[This was the celebrated farce tripartite, in which Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot engaged, in order to ridicule Dr Woodward, and which was most meritoriously damned at the first représentation. See Cibber's letter to Pope.] AUTHORS are judg'd by strange capricious rules; By running goods these graceless owlers gain; They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, How shall our author hope a gentler fate, Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit. A common blessing! now 'tis yours, now mine. To keep this cap for such as will, to wear. * Shows a cap with ears. + Flings down the cap, and exit, SANDYS'S GHOST: OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY [Sir Samuel Garth, who published the Metamorphoses of Ovid, translated by " Dryden, Addison, Garth, Mainwaring, Congreve, Rowe, Pope, Gay, Eusden, Croxal, and other eminent hands," had himself no other share in the undertaking, than engaging the various translators in their task, and putting their labours into some order. The work was intended to supersede the ancient translation. George Sandys, the old translator, (whose ghost is introduced in the verses), was a man of great accomplishment, and pronounced by Dryden to be the best versifier of his age. The curious reader will find many particulars respecting him, and his tran. slation of Ovid, in the Censura Literaria, volumes 4th, 5th, and 6th. He died in 1643.] YE lords and commons, men of wit Beware of Latin authors all Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a berlin: For not the desk with silver nails, Nor standish well japann'd, avails Hear how a ghost in dead of night, Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth! Ah! why did he write poetry, A desk he had of curious work, Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought All upright as a pin. With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, And ruff compos'd most duly, This 'squire he dropp'd his pen full soon, While as the light burnt bluely. Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite, Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right. I hear the beat of Jacob's* drums, Then lords and lordlings, 'squires and knights, Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers: Garth at St James's, and at White's, for volunteers. Beats up What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, If justice Philips' costive head Let Warwick's Muse with Ash—t join, Tickell and Addison combine, And Pope translate with Jervas. L- himself, that lively lord, Shall join with F-in one accord, And be like Tate and Brady. *Old Jacob Tonson, the editor of the Metamorphoses. + Pembroke, probably. |