E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures,
Hi narrata ferunt aliÒ; mensurÁque ficti
Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor:
IllÌc credulitas, illÌc temerarius error,
VanÁque lÆtitia est, consternatique timores,
SeditiÓque repens, dubiÓque auctore susurri.
Ovid. Metamorph. Lib. xii.

A time like this, a busy, bustling time,
Suits ill with Writers, very ill with Rhyme;
Unheard we sing when Party-rage runs strong,
And mightier Madness checks the flowing Song:
Or should we force the peaceful Muse to wield
Her feeble Arms amid the furious Field;
Where Party-Pens a wordy War maintain,
Poor is her Anger and her Friendship vain;
And oft the Foes who feel her Sting, combine,
Till serious Vengeance pays an idle Line;
For Party-Poets are like Wasps, who dart
Death to themselves and to their Foes but Smart.
Hard then our Fate: if general Themes we choose,
Neglect awaits the Song, and chills the Muse;
Or should we sing the Subject of the Day,
To-morrow’s Wonder puffs our Praise away.
More blest the Bards of that Poetic Time,
When all found Readers who could find a Rhyme;
Green grew the Bays on every teeming Head,
And Cibber was enthron’d and Settle read.
Sing, drooping Muse, the Cause of thy Decline;
Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine?
Alas! new Charms the wavering Many gain,
And rival Sheets the Reader’s Eye detain;
A daily Swarm, that banish every Muse,
Come flying forth, and Mortals call them News:
For these, unread the noblest Volumes lie;
For these, in Sheets unsoil’d the Muses die;
Unbought, unblest, the virgin Copies wait,
In vain for Fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.
Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our Foes,
The smoothest Numbers for the harshest Prose;
Let us, with generous scorn, the Taste deride,
And sing our Rivals with a Rival’s Pride.
Ye gentle Poets, who so oft complain
That foul Neglect is all your Labours gain;
That Pity only checks your growing Spite
To erring Man and prompts you still to write;
That your choice Works on humble Stalls are laid,
Or vainly grace the Windows of the Trade;
Be ye my Friends, if Friendship e’er can warm
Those rival Bosoms whom the Muses charm:
Think of the common Cause, wherein we go,
Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;
Nor let one peevish Chief his Leader blame,
Till crown’d with Conquest we regain our Fame;
And let us join our Forces to subdue
This bold assuming but successful Crew.

I sing of News, and all those vapid Sheets
The rattling Hawker vends thro’ gaping Streets;
Whate’er their Name, whate’er the Time they fly,
Damp from the Press, to charm the Reader’s Eye:
For, soon as Morning dawns with roseate hue,
The Herald of the Morn arises too;
Post after Post succeeds, and all day long,
Gazettes and Ledgers swarm, a noisy throng.
When Evening comes, she comes with all her train
Of Ledgers, Chronicles, and Posts again,
Like Bats appearing when the Sun goes down,
From Holes obscure and Corners of the Town.
Of all these Triflers, all like these, I write;
Oh! like my Subject could my Song delight,
The Crowd at Lloyd’s one Poet’s Name should raise,
And all the Alley echo to his praise.
In shoals the Hours their constant Numbers bring,
Like Insects waking to th’ advancing Spring;
Which take their rise from Grubs obscene that lie,
In shallow Pools, or thence ascend the Sky;
Such are these base Ephemeras, so born
To die before the next revolving Morn.
Yet thus they differ: Insect-tribes are lost
In the first Visit of a Winter’s Frost;
While these remain, a base but constant Breed,
Whose swarming Sons their short-liv’d Sires succeed;
No changing Season makes their Number less,
Nor Sunday shines a Sabbath on the Press!!

Then lo! the sainted Monitor is born,
Whose pious Face some sacred Texts adorn:
As artful Sinners cloak the secret Sin,
To veil with seeming Grace the Guile within;
So Moral Essays on his Front appear,
But all is Carnal Business in the Rear;
The fresh-coin’d Lie, the Secret whisper’d last,
And all the Gleanings of the six Days past.
With these retir’d, thro’ half the Sabbath-day,
The London-lounger yawns his Hours away:
Not so, my little Flock!, your Preacher fly,
Nor waste the Time no worldly Wealth can buy;
But let the decent Maid and sober Clown,
Pray for these Idlers of the sinful Town:
This Day at least, on nobler Themes bestow,
Nor give to Woodfall, or the World below.

But, Sunday past, what Numbers flourish then,
What wond’rous Labours of the Press and Pen!
Diurnal most, some thrice each Week affords,
Some only once, O Avarice of Words!
When thousand starving Minds such Manna seek[12],
To drop the precious Food but once a Week.
Endless it were to sing the Powers of all,
Their Names, their Numbers; how they rise and fall;
Like baneful He blind;
Who silly drops Quotations all about
Packet or Post and points their Merit out;
Who advertises what Reviewers say,
With sham Editions every second day;
Who dares not trust his Praises out of Sight,
But hurries into Fame with all his might;
Although the Verse some transient Praise obtains,
Contempt is all the anxious Poet gains.
Now Puffs exhausted, Advertisements past,
Their Correspondents stand expos’d at last:
These are a numerous Tribe to Fame unknown,
Who for the public Good forego their own;
Who Volunteers in Paper-war engage,
With double Portion of their Party’s Rage:
Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear
Wooing the Printer for Admission here;
Whose generous Souls can condescend to pray
For leave to throw their precious Time away.

Oh! cruel Woodfall! when a Patriot draws
His grey-goose Quill in his dear Country’s Cause,
To vex and maul a Ministerial Race,
Can thy stern Soul refuse the Champion place?
Alas! thou know’st not with what anxious heart
He longs his best-lov’d Labours to impart;
How he has sent them to thy Brethren round,
And still the same unkind Reception found:
At length indignant will he damn the State,
Turn to his Trade and leave us to our Fate.

These Roman Souls, like Rome’s great Sons, are known
To live in Cells on Labours of their own.
Thus Milo, could we see the noble Chief,
Feeds, for his Country’s good, on Legs of Beef:
Camillus copies Deeds for sordid Pay,
Yet fights the public Battles twice a day:
Ev’n now the godlike Brutus views his Score
Scroll’d on the Bar-board, swinging with the Door;
Where, tippling Punch, grave Cato’s self you’ll see,
And Amor PatriÆ vending smuggled Tea.

Last in these Ranks and least, their Art’s Disgrace,
Neglected stand the Muses’ meanest Race;
Scribblers who court Contempt, whose Verse the Eye
Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by:
This Poet’s Corner is the place they choose,
A fatal Nursery for an infant Muse;
Unlike that Corner where true Poets lie,
These cannot live and they shall never die;
Hapless the Lad whose Mind such Dreams invade,
And win to Verse the Talents due to Trade.

Curb then, O Youth! these Raptures as they rise,
Keep down the Evil Spirit and be wise;
Follow your Calling, think the Muses foes,
Nor lean upon the Pestle, and compose.

I know your Day-dreams, and I know the Snare
Hid in your flow’ry path, and cry “Beware.”
Thoughtless of Ill, and to the future blind,
A sudden Couplet rushes in your Mind;
Here you may nameless print your idle Rhymes,
And read your first-born Work a thousand times;
Th’ Infection spreads, your Couplet grows apace,
Stanzas to Delia’s Dog or Celia’s Face;
You take a Name; Philander’s Odes are seen,
Printed, and prais’d, in every Magazine;
Diarian Sages greet their brother Sage,
And your dark Pages please th’ enlighten’d Age.—
Alas! what Years you thus consume in vain,
Rul’d by this wretched Bias of the Brain!

Go! to your Desks and Counters all return;
Your Sonnets scatter, your Acrostics burn;
Trade, and be rich; or should your careful Sires
Bequeath you Wealth! indulge the nobler Fires;
Should Love of Fame your youthful Heart betray,}
Pursue fair Fame, but in a glorious Way, }
Nor in the idle Scenes of Fancy’s Painting stray. }

Of all the good that mortal Men pursue,
The Muse has least to give and gives to few;
Like some coquettish Fair, she leads us on,
With Smiles and Hopes, till Youth and Peace are gone;
Then, wed for Life, the restless wrangling Pair,
Forget how constant one and one how fair:
Meanwhile Ambition, like a blooming Bride,
Brings Power and Wealth to grace her Lover’s Side;
And tho’ she smiles not with such flattering Charms,
The Brave will sooner win her to their Arms.
Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the Bands,
Go spread your Country’s Fame in hostile Lands;
Her Court, her Senate, or her Arms adorn,
And let her Foes lament that you were born:
Or weigh her Laws, their ancient Rights defend,
Tho’ Hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason’s Friend;
Arm’d with strong Powers, in their Defence engage,
And rise the Thurlow of the future Age.