Arm'd with Longinus, or with Rapin, no man
Drew a fharp pen upon a naked woman.
The bluft'ring bully in our neighb'ring streets
Scorns to attack the female that he meets;
Fearless, the petticoat contemns his frowns,
The hoop fecures whatever it furrounds.
The many-colour'd gentry there above
By turns are rul'd by tumult and by love,
And while their sweethearts their attention fix,
Sufpend the din of their damnn'd clatt'ring sticks.
Now, Sirs,-

To you our author makes her foft request,
Who fpeak the kindest and who write the best ;
Your fympathetic heart the hopes to move
From tender friendship and endearing love.
If Petrarch's mufe did Laura's wit rehearse,
And Cowley flatter'd dear Orinda's verse,
She hopes from you-Pox take her hopes and fears;
I plead her fex's claim; what matters her's?
By our full pow'r of beauty we think fit
To damn this Salique law impos'd on wit;
We'll try the empire you fo long have boasted,
And if we are not prais'd we'll not be toasted:
Approve what one of us prefents to night,
Orev'ry mortal woman here fhall write :
Rural, pathetic, narrative, fublime,

We'll write to you, and make you write in rhyme;
Female remarks fhall take up all your t me.
Your time, poor fouls! we'll take your very money;
Female third days fhall come fo thick upon ye,
As long as we have eyes, or hands, or breath,
We'll look, or write, or talk, you all to death,
Unless you yield for better and for worse;
Then the fhe-Pegasus shall gain the course,
And the gray mare will prove the better horfe.

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Asante pr

S once a twelvemonth to the priest,

The Spanish king presents a jennet
To fhew his love, that's all that's in it;
For if his Holiness would thump
His rev'rend bum 'gainst horfe's rump,
He might b'equipt from his own ftable
With one more white and eke more able.
Or as with gondolas and men his
Good excellence the duke of Venice
(I wish, for rhyme, it had been the king)
Sails out, and gives the Gulf a ring,
Which trick of ftate he wifely maintains,
Keeps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance,
For elfe, in honeft truth, the fea
Has much less need of gold than he.

Or, not to rove and pump one's fancy
For popifh fimilies beyond fea,
As folks from mudwall'd tenement
Bring landlords pepper corn for rent,
Prefent a turkey or a hen

To thofe might better spare them ten ;
Ev'n fo, with all fubmiffion, I
(For first men inftance, then apply)
Send you each year a homely letter,
Who

may return me much a better.
Then take it, Sir, as it was writ
To pay refpect, and not fhew wit,
Nor look afkew at what it faith;

There's no petition in it,'faith.

What they should write, and how, and why;

Here fome would fcratch their heads, and try

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But I conceive fuch folks are quite in
Mitakes 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 ease;
Then he, by fequel logical,

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Writes beft who never thinks at all.

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Mere human pains can ne'er come by't;

Verfe comes from heav'n like inward light;

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,

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They grant, if higher pow'rs think fit,
A bear might foon be made a wit,
And that for any thing in nature,

Pigs might fqueak love-odes, dogs bark fatire.
Memnon, tho' ftone, was counted vocal,
But 'twas the god mean-while that spoke all.
Rome oft' has heard a crofs haranguing,
With prompting priests behind the hanging:
The wooden head refolv'd the question,
While you and Pettis help'd the jeft on.

Your crabbed rogues that read Lucretius
Are against gods you know, and teach us
The gods make not the poet; but
The thefis vice verså put,
Should 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 prais'd 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 ye,
"Tmust be the cholic in your belly:
That writing is but just like dice,
And lucky mains make people wife:

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That jumbled words, if fortune throw 'em,
Shall well as Dryden form a poem,
Or make a fpeech 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 ftyles
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 ty'd in
Gocarts, to keep their steps from fliding,

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When members knit, and legs grow stronger,
Make ufe of fuch machine no longer,

But leap pro libitu, and scout

On horfe call'd Hobby, or without;
So when at school we firft declaim,
Old Busby walks us in a theme,
Whofe props fupport our infant vein,
And help the rickets in the brain;
But when our fouls their force dilate,
And thoughts grow up to wit's estate,
In verfe or profe we write or chat,
Not fixpence matter upon what.

'Tis not how well an author fays,
But 'tis how much, that gathers praife.
Tonfon, who is himself a wit,
Counts writers' merits by the fheet.
Thus each fhould down with all he thinks,
As boys eat bread to fill up chinks.

Kind Sir, I fhould be glad to fee you;
I hope ye're well; fo God be wi' you;
Was all I thought at first to write;
But things fince then are altered quite ;
Fancies flow in and Mufe flies high,
So God knows when my clack will lie :
I muft, 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 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.

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For your religion; first, of her

Your friends do fav'ry things aver:

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They fay fhe's honeft as your claret,

Not four'd with cant, nor ftumm'd with merit.
Your chamber is the fole retreat

Of chaplains ev'ry Sunday night;

Of grace no doubt a certain fign
When layman herds with man divine;
For if their fame be justly great

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Who would no Popish nuncio treat,
That his is greater we muft grant
Who will treat nuncios Proteftant.
One fingle pofitive weighs more,
You know, than negatives a score.
In politics I hear you're staunch,
Directly bent against the French;
Deny to have your freeborn toe
Dragoon'd into a wooden fhoe;
Are in no plots, but fairly drive at
The public welfare in your private;
And will for England's glory try
Turks, Jews, and Jefuits, to defy,
And keep your places till you die.

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For me, whom wand'ring Fortune threw

From what I lov`d, the Town and you,

Let me juft tell you how my time is

Paft in a country life.--Imprimis,

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As foon as Phoebus' rays infpect us,
Firft, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast ;
So on, till forefaid god does fet,
I fometimes ftudy, fometimes eat.
Thus of your heroes and brave boys,
With whom old Homer makes fuch noife,

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