"The Gaylbred Infipiditee
Of this new fangl'd Melodee?
Indeed it won't- -if Gallic Phrase
Can bear with fuch enervate Lays,
Nor Pleasure, nor Pain-pinion'd Hours
Can ever fuffer them in ours;
Or, Ivy-crown'd, endure a Theme
Silver'd with Moonshine's Maiden Gleam:
Not tho' fo garlanded, and flowry,
So foft, fo fweet, fo Myrtle-bowry;
So balmy, palmy-and fo on
As is the Theme here writ upon:
Writ in a Species that, if taking,
Portends fad future Verfe unmaking:
Brown's Eftimate of Times, and Manners,
That paints Effeminacy's Banners,
Has not a Proof, in its Detail,
More plain than this, if this prevail:
Forbid it fenfe, forbid it Rhime,
Whether familiar, or fublime;
Whether ye guide the Poets Hand
To eafy Diction, or to grand;
Forbid the Gallic Namby Pamby
Here to repeat its crazy Crambe:
One Inftance of fuch fpecial Stuff,
To fee the Way on't, is enough;
Excus'd for once; if Arifippus
Has any more within his Cippus,
Let him fupprefs;-or fing 'em He
With "gentle Mufe, fweet Euterpeci
Free to falute her, while they chirp,
For eafier Rhiming-fweet Euterp:
It is allow'd that Verfe, to please,
Should move along with perfect Ease ;
But this coxcombically mingling
Of Rhimes, unrhiming, interjingling,
For Numbers genuinely British,
Is quite too finical, and fkittifh ;
But for the mafculiner Belles,
And the polite He Me'moifelles ;
Whom Dryads, Naiads, Nymphs, and Fauns,
Meads, Woods, and Groves, and Lakes, and Lawns,
And Loves, and Doves- -and fifty more
Such jaded Terms, befprinkl'd o'er
With compound Epithets uncooth,
Prompt to pronounce 'em Verfe, forfooth!
Verfe let 'em be; tho', I fuppofe,
Some Verfe as well might have been Profe,
That " England's common Courtesy
Politely calls good Poetry :"
For, if the Poetry be good,
Accent, at leaft, is understood;
Number of Syllables, alone,
Without the proper Stress of Tone,
Will make our Metre flat, and bare,
As Hebrew Verfe of Bishop Hare:
Add, that Regard to Rhime is gone,
And Verfe, and Profe, will be all onc;
Or, what is worse, create a Pother,
By Species neither one nor t'other:
A Cafe, which there is Room to fear,
From Dupes of Ariftippus here- —
The fancied Sage, in feign'd Retreat,
Laughs at the Follies of the Great,
With Wit, Invention, Fancy, Humour
Enough to gain the Thing a Rumour;
But if he writes refolv'd to fhine
In unconfin'd, and motley Line,
Let him pindaric it away,
And quit the lazy labour'd Lay;
Leave to La Farre, and to La France,
The warbling, foothing Nonchalance
When will our Bards unlearn, at laft,
The puny Stile, and the Bombaft?
Nor let the pitifull Extremes
Difgrace the Verfe of English Themes;
Matter, no more, in Manner paint
Foppifh, affected, queer, and quaint ;
Nor bounce above Parnaffian Ground,
To drop the Senfe, and catch the Sound:
Except-in writing for the Stage,
Where Sound is beft for bufkin'd Rage;
Except-in Operas, where Senfe
Is but fuperfluous Expence :
Be then the Bards of founding Pitch
Confign'd to Garrick, and to Rich;
To Tweedledums, and Tweedledees,
The fingy fonging Euterpees.
To Hurlothrumbo, or the Supernatural.*
LADIES and Gentlemen, my Lord of Flame
Has fent me here to thank you in his Name;
Proud of your Smiles, he's mounted many a Story
Above the tip-top Pinnacle of Glory:
Thence he defies the Sons of Clay, the Criticks;
Fellows, fays he, that are meer Paralyticks,
With Judgments lame, and Intellects that halt,
Because a Man outruns them—they find fault.
He is indeed, to speak my poor Opinion,
Out of the reach of critical Dominion.
Cr. A ftrange odd Play, Sir;
[Enter Author, pufhes Hurlothrumbo afide. -Pray, what's that you say?
*This Play was written by Mr. Samuel Johnson, a Dancing Master, of Cheshire, and performed in the Year 1722, at the little Theatre, in the Hay-market, where it had a Run of above 30 Nights-We must refer the Reader to the Piece itself, to give him a just Idea of the Humour and Pro
Cr. I fay, Sir, Rules are not obferv'd here
Like Clocks and Watches, were all made for Fools.
Rules make a Play? that is
Au. As if a Knife and Fork fhould make a Finger.
Gr. Pray Sir, which is the Hero of your Play?
Au. Hero? why they're all Heroes in their Way.
Cr. But, here's no Plot! or none that's understood.
Au. There's a Rebellion tho'; and that's as good.
Cr. No Spirit, nor Genius in't.
A SPIRIT, and a GENIUS both appear?
Cr. Poh, 'tis all Stuff and Nonfenfe
Why, that's the very Elence of a Play.
Your Old-Houfe, New-Houfe, Opera, and Ball,
'Tis NONSENSE, Critick, that supports 'em all.
priety of the following Epilogue; which was written by our Author, with a friendly Intention to point out to Mr. Johnson the Extravagance and Abfurdity of his Play-Mr. Johnson, however, so far from perceiving the Ridicule, received it as a Compliment, and had it both spoken, and printed.
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