An Epiftolary Effay from M. G. to O. B. upon their Mutual Poems.

Dear Friend,

I

Hear this Town do's fo abound

With fawcy Cenfures, that faults are found With what of late we (in Poetick Rage) Betowing, threw away on the dull Age; But (howfoe're Envy their Spleens may raise, To rob my Brows of their deferved Bays) Their Thanks at least I mérit, fince through me They are Partakers of your Poetry: And this is all I'll fay in my Defence, T'obtain one Line of your well-worded Senfe, I'd be content t have writ the British Prince. I'm none of those who think themselves infpir'd, Nor write with the vain hope to be admir'd; But from a Rule I have (upon long trial) T'avoid with care all fort of Self-denial, Which way foe're Defire and Fancy lead, (Concerning Fame) that Path I boldly tread: and if expofing what I take for Wit, To my dear Self a Pleafure I bcget, No matter tho' the cens'ring Criticks fret. Thofe whom my Mufe difpleafes, are at ftrife, With equal Spleen, againft my Courfe of Life, The leaft Delight of which I'll not forego, For all the flattering Praise Man can beftow.

my

Pen:

If I defign'd to please, the way were then
To mend my Manners, rather then
The firft's unnatural, therefore unfit;
And for the fecond, I defpare of it,
Since Grace is not fo hard to get as Wit.
Perhaps ill Verfes ought to be confin'd,
In meer good Breeding, like unfav'ry Wind:
Were Reading forc'd, I fhou'd be apt to think
Men might no more write fcurvily, than stink :
But 'tis your choice whether you'll read or no;
If likewife of your fmelling it were fo,
I'd fart juft as I write, for my own Eafe,
Nor fhou'd you be concern'd unless you pleafe.
I'll own, that you write better than I do;
But I have as much need to write as you.
What tho' the Excrements of my dull Brain
Flows in a harsher and infiped ftrain.
While your rich Head eafes it felf of Wit,
Muft none but Civet-Cats have leave to fhit?
In all I write, fhou'd Senfe, and Wit, and Rhime
Fail me at once, yet fomething fo Sublime
Shall ftamp my Poem, that the World may fee
It cou'd have been prodoc'd by none but me:
And that's my End, for Man can with no more
Than fo to write as none are writ before.
Yet who am I no Poet of the Times?
I have Allufions, Similies and Rhimes,
And Wit, or elfe 'tis hard that I alone

Of the whole Race of Mankind fhou'd have

Unequally the partial Hand of Heaven
Has all but this One only Bleffing given.

(none.

The

The World appears like a great Family,
Whofe Lord oppreft with Pride and Poverty,
(That to a few great Bounty he may fhow)
Is fain to ftarve the num'rous Train below.
Juft fo feems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more Creatures than it can maintain:
Here 'tis profufe, and there it meanly faves,
And for one Prince, it makes Ten Thousand
(Slaves.

In Wit alone't been magnificent,

Of which fo juft a Share to each is fent.
That the moft Avaticious are content;

For none e're thought (the due Divifion's fuch)
His own to little or his Friends too much.
Yet most Men fhew or find great want of Wit,
Writing themfelves, or judging what is writ:
But I who am of Sprightly Vigour full,
Look on Mankind as envious and dull;
Born to my felf, my felf I like alone.

And must conclude my judgment good or none,
For cou'd my Sence be naught,how thou'd I know
Whether another Mans were good or no?
Thus I refolve of my own Poetry,

> That 'tis the beft, and there's a Fame for me,
If then I'm happy, what do's it advance,
Whether to Merit dut, or Arrogance?
Oh, but the World will take offence hereby.
Why then the World fhall fuffer for't, not I.
Did e're the Sawcy World and I agree
To let it have its béaftly will on me?
Why thou'd my proftituted Sence be drawn.
To ev'ry Rule their mufty Cuftoms Spawn?

A 3

But

But Men will cenfure you: 'Tis two to one,
When e're they cenfure they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name,
So foolish and fo falfe as Common Fame.

It calls the Courtier Knave; the Plain Man,Rude;
Haughty, the Grave, and the Delightful Lewd;
Impertinent, the Brisk, Morofe, the Sad;
Mean, the Familiar; the Referv'd one, Mad.
Poor helpless Woman is not favour'd more;
She's a fly Hypocrite, or publick Whore.
Then who the Dev'l wou'd give this-to be free
From the innocent Reproach of Infamy?
These things confider'd, make me (in defpite
Of idle Rumor) keep at home and write.

SATTR.

Ere I (who to my coft already am
One of those strange prodigious Crea-
tires, Man)
A Spirit free to chufe for my own share

What Cafe of Flesh and Blood I'd please to wear,
I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear,
Or any thing bur that vain Animal
Who is Proud of being Rational.
The Senfes are too grofs, and he'll contrive
A Sixth, to contradict the other Five;
And before certain Inftinct, will prefer
Reafon, which fifty times for one do's err :

Reafon,

Reafon, an Ignis fatuus in the Mind, Which leaving Light of Nature (Senfe) behind, Pathlefs and dangerous wandring Ways is taken, Thro Errors Fenny Bogs and Thorny Brakes; Whilft the mifguided Follower climbs with pain Mountains of Whimfies heap'd in his own Brain, Stumbling from Thought to Thought,falls head(long down. Into Doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown, Books bear him up a while, and make him try To fwim with Bladders of Philofophy, In hopes till to o'retake th' cfcaping Light; The Vapour dances in his dazling light, Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night, Then Old Age and Experience, hand in hand, Led him to Death, and make him underítand, After a Search fo painful and fo long, That all his Life he has been in the wrong. Huddl'd in Dirt the Reas'ning Engine lics, Who was fo Proud, fo Witty, and fo Wife: Pride drew him in,as Cheats their Bubbles catch, And makes him venture to be made a Wretch: His Wifdom did his Happiness deftroy, Aiming to know what World he fhould enjoy; And Wit was his vain frivolous Petence, Of pleafing others at his own Expence. For Wits are treated juft like Common Whores Firft they're enjoy'd,and then kickt out of Doors; The Fleafure paft. athreatning Doubt remains, That frights the Enjoyer with fucceeding Pains. Women and Men of Wit are dangerous Tools, And ever tatal to admiring Fools. A 4

Pleafure