Waller, by Nature for the Bays defign'd,
With force and fire, and fancy unconfin'd,
In panegyric does excel mankind.

He best can turn, enforce, and foften things,
To praise great conquerors, and flatter kings.
For pointed fatire I would Buckhurst choose,
The best good man, with the worst-natur'd Muse.
For fongs and verses mannerly obscene,
That can ftir Nature up by fprings unfeen,
And, without forcing blushes, warm the queen;
Sedley has that prevailing gentle art,
That can with a refiftless power impart
The loofeft wishes to the chasteft heart,
Raife fuch a conflict, kindle fuch a fire,
Betwixt declining virtue and defire,
Till the poor vanquish'd maid diffolves
In dreams all night, in fighs and tears all day.
Dryden in vain try'd this nice way of wit;

away,

For he, to be a tearing blade, thought fit
To give the ladies a dry bawdy bob,
And thus he got the name of Poet Squab.
But, to be juft, 't will to his praise be found,
His excellencies more than faults abound:
Nor dare I from his facred temples tear
The laurel, which he best deserves to wear.
But does not Dryden find even Jonfon dull?
Beaumont and Fletcher uncorrect, and full
Of lewd lines, as he calls them? Shakespeare's ftyle
Stiff and affected? To his own the while

}

}

Allowing

Allowing all the juftice that his pride
So arrogantly had to these deny'd ?
And
may not I have leave impartially
To search and cenfure Dryden's works, and try
If those grofs faults his choice pen doth commit
Proceed from want of judgment, or of wit?
Or if his lumpifh fancy does refuse
Spirit and grace to his loose flattern Mufe?
Five hundred verses every morning writ,
Prove him no more a poet than a wit:
Such fcribbling authors have been seen before;
Muftapha, the Ifland Princefs, forty more,
Were things perhaps compos'd in half an hour.
To write what may securely stand the test
Of being well read over thrice at least;
Compare each phrafe, examine every line,
Weigh every word, and every thought refine;
Scorn all applaufe the vile rout can bestow,
And be content to please those few who know.
Canft thou be fuch a vain mistaken thing,
To with thy works might make a play-house ring
With the unthinking laughter and poor praise
Of fops and ladies, factious for thy plays?
Then fend a cunning friend to learn thy doom
From the fhrewd judges in the drawing-room.
I've no ambition on that idle fcore,
But fay with Betty Morice heretofore,
When a court lady call'd her Buckhurst's* whore;

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}

The fame probably who is celebrated by Lord Buckhurst (or Dorfet) in his Poems. See Gent. Mag. 1780, p.

218.

I pleafe

't too,

I please one man of wit, am proud on
Let all the coxcombs dance to bed to you.
Should I be troubled when the Purblind Knight,
Who fquints more in his judgment than his fight,
Picks filly faults, and cenfures what I write ?
Or when the poor-fed poets of the town
For fcabs and coach-room cry my verfes down?
I loath the rabble; 't is enough for me
If Sedley, Shadwell, Shephard, Wycherley,
Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurft, Buckingham,
And fome few more, whom I omit to name,
Approve my fenfe: I count their cenfure fame.

}

Sir CAR SCROPE, who thought himfelf reflected on at the latter end of the preceding Poem, published a Poem " In Defence of Satire," which occafioned the following Reply..

To Sir CAR SCROPE.

Tinske prafe, to a low untun'd ftrain,
O rack and torture thy unmeaning brain,

In thee was most impertinent and vain.
When in thy perfon we more clearly fee
That fatire's of divine authority,

For God made one on man when he made thee;
To fhew there were fome men, as there are apes,
Fram'd for meer fport, who differ but in fhapes:

}

In thee are all these contradictions join'd,
That make an ass prodigious and refin❜d.
A lump deform'd and shapeless wert thou born,
Begot in Love's defpight and Nature's fcorn;
And art grown up the most ungrateful wight,
Harsh to the ear, and hideous to the fight;
Yet Love's thy bufinefs, Beauty thy delight.
Curfe on that filly hour that first inspir'd
Thy madness, to pretend to be admir'd;
To paint thy grifly face, to dance, to dress,
And all thofe aukward follies that express
Thy loathfome love, and filthy daintiness.
Who needs wilt be an ugly Beau-Garçon,
Spit at, and fhunn'd by every girl in town;
Where dreadfully Love's fcare-crow thou art plac'd,
To fright the tender flock that long to taste:
While every coming maid, when you appear,
Starts back for fhame, and straight turns chafte for fear;
For none fo poor or prostitute have prov'd,
Where you made love, t'endure to be belov'd.
"T were labour loft, or else I would advise;
But thy half-wit will ne'er let thee be wife.
Half witty, and half mad, and scarce half brave,
Half honeft (which is very much a knave)

Made up of all thefe halves, thou canst not pafs
For any thing entirely, but an Afs.

As

E P I L O GUE.
LOG

S charms are nonfenfe, nonfenfe feems a charm,
Which hearers of all judgment does difarm;
For fongs and scenes a double audience bring,
And doggrel takes, which fmiths in fatin fing..
Now to machines and a dull mask you run;
We find that wit 's the monfter you would fhun,
And by my troth 'tis moft difcreetly done..
For fince with vice and folly wit is fed,
Through mercy 'tis moft of you are not dead..
Players turn puppets now at your defire,

In their mouth 's nonsense, in their tail 's a wire,
They fly through crowds of clouts and fhowers of fire..
A kind of lofing Loadum is their

game, Where the worst writer has the greatest fame.

To get vile plays like theirs fhall be our care;
But of fuch aukward actors we despair..
Falfe taught at first-

Like bowls ill-biafs'd, ftill the more they run,
They're further off than when they first begun.
In comedy their unweigh'd action mark,
There's one is fuch a dear familiar fpark,
He yawns as if he were but half awake,
And fribbling for free-fpeaking does mistake;
False accent and neglectful action too:
They have both fo nigh good, yet neither true,

F 3

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That