i

No family, that takes a whelp
When first he laps and fcarce can yelp,
Neglects or turns him out of gate
When he's grown up to dog's estate :
Nor parish, if they once adopt
The fpurious brats by ftrolers dropt,
Leave them, when grown up lufty fellows,
To the wide world, that is, the gallows :
No, thank them for their love, that 's worse,
Than if they 'ad throttled them at nurse.

My uncle, reft his foul! when living,
Might have contriv'd me ways of thriving;
Taught me with cyder to replenish
My vats, or ebbing tide of rhenish.

So when for hock I drew prickt white-wine,
Swear 't had the flavour, and was right wine.
Or fent me with ten pounds to Furni-
val's inn, to fome good rogue-attorney;
Where now, by forging deeds, and cheating,
I 'ad found fome handsome ways of getting.
All this you made me quit, to follow
That fneaking whey-fac'd god Apollo;
Sent me ainong a fiddling crew
Of folks, I'ad never seen nor knew,
Calliope, and God knows who.
To add no more invectives to it,

You spoil'd the youth, to make a poet.
In common juftice, Sir, there's no man
That makes the whore, but keeps the woman.

Among

Among all honeft christian people,

Whoe'er breaks limbs, maintains the cripple.
The fum of all I have to say,

Is, that you'd put me in some way;
And your petitioner fhall pray

There's one thing more I had almost slipt,
But that may do as well in poft-fcript:
My friend Charles Montague's preferr'd;
Nor would I have it long observ'd,

That one moufe eats, while t'other 's ftarv'd.

}

A

Another EPISTLE to the fame.

SIR,

Burleigh, May 14, 1689.

S once a twelvemonth to the priest,
Holy at Rome, here antichrift,

The Spanish king prefents a jennet,

To fhew his love ;-that 's all that 's in it:
For if his holinefs would thump
His reverend bum 'gainst horfe's rump,
He might b' equipt from his own stable
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, 't had been the king)
Sails out, and gives the gulph a ring;
Which trick of state, he wifely maintains,
Keeps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance
For elfe, in honest truth, the fea
Has much less need of gold than he.

Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy For popish fimiles beyond fea;

As folks from mud-wall'd tenement Bring landlords pepper-corn for rent ; * Present a turkey, or a hen,

To thofe might better spare them ten;
Ev'n fo, with all fubmission, I
(For firft 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.

Here fome would fcratch their heads, and try What they should write, and how, and why; But I conceive, fuch folks are quite in Miftakes, 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,

Writes beft, who never thinks at all.

Verse comes from heaven, 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 anatomifts difcourse, How like brutes' organs are to ours;

They grant, if higher powers think fit,
A bear might foon be made a wit;
And that, for any thing in nature,
Pigs might fqueak love-odes, dogs bark fatyr.
Memnon, though ftone, was counted vocal
But 'twas the god, mean while, that spoke all,
.Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing,
With prompting prieft behind the hanging: A
The wooden head refolv'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 gods make not the poct; but
The thefis, vice-verfa put,

Should Hebrew-wife be understood;
And means, the poet makes the god.
Ægyptian gardeners thus are faid to
Have fet the leeks they after pray'd to;
And Romish bakers praife the deity
They chipp'd while yet in its pancity.
That when you poets fwear and cry,
The god infpires; I rave, I die;
If inward wind does truly fwell ye,
"T must be the colick in your belly:
That writing is but just like dice,
And lucky mains make people wife :
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 center,
They urge, made all things at a venture.
But, granting matters fhould be fpoke
By method, rather than by luck;
This may confine their younger ftyles,
Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's ;
But never could be meant to tve
Authentic wits, like you and I:
For as young children, who are tried in
Go-carts, to keep their fteps from fliding;
When members knit, and legs grow ftronger,
Make ufe of fuch machine no longer;
But leap pro libitu, and scout

On horfe call'd hobby, or without;
So when at fchool we first declaim,
Old Buby walks us in a theme,
Whose 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 eftate;
In verfe or profe, we write or chat,
Not fix-pence 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 sheet.

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 y' are well; fo God be wi' you s

Was