femel hoc fecit, nec fi retractus erit, jam
Fiet homo, & ponet famofæ mortis amorem.
Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus.
Quem vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque legendo,
Non miffura cutem, nifi plena cruoris, hirudo,
Sons, daughters, grandfons, with his honour dine;
He keeps a public-house without a fign.
Coblers and smiths extol th' enfuing choice,
And drunken taylors boast their right of voice.
Dearly the free-born neighbourhood is bought,
They never leave him while he's worth a groat:
So leeches stick, nor quit the bleeding wound,
'Till off they drop with skinfuls to the ground.
Of Mr. POPE's on that Subject.
Hoe'er he be that to a Taste aspires,
Let him read this, and be what he defires.
In men and manners vers'd from life I write,
Not what was once, but what is now polite.
Those who of courtly France have made the tour,
Can fcarce our English aukwardness endure.
But honeft men who never were abroad,
Like England only, and its Taste applaud.
Strife ftill fubfifts, which yields the better goût;
Books or the world, the many or the few.
True Tafte to me is by this touchstone known,
That's always best that's nearest to my own.
To fhew that my pretenfions are not vain,
My father was a play'r in Drury-lane.
Pears and pistachio-nuts my mother fold,
He a dramatic poet, fhe a fcold.
His tragic Muse could counteffes affright,
His wit in boxes was my lord's delight.
No mercenary priest e'er join'd their hands,
Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetic bands.
Laws my Pindaric parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got.
My infant tears a fort of measure kept,
I squall'd in diftichs, and in triplets wept.
No youth did I in education waste,
Happy in an hereditary Tafte.
Writing ne'er cramp'd the finews of my thumb,
Nor barbarous birch e'er brush'd my tender bum.
My guts ne'er fuffer'd from a college cook,
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book.
Grammar in vain the fons of Prifcian teach,
Good parts are better than eight parts of speech:
Since these declin'd, thofe undeclin'd they call,
I thank my stars, that I declin'd them all.
To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence,
I truft to mother wit and father fenfe.
Nature's my guide, all fciences I fcorn,
Pains I abhor, I was a poet born.
Yet is my goût for criticism fuch,
I've got fome French, and know a little Dutch.
Huge commentators grace my learned fhelves,
Notes upon books out-do the books themselves.
Critics indeed are valuable men,
But hyper-critics are as good agen.
Though Blackmore's works my foul with raptures fill,
With notes by Bentley they'd be better ftill,
The Boghoufe-Miscellany's well defign'd,
To ease the body, and improve the mind.
Swift's whims and jokes for my resentment call,
For he displeases me that pleases all.
Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in fense obfcure,
To him as nature, when he ceas'd to fee,
Milton's an univerfal blank to me.
Confirm'd and fettled by the nation's voice,
Rhyme is the poet's pride, and people's choice.
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