220

Great in her charms! as when on shrieves and may'rs
She looks, and breathes herself into their airs.
She bids him wait her to the sacred dome;
Well-pleas'd he enter'd, and confess'd his home:
So spirits ending their terrestrial race,
Ascend, and recognize their native place.
Raptur'd, he gazes round the dear retreat,
And in sweet numbers celebrates the seat.

225

Here to her chosen all her works she shews; Prose swell'd to verse, verse loit'ring into prose; How random thoughts now meaning chance to find, Now leave all memory of sense behind:

How prologues into prefaces decay,

And these to notes are fritter'd quite away.

How index-learning turns no student pale,
Yet holds the eel of science by the tail.

230

How, with less reading than makes felons 'scape, 235 Less human genius than God gives an ape,

Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece,

A past, vamp'd, future, old, reviv'd, new piece,
"Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Congreve, and Corneille,
Can make a Cibber, Johnson, or Ozell.

The goddess then, o'er his anointed head,
With mystic words, the sacred opium shed;
And lo! her bird a monster of a fowl!

Something betwixt a heideggre and owl,

240

Perch'd on his crown.

All hail! and hail again, 245

My son! the promis'd land expects thy reign.

Know, Settle cloy'd with custard, and with praise, Is gather'd to the dull of ancient days,

Safe, where no critics damn, no duns molest,

Where wretched Withers, Banks, and Gildon rest,
And high-born Howard, more majestic sire,
Impatient waits, till ** grace the quire.
I see a chief, who leads my chosen sons,

251

All arm'd with points, antitheses and puns!

I see a monarch, proud my race to own!

255

A nursing-mother, born to rock the throne!
Schools, courts, and senates shall my laws obey,
Till Albion, as Hibernia, bless my sway.

She ceas'd: her owls responsive clap the wing,

And Grubstreet garrets roar, God save the King. 260 So when Jove's block descended from on high,

(As sings thy great forefather Ogilby,)

Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog,

And the hoarse nation croak'd, God save King Log.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

THE

DUNCI A D.

BOOK II.

ARGUMENT TO BOOK THE SECOND.

THE King being proclaimed, the solemnity is graced with public games and sorts of various kinds; not instituted by the Hero, as by Æneas in Virgil, but for greater honour by the Goddess in person (in like manner as the games Pythia, Isthmia, &c. were anciently said to be by the Gods, and as Thetis herself appearing, according to Homer, Odyss. xxiv., proposed the prizes in honour of her son Achilles). Hither flock the Poets and Critics, attended, as is but just, with their Patrons and Booksellers. The Goddess is first pleased, for her disport, to propose games to the Booksellers, and setteth up the phantom of a Poet, which they contend to overtake. The Races described, with their divers accidents: next, the game for a Poetess. Then follow the exercises for the Poets, of tickling, vociferating, diving: The first holds forth the arts and practices of Dedicators, the second of Disputants, and fustian Poets, the third of profound, dark, and dirty Authors. Lastly, for the Critics, the Goddess proposes (with great propriety) an exercise, not of their parts, but their patience, in bearing the works of two voluminous Authors, one in verse and the other in prose, deliberately read, without sleeping: The various effects of which, with the several degrees and manners of their operation, are here set forth; till the whole number, not of Critics only, but of spectators, actors, and all present, fall fast asleep; which naturally and necessarily ends the games.

BOOK II.

HIGH on a gorgeous seat, that far outshone
Henley's gilt tub, or Fleckno's Irish throne,
Or that, where on her Curls the public pours,
All-bounteous, fragrant grains, and golden show'rs:
Great Tibbald nods: The proud Parnassian sneer, 5
The conscious simper, and the jealous leer,
Mix on his look. All direct their rays

eyes

On him, and crowds grow foolish as they gaze.
Not with more glee, by hands pontific crown'd,
With scarlet hats, wide-waving, circled round,
Rome in her capitol saw Querno sit,

Thron'd on sev'n hills, the antichrist of wit.

To grace this honour'd day, the Queen proclaims

By herald hawkers, high heroic games.

She summons all her sons: An endless band

IO

15

Pours forth, and leaves unpeopled half the land.
A motley mixture! in long wigs, in bags,
In silks, in crapes, in garters, and in rags,
From drawing-rooms, from colleges, from garrets,
On horse, on foot, in hacks, and gilded chariots: 20

All