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Verse comes from Heav'n, like inward light; Mere human pains can ne'er come by 't:

The god, not we, the poem makes;
We only tell folks what he speaks.
Hence when anatomists discourse,
How like brutes' organs are to ours;
They grant, if higher powers think fit,
A bear might soon be made a wit;
And that for any thing in nature,

Pigs might squeak love-odes, dogs bark satire.
Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal;
But 'twas the god, meanwhile, that spoke all.
Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing,
With prompting priest behind the hanging:
The wooden head resolv'd the question;
While you and Pettis help'd the jest on.

Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius
Are against gods, you know; and teach us,
The god makes not the poet; but
The thesis, vice-versâ put,

Should Hebrew-wise be understood;
And means, the poet makes the god.

Egyptian gard'ners thus are said to
Have set 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 swear and cry,
The god inspires; I rave, I die;
If inward wind does truly swell ye,
'T must be the colic in your belly:

That writing is but just like dice;
And lucky maids 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 centre,
They urge, made all things at a venture.
But granting matters should be spoke
By method, rather than by luck;
This may confine their younger styles,
Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's:
But never could be meant to tie
Authentic wits, like you and I:

For as young children, who are try'd in
Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding;
When members knit, and legs grow stronger,
Make use of such machine no longer;

But leap pro libitu, and scout
On horse call'd hobby, or without:
So when at school we first declaim,
Old Busby walks us in a theme,
Whose props support 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 verse or prose, we write or chat,
Not sixpence matter upon what.

'Tis not how well an author says; But 'tis how much, that gathers praise.

Tonson, who is himself a wit,

Counts writers' merits by the sheet.

Thus each should down with all he thinks,
As boys eat bread, to fill up chinks.

Kind Sir, I should be glad to see you;
I hope y' are well; so God be wi' you ;
Was all I thought at first to write:
But things, since then, are alter'd quite ;
Fancies flew 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 grannam I have gone,
When Lobb had sifted all his text,
And I well hop'd the pudding next;
NOW TO APPLY, has plagued me more,
Than all his villain cant before.

For your religion, first, of her

Your friends do sav'ry things aver:

They say, she's honest, as your claret,

Not sour'd with cant, nor stumm'd with merit:

Your chamber is the sole retreat

Of chaplains every Sunday night:
Of grace, no doubt, a certain sign,
When layman herds with man divine:
For if their fame be justly great,
Who would no Popish nuncio treat;
That his is greater, we must grant,

Who will treat nuncios Protestant.

One single positive weighs more,
You know, than negatives a score.

In politics, I hear, you're stanch,
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 public welfare, in your private:
And will, for England's glory, try
Turks, Jews, and Jesuits to defy,
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 just tell you how my time is
Past in a country-life.-Imprimis,
As soon as Phoebus' rays inspect us,
First, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast;
So on, till foresaid god does set,

I sometimes study, sometimes 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 such, as you have whilom conn'd;
That treat of China's civil law,

And subjects' rights in Golconda;

Of highway-elephants at Ceylan,

That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland; Of apes that storm, or keep a town,

As well almost as count Lauzun ;
Of unicorns and aligators,

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.

Critics I read on other men,

And hypers upon them again;

From whose remarks I give opinion

On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one.
Then all your wits, that fleer and sham,
Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram;
From whom I jests and puns purloin,
And slily put them off for mine:
Fond to be thought a country wit:
The rest, when fate and you think fit.
Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her
To bottled ale, and country vicar;
Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,

Squire Shephard's health,-with all my heart.
Thus, without much delight, or grief,

I fool away an idle life;

Till Shadwell from the town retires,
(Chok'd up with fame and sea-coal fires),
To bless the wood with peaceful lyric;
Then hey for praise and panegyric;
Justice restor❜d, and nations freed,

And wreaths round William's glorious head.

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