Cum tot sustineas, et tanta negotia solus. HOR.

DUBLIN: Printed for PAT. WOGAN in Church-street. 1771.

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THIS Poem is justly ranked with the most celebrated Com­positions of Doctor Swift, Pope, Major Pack, Cowley, Prior, Mrs. Pilkington, Parnel, Addison, and Henry Jones, whose Works may be had, bound or in Sheets, at my Shop in Parliament-street. I have undertaken, at the Request of my Friends to add Annotations, Re­marks, Strictures, and observati­ons, explanatory, critical, and hi­storical, for the Benefit of Strang­ers, who might otherwise be igno­rant of many Persons, Things, and Circumstances, alluded to in the Composition, after the Manner and Form of my Notes on Dr. Jona­than Swift, D. S. P. D. that have not a little contributed to improve, and likewise make his Works be understood.

AN EPISTLE TO Gorges Edmond Howard Esq. (a)

LET F—k—r boast (b) of rhymes and letters,
To praise himself, and maul his betters;
For law and wit we read your page,
Which guides the courts, and charms the stage, (c)
The ermin'd sages quote your Pleas,
And children lisp your roundelays.
On Fancy's wing aloft you soar,
To praise Monroe, (d) and Letty Gore;
Their charms shall last in song divine,
Like embryos preserved in wine.
Your classic pencil finely traces,
The beauties of the SISTER GRACES; (e)
When in an easy vein you tell us,
Of Love's mistake, and Venus jealous.
His sire, his fortune to improve,
To study law young Ovid drove, (f)
He heeded naught but verse and love.
The same thy vein;—but happier you;
Can make estates and verses too;
In both you equally succeed,
Resistless when you sing or plead;
Thus by the force of diff'rent arts,
Men lose their lands, and maids their hearts.
Oh how each breast with rapture glow'd,
At your sublime Pindaric Ode: (g)
With your applause the Garden rings, (h)
When you describe the best of Kings;
All hearts to loyalty you tune, (i)
'Till Jacobites turn Whigs in June!
Well Bartlemon' (k) you may take pride in
A bard, who soars above old Dryden; (l)
For who that Howard's Ode can taste,
Will relish Alexander's Feast?
Shou'd foolish George attempt to turn all
Your works to burlesque, in his Journal,
You'll make him of your wit the butt,
And prove a deadlier foe than Foote. (m)
For tho' good natur'd all your life,
Averse to calumny and strife,
Yet Satire's sting you can impart,
Tho' oft goodnature hides the dart:
On thistles thus soft down we spy,
Yet underneath sharp prickles lie.
In vain the Freeman aid shall bring,
"You're not a bee without a sting;" (n)
Tho' wisely ev'ry sweet you cull,
Of which your apothegms are full. (o)
You prove what riches tillage yields, (p)
And smiling plenty crowns our fields;
Sure all who read you must allow,
You write as if you held the plough.
You prove by ploughs the kingdom's fed, (q)
That pictures cannot serve for bread:
From whence 'tis plain this lazy nation,
Owes to your pen its preservation.
My muse the Architect now greets,
Whose lofty domes adorn our streets (r)
Who, Vanburgh like, claims double bays, (s)
For piling stones, and writing plays.
Your skill instructs Gymnastic schools, (s)
And Carte and Tierce reduc'd to rules,
Prove you the first of mortal men,
To poise a sword, or point a pen.
New light on ev'ry art you strike,
And matchless shine in all alike;
For who can tell if most you're skill'd in
The pen, the plough, the sword, or building?
A puny author may disclose
Some skill in rhyme, but none in prose;
In prose another shews his wit,
Who can't a single stanza hit:
Your foes unwillingly confess,
In both you equal skill possess. (t)
On a true mirrour's polish'd face,
All objects thus we plainly trace,
But if in spots the MERC'RY lie,
A broken image meets the eye.
O Howard! is it not surprizing,
Your wit alone should stop your rising!
Else on the bench you might be thrust,
Tho' flow as snail, that crawls thro' dust,
By self-conceit you might advance,
As quicksilver makes puddings dance. (u)
From men of sense fools win the day,
As horses fly, when asses bray.
O sons of Dulness! bless'd by fate!
Fittest for law, for church, and state;
Your parent's influence prevails,
And gives her dunces—mitres—seals!
A Tisdall's depth, (v) a Townshend's wit,
Is not for plodding business fit;
An Eagle's wings were form'd for flight,
A Goose's furnish quills—to write.
I'd also sing, if I were able,
Your generous wine, and festive table;
Where all those wits in crowds assemble,
Who make the vile Committee tremble:
There, Donough's humour mirth provokes, (w)
While all admire his Attic jokes, (x)
Tho' oft to prove his taste the best,
He laughs alone at his own jest:
Then boasts how once his patron rose,
And told the story of THREE CROWS;
Which he'll insert, with meet apology,
In his new System of Chronology; (y)
And after mending Newton's errors, (z)
St. Audeon's-Arch he'll fill with terrors.
The Castle tribe aloud confess, (a)
Him great Alcides of the press
Like that immortal hero known,
For fathering labours not his own.
B—w—s, in epigram so smart, (b)
'Till griping H—rt—d broke his heart, (c)
Now deals in Hebrew roots profound,
And only treads prophetic ground;
Jerus'lem's Artichoke supplies,
Those visions that made Daniel wise,
The Doctor proves to all the nation,
No myst'rys couc 'd in Revelation.
'Till every gossip can explain,
What sage divines explore in vain,
No juggler ever play'd such tricks,
As he with John's seven candlesticks,
By whose mysterious lights are spied,
Wicklow's Seven Churches typified.
Next maudlin B—ke, (d) whose novels please,
Like some old dotard's reveries,
Without beginning, middle, ending,
To utile or dulce tending.
With equal art, his genius pliant,
Can drain a bog, or quell a giant.
Whilst one hand wounds each venal brother,
He for a bribe extends the other;
Your character's worth just so much,
As you afford, and he can touch:
With ev'ry virtue he abounds,
Who tips the patriot fifty pounds;
Gold works strange wonders in his eyes,
Makes cowards brave, and dunces wise,
Like Swiss, his hireling muse engages,
On any side that pays best wages;
One while staunch friend to Martin Luther,
He finds pure light and gospel truth there;
Then thro' the realm makes proclamation,
For Popery, Priests, and Toleration.
He first with many a fair pretence,
To public spirit, truth, and sense,
Hatch'd that disgrace to law and reason,
That mass of slander, dulness, treason;
That Journal which the Arch produces,
For singeing fowl, or viler uses.
How chang'd from him whose noble rage,
Brought great Gustavus to the stage,
And rous'd the Patriot's god-like fire,
In strains which Phoebus might admire.
Now Metius' fate and his are one,
By all he's torn, that's true to none.
MACRO, with college dust besprent, (e)
There mingles to give malice vent,
With various tongues thick set as fame,
And ev'ry tongue dispos'd to blame,
In studious Macro may be seen,
The copious Polyglot of spleen:
He searches old and modern lore,
To learn to hate his neighbour more;
Fond of men's follies and their vices,
As beggar of his sores and lice is;
With eyes like fox, and mouth like shark,
That seems lefs form'd to speak than bark.
Let others while their bowls they quaff,
Distend their lungs with heart-felt laugh;
In short shrill shrieks of fiend-like glee,
He proves his risibility.
His knowledge, like a treacherous beacon
Holds out false lights to the mistaken,
And when they wander from their way,
Humanely leads them more astray.
Yet Macro, whose peculiar pride
Is to expose a friend's blind side,
Can to more glaring folly stoop:
Himself a bankrupt player's dupe.
There bashful B—n once was seen, (f)
Mistaking dulness for the spleen;
Who says, unsays, agrees, disputes,
And his own arguments confutes.
How eloquent in shrugs and sighs!
In uplift hands, and winking eyes!
What supplications, what contorsions!
His words half form'd, his thoughts abortions!
Such wriggling, grasping, pawing, leering,
You know not if its praise, or sneering.
Such sudden stops, and circumflections;
Such prefacings, and interjections,
With "ah, good Heaven," and "oh, my God, sir,
"I'm wrong, I own, I kiss the rod, sir;
"There's weight and sense in all you utter—"
—Mere prologues to an egg and butter;
That did not pudding sleeves declare him,
Some antic Scaramouch you'd swear him.
But oh, what power more dull than sleep,
Does o'er my torpid senses creep?
Does Morpheus shed his poppies round?
Do fresh-pluck'd cowslips strew the ground?
Do harps AEolian lull my ear?
Are drones of Scottish bagpipes near?
Do beetles wind their drowsy horn?
Are gales from swampy Holland born?
In vain with snuff my nose I ply,
In vain the power of salts I try,
I yawn—I nod—for Cl—ke is nigh. (g)
Let mists and fogs invest my head,
Let all the fathers pen'd be read,
Bid B—nt recite his speech, (h)
F—ns plead, or Garnet preach; (i)
Set mayor and aldermen before me,
Bid everlasting C—ll bore me,
Tell o'er again a thrice told tale,
Drench me with Port, or ropy ale,
Be opium mingled with my drink,
My hands shan't fold, nor eye-lids wink:
But these vain boasts avail not now,
More pond'rous Cl—ke to thee I bow.
When wilt thou ease the groaning town,
Thou old cast troop horse of the gown?
What hast thou with the world to do,
Or what the world to say to you?
Thou can'st not now in amorous glee,
Write madrigals to fifty-three, (k)
And frisk in rhymes to please the dame,
Which Christmas bell-man would disclaim.
Nor can'st thou now in fulsome strain,
Pen Jacobite address again;
And scandalizing Alma Mater, (l)
Of right divine in monarchs chatter;
Nor can'st thou on extortion bent,
Raise insurrections and thy rent. (m)
Then buzz no more, thou reverend drone,
But to thy kindred earth begone.
What figure next confounds my fight,
An Austrian Count, an Irish Knight!
Much German pride and Irish blunder. (n)
Mark with what ease his brain creates
Speeches ne'er spoke, miscall'd Debates,
'Till at the goddess Dulness' summons,
He makes one C—ll of the commons. (o)
No brain but his cou'd e'er contain
Stories so vapid, old and vain;
So Plutarch tells of poison cold,
Which asses hoof alone can hold.
Humour and mirth no more are found,
For C—ll casts a gloom around.
Lethargic dullness loads each eye,
Ev'n dunces please, when C—ll's by!
Thus, sunshine, sparks from flint conceals,
Which darkness of the night reveals.
In Pliny's learned page it's found, (p)
That lightning cannot sea-calves wound; (q)
Congenial is the dunce's matter,
Callous to wit and pointed satire.
Unsatisfy'd with nonsense said,
He's now resolv'd to read us dead,
With pamphlets nauseating he'll puke us,
On Lord May'r's feasts and Doctor Lucas. (r)
He sings of beggars blind and dark,
Like some old snuffling parish clerk:
For stanzas vile he racks his brain,
And vainly mimicks Howard's strain!
He writes, he hobbles, bows and leers,
To gain a seat among the peers;
And ev'ry abject art he tries,
To prove he's qualify'd to rise.
With panegyric he bespatters,
Degrading him he meanly slatters.
Ah, purblind knight! thy arts misplac'd,
Think better of a Townshend's taste:
Fools only will such praise assume,
As Hottentots think grease—persume.
But whither, Clio, wou'dst thou rove?
Fond thy descriptive pow'r to prove,
Resume the theme, resign'd too long,
And Howard's praise conclude the song.
Maecenas puff'd by ev'ry quill, (ſ)
Sits highest on the three-fork'd hill:
And lives for ever in the praise
Of Horace's, and Virgil's lays, (s)
Yet not one stanza of his own
Has made the poet's patron known.
While Howard to unborrow'd fame,
By his own works asserts his claim:
Then let a double wreath reward
The muse's patron, and their bard.

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