Thus authors, tottering on the brink of fate,
The critics' rage with prologues deprecate;
Yet oft the trembling bard implores in vain,
The wit profess'd turns out a dunce in grain:
No plea can then avert the dreadful sentence,
He must be damn'd-in spite of all repentance.
Here Justice seems from her straight line to vary,
No guilt attends a fact involuntary;

This maxim the whole cruel charge destroys,
No poet sure was ever dull-by choice.

So pleads our culprit in his own defence,
You cannot prove his dulness is-prepense.
He means to please he owns no other view;
And now presents you with a sea ragoût.
A dish-howe'er you relish his endeavours,
Replete with a variety of flavours.

A stout Hibernian and ferocious Scot
Together boil in our enchanted pot;

To taint these viands with the true fumet,
He shreds a musty, vain, French—martinet.
This stale ingredient might our porridge mar
Without some acid juice of English tar.
To rouse the appetite the drum shall rattle,
And the dessert shall be a bloodless battle.

What heart will fail to glow, what eye to brighten,
When Britain's wrath aroused begins to lighten!
Her thunders roll-her fearless sons advance,

And her red ensigns wave o'er the pale flowers of France.
Such game our fathers play'd in days of yore,
When Edward's banners fann'd the Gallic shore;
When Howard's arm Eliza's vengeance hurl'd,
And Drake diffused her fame around the world:
Still shall that godlike flame your bosoms fire,
The generous son shall emulate the sire;
Her ancient splendour England shall maintain,
O'er distant realms extend her genial reign,
And rise-the' unrivall'd empress of the main.

EPILOGUE TO THE REPRISAL.

SPOKEN BY MISS MACKLIN.

AY- -now I can with pleasure look around,
Safe as I am, thank Heaven, on English ground-
In a dark dungeon to be stow'd away,

'Midst roaring, thundering, danger and dismay;
Exposed to fire and water, sword and bullet-
Might damp the heart of any virgin pullet―
I dread to think what might have come to pass,
Had not the British lion quell'd the Gallic ass-
By Champignon a wretched victim led

To cloister'd cell, or more detested bed,
My days in prayer and fasting I had spent:
As nun or wife, alike a penitent.

His gallantry, so confident and eager,
Had proved a mess of delicate soupe-maigre:

To bootless longings I had fallen a martyr:

But, Heaven be praised, the Frenchman caught a tartar.
Yet soft-our author's fate you must decree:

Shall he come safe to port or sink at sea?
Your sentence, sweet or bitter, soft or sore,
Floats his frail bark, or runs it bump ashore.-
Ye wits above, restrain your awful thunder:
In his first cruise, 'twere pity he should founder,

[To the Gallery.

Safe from your shot he fears no other foe,
Nor gulf, but that which horrid yawns below.

[To the Pit.

The bravest chiefs, e'en Hannibal and Cato,
Have here been tamed with-pippin and potato.
Our bard embarks in a more Christian cause,
He craves not mercy; but he claims applause.
His pen against the hostile French is drawn,
Who damns him is no Antigallican.
Indulged with favouring gales and smiling skies,
Hereafter he may board a richer prize.
But if this welkin angry clouds deform,

[Looking round the House. And hollow groans portend the approaching storm: Should the descending showers of hail redouble,

[To the Gallery.

And these rough billows hiss, and boil, and bubble,

[To the Pit.

He'll launch no more on such fell seas of trouble.

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

L

CONTENTS.

London. In Imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal
The Vanity of Human Wishes. In Imitation of the Tenth
Satire of Juvenal .

PAGE

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hung with Flower-pieces of her own Painting

To Miss

on her giving the Author a Gold and Silk Net

Work Purse of her Own Weaving.

26

To a Young Lady, on her Birthday.

Song "Not the soft sighs of vernal gales"

On seeing a Bust of Mrs. Montague

To Lady Firebrace, at Bury Assizes

28

Verses written at the Request of a Gentleman to whom a Lady

had given a Sprig of Myrtle

28

The Young Author.

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24

25

25

27

27

28

29

To Myrtilis. The New Year's Offering

On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet

On the Death of Stephen Grey, F.R.S. The Electrician

Written for Garrick, and Spoken by him at the Opening of the
Theatre Royal, Drury-lane, 1747
Spoken by Garrick, April 5, 1750, before the Masque of
Comus, acted at Drury-lane Theatre, for the Benefit of
Milton's Granddaughter.

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