(I wish, for Rhime, 't had been the King)
Sails out, and gives the Gulph a Ring;
Which Trick of State, He wifely maintains,
Keeps Kindness up 'twixt old Acquaintance:
For elfe, in honeft Truth, the Sea.
Has much less need of Gold, than He..
Or, not to rove, and pump one's Fancy
For Popish Similies beyond Sea;
As Folks from Mud-wall'd Tenement
Bring Landlords Pepper-Corn for Rent;
Prefent a Turkey, or a Hen
To Those might better fpare Them Ten:
Ev'n fo, with all Submiffion, I
(For first Men inftance, then apply)
Send You each Year a homely Letter,
Who may return Me much a better.
Then take it, Sir, as it was writ,
To pay Respect, and not fhow Wit:
Nor look askew at what it faith;
Here fome would scratch their Heads, and tryne1 What They shou'd write, and How, and Why; ot But I conceive, fuch Folks are quite in om on Mistakes, in Theory of Writing.
If once for Principle 'tis laid
That Thought is Trouble to the Headcollo [)
I argue thus: The World agrees,
That He writes well, who writes with Eafe:
Then He, by Sequel Logical,
Writes beft, who never thinks at all.
Verse comes from Heav'n, like inward Light;
Meer human Pains can ne'er come by't:
The God, not we, the Poem makes ;
We only tell Folks what He speaks.
Hence, when Anatomifts discourse,
How like Brutes Organs are to Ours ;
They grant, if higher Powers think fit,
A Bear might foon be made a Wit;
And that, for any thing in Nature,
Pigs might squeak Love-Odes, Dogs bark Satyr.
MEMNON, tho' Stone, was counted vocal;
But 'twas the God, mean while, that spoke all.
ROME oft has heard a Cross haranguing,
With prompting Priest behind the Hanging:
The Wooden Head refolv'd the Question;
While You and PETTIS help'd the Jeft on.
Your crabbed Rogues, that read LUCRETIUS,
Are against Gods, You know; and teach us,
The God makes not the Poet; but
The Thefis, vice-versâ put,
Should Hebrew-wife be understood;
And means, The Poet makes the God.
EGYPTIAN Gard'ners thus are faid to Have fet the Leeks they after pray'd to; And ROMISH Bakers praise the Deity They chipp'd, while yet in its Paniety.
That when You Poets fwear and cry,
The God infpires; I rave, I die;
If inward Wind does truly fwell Ye,
"T must be the Cholick in your Belly:
That Writing is but just like Dice;
And lucky Mains make People Wise:
That jumbled Words, if Fortune throw 'em,
Shall, well as DRYDEN, form a Poem;
Or make a Speech, correct and witty,
As you know who at the Committee.
So Atoms dancing round the Center, They urge, made all Things at a Venture.
But granting Matters fhou'd be spoke
By Method, rather than by Luck;
This may confine their younger Stiles,
Whom DRYDEN pedagogues at WILL'S:
But never cou'd be meant to tye
Authentic Wits, like You and I:
For as young Children, who are try'd in
Go-Carts, to keep their Steps from fliding;
When Members knit, and Legs grow stronger,
Make use of fuch Machine no longer;
But leap pro Libitu, and scout
On Horse call'd Hobby, or without:
So when at School we firft declaim,
Old BUS BEY Walks us in a Theme,
Whose Props fupport our Infant Vein,
And help the Rickets in the Brain:
But when our Souls their Force dilate,
And Thoughts grow up to Wit's Estate;
In Verfe or Profe, We write or chat,'
Not Six-Pence Matter upon what.
'Tis not how well an Author fays;
But 'tis how much, that gathers Praife.
TONSON, who is himself a Wit,
Counts Writers Merits by the Sheet.
Thus each fhould down with all he thinks,
As Boys eat Bread, to fill up Chinks.
Kind Sir, I fhou'd be glad to fee You;
I hope Y'are well; fo God be wi' You;
Was all I thought at first to write :
But Things, fince then, are alter'd quite;
Fancies flow in, and Mufe flies high:
So God knows when my Clack will lye:
I muft, Sir, prattle on, as afore,
And beg your Pardon yet this half Hour.
So at pure Barn of loud NON-CON, Where with my Granam I have gone,
When LOBB had fifted all his Text,
And I well hop'd the Pudding next;
Now to apply, has plagu'd me more,
Than all his Villain Cant before.
For your Religion, first, of Her
Your Friends do fav'ry Things aver:
They fay, She's honeft, as your Claret,
Not fowr'd with Cant, nor ftum'd with Merit:
Your Chamber is the fole Retreat
Of Chaplains ev'ry SUNDAY Night:
Of Grace, no doubt, a certain Sign,
When Lay-Man herds with Man Divine:
For if their Fame be juftly great,
Who wou'd no Popish Nuncio treat;
That His is greater, We must grant,
Who will treat Nuncio's Protestant.
One single Positive weighs more,
You know, than Negatives a Score.
In Politicks, I hear, You're ftanch,
Directly bent against the FRENCH;
Deny to have your free-born Toe
Dragoon'd into a Wooden Shoe:
Are in no Plots; but fairly drive at
The Publick Welfare, in your Private:
And will, for ENGLAND'S Glory, try
Turks, Jews, and Jefuits to defy,
And keep your Places till You die.
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