His tragic Mufe could counteffes affright,
'Her' wit in boxes was my lord's delight.
No mercenary prieft e'er join'd their hands,
Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetick bands.
Laws my Pindarick parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got.

My infant tears a fort of measure kept,

I fquall'd in diftichs, and in triplets wept.
No youth did I in education wafte,

Happy in an hereditary Tafte.

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Writing ne'er cramp'd the finews of my thumb,
Nor barb'rous 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 Priscian teach,
Good parts are better than eight parts of speech:
Since thefe declin'd, thofe undeclin'd they call,
I thank my stars that I declin'd them all.
To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence, 35
I trust to mother wit, and father fenfe.
Nature's my guide, all sciences 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. 40 Huge commentators grace my learned fhelves,

Notes upon

books out-do the books themselves.

Criticks indeed are valuable men,

But hyper-criticks are as good agen.

V. 18. His.

Tho' Blackmore's works my foul with raptures fill,
With notes by Bentley they'd be better still.
The Boghouse-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.

50

Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in fenfe 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,

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Rhyme is the poet's pride, and people's choice,
Always upheld by national fupport,

Of market, univerfity, and court:

Thomson, write blank; but know that for that reason
Thefe lines fhall live when thine are out of season.
Rhyme binds and beautifies the poet's lays,
As London ladies owe their fhape to stays.

65

Had Cibber's felf the Careless Husband wrote; He for the laurel ne'er had had my vote : But, for his epilogues and other plays, He thoroughly deferves the modern bays. It pleases me that Pope unlaurell'd goes, While Cibber wears the bays for play-house profe: So Britain's monarch once uncover'd fate,

While Bradshaw bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat. 70 Long live old Curl! he ne'er to publish fears, The speeches, verfes, and laft wills of peers.

How oft has he a publick spirit fhewn,

And pleas'd our ears, regardless of his own!
But to give merit due, though Curl's the fame, 75
Are not his brother book-fellers the fame?

Can ftatutes keep the British prefs in awe,

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While that fells best that's most against the law?
Lives of dead play'rs my leifure hours beguile,
And Seffions-papers tragedize my ftile.
'Tis charming reading in Ophelia's life,
So oft a mother, and not once a wife :
She could with juft propriety behave,

Alive with peers, with monarchs in her grave:
Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept,
By prebends bury'd, and by generals kept!

T'improve in morals Mandevil I read,
And Tyndal's fcruples are my fettled creed.
I travell'd early, and I foon faw through
Religion all, ere I was twenty-two.
Shame, pain, or poverty fhall I endure,

When ropes or opium can my ease procure?
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay,
Self-murder is an honourable way.

As Pasaran directs I'd end my life,

And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife.
Burn but that Bible which the parfon quotes,
And men of spirit all shall cut their throats.
But not to writings I confine my pen,
I have a Tafte for buildings, mufick, men.

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Young travell❜d coxcombs mighty knowledge boast, With fuperficial fmattering at most.

Not fo my mind, unfatisfied with hints,

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Knows more than Budgel writes or Roberts prints. I know the town, all houses I have feen, From High-Park corner down to Bednal-Green. Sure wretched Wren was taught by bungling Jones, To murder mortar, and disfigure ftones! Who in Whitehall can fymmetry discern ? I reckon Covent-garden church a barn. Nor hate I less thy vile cathedral, Paul, The choir's too big, the cupola's too fmall: Substantial walls and heavy roofs I like, 'Tis Vanbrug's ftructures that my fancy strike : Such noble ruins ev'ry pile wou'd make, I wish they'd tumble for the profpect's fake. To lofty Chelsea, or to Greenwich dome, Soldiers and failors all are welcom'd home. Her poor to palaces Britannia brings, St. James's hofpital may ferve for kings. Buildings fo happily I understand, That for one house I'd mortgage all my Dorick, Ionick, fhall not there be found, But it shall cost me threefcore thousand pound. From out my honest workmen, I'll select A Bricklay'r, and proclaim him architect; First bid him build me a ftupendous dome, Which having finish'd, we fet out for Rome;

land.

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Take a week's view of Venice and the Brent,

Stare round, fee nothing, and come home content. I'll have my Villa too, a sweet abode,

Its fituation fhall be London road:

Pots o'er the door I'll place, like Cits balconies,
Which * Bentley calls the Gardens of Adonis.
I'll have my gardens in the fashion too,
For what is beautiful that is not new?
Fair four-legg'd temples, theatres that vye
With all the angles of a Christmas-pye.
Does it not merit the beholder's praise,

135

What's high to fink? and what is low to raise? 140
Slopes fhall afcend where once a green-house stood,
And in my horfe-pond I will plant a wood.
Let mifers dread the hoarded gold to waste,
Expence and alteration fhews a Tafte.

145

In curious paintings I'm exceeding nice, And know their feveral beauties by their price. Auctions and fales I conftantly attend,

But chuse my pictures by a skilful friend.

Originals and copies much the fame,

The picture's value is the painter's name.

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My Tafte in fculpture from my choice is feen,

I buy no ftatues that are not obscene.

In fpite of Addison and ancient Rome,

Sir Cloudefly Shovel's is my fav'rite tomb.

a Bentley's Milton, Book 9, ver. 439