But I conceive fuch Folks are quite in
Miftakes, in Theory of Writing.

If once for Principle 'tis laid,

That Thought is Trouble to the Head;
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 difcourfe
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 Crofs haranguing,
With prompting Prieft behind the Hangings
The Wooden Head refolv'd the Question,
While you and Pettys helpt 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-verfa put,
Shou'd 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 you
"T must be the Cholick in your Belly.

That

That Writing is but just like Dice,
And lucky Mains make People wife;
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 tie
Authentick Wits, like you, and I:
For as young Children, who are ty'd in
Go-Carts, to keep their Steps from sliding,
When Members knit, and Legs grow stronger,
Make use of fuch Machine no longer;
But leap pro libitu, and fcout

On Horfe call'd Hobby, or without :
So when, at School, we first declaim,
Old Busby walks us in a Theme,
Whofe 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 Sixpence matter upon what.

:

'Tis not how well an Author fays,
But 'tis how much that gathers Praife.
T-----n, who is himself a Wit,
Counts Writers Merits by the Sheet.
Thus each fhou'd 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 you're well, fo God be wi' you,
Was all I thought at firft to write ;
But Things fince then are alter'd quite :
VOL II

N

Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high,
So God knows when my Clack will lie:
I must, 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 he's honeft as your Claret,
Not four with Cant, nor ftum'd with Merit:
Your Chamber is the fole Retreat
Of Chaplains every Sunday Night;
Of Grace no doubt a certain fign,
When Lay-man herds with Man Divine,
For if their Fame he justly great,
Who wou'd no Popish Nuncio treat:
That his is greater we must grant,
Who will treat Nuncio's Proteftant.
One fingle Pofitive weighs more,
You know, than Negatives a fcore.
In Politicks I hear you're ftanch,
Directly bent against the French,
Deny to have your free-born Toe
Dragoon'd into a wooden Shooe;
Are in no Plots, but fairly drive at
The publick Welfare in your private:
And will for England's Glory try,
Turks, Jews, and Jesuits to defie,
And keep your Places 'till you die.

For me, whom wand'ring Fortune threw
From what I lov'd, the Town and you,
Let me jut tell you how my Time is
Paft in a Country Life.-----Imprimis,
As foon as Phebus Rays, infpect us,
Firft, Sir, I read, and then I Breakfaft;

}

30 on, 'till 'forefaid God does fet,
I fometimes ftudy, fometimes eat:
Thus of your Heroes, and brave Boys,
With whom old Homer makes such Noise,
The greatest Actions I can find,

Are that they did their Work, and din'd.
The Books of which I'm chiefly fond,
Are fuch as you have whilome con'd,
That treat of China's Civil Law,
And Subjects Rights in Golconda,
Of High-way Elephants at Ceylan

That rob in Clanns, like Men o'th' Highlands
Of Apes that form or keep a Town,
As well almoft, as Count Lauzune;
Of Unicorns and Alligators,

Elks, Mermaids, Mummies, Witches, Satyrs,
And twenty other stranger Matters.

}

Which though they're Things I've no concern in, Make all our Grooms admire my Learning.

Criticks I read on other Men,'
And Hypers upon them again;

From whofe Remarks I give Opinion
On twenty Books, yet ne'er look in one.
Then all your Wits that flear and sham,
Down from Don Quixot to Tom. Tram;
From whom I Jefts and Punns purloin,
And flily put 'em off for mine:
Fond to be thought a Country Wit.
The reft----when Fate and you think fit.
Sometimes I climb my Mare, and kick her
To bottled Ale, and neighbouring Vicar:
Sometimes at Stamford take a Quart,

---Squire Shepherd's Health-----With all my Heax,
Thus, without much Delight, or Grief,

1 fool away an Idle Life,

'Till Shadwell from the Town retires,

(Choak'd up with Fame and Sea-coal Fires)

To bless the Wood with peaceful Lyrick;
Then hey for Praise and Panegyrick ;
Juftice reftor'd, and Nations freed,

And Wreaths round William's glorious Head.

Burleigh, May 14. 1689.

SONG of BASSET.
By Sir George Etheridge.

L

ET Equipage and Dress despair,
Since Baffet is come in,

For nothing can oblige the Fair
Like Money and Morine.

Is any Countefs in distress.
She flies not to the Beau,
'Tis only Cony can redress.

Her Grief with a Rouleau.

By this bewitching Game betray'd,.,
Poor Love is bought and fold:
And that which should be a free Trade,
Is now ingrofs'd by Gold.

Ev'n Senfe is brought into difgrace,

Where Company is met;

Or filent ftands, or leaves the Place,
While all the Talk's Baffet.

Why, Ladies, will you take your Hearts,
Where a plain Cheat is found?
You firft are rookt out of thofe Darts
That gave your felves the Wound.