Fearful of future grief and pain, him 280 } 285 ; 290 Now mark, dear Richard, from the age 295 Provides his brood, next Smithfield Fair, With fupplemental hobby-horses: And happy be their infant courses! Hence for fome years they ne'er ftand fill : Their legs, you fee, direct their will; 300 From opening morn till setting fun, Around the fields and woods they run; They frisk, and dance, and leap, and play, Nor heed what Freind or Snape can say. To her next stage as Alma flies, And likes, as I have faid, the thighs, 305 With Sympathetic power fhe warms Their good allies and friends, the arms; And Sufan is at ftool-ball feen ; While John for nine-pins does declare, O need I name the feat she takes? : His thought quite chang'd the ftripling finds; 310 315 Leaves all the fwains, and fighs for one. 330 But, O my Mufe, juft diftance keep; Thou art a maid, and must not peep. And that young life and quickening sense 340 345 And thus the youth put in his word. 350 Love's advocates! Dick, who are those ?— The Poets, you may well fuppofe. I'm forry, Sir, you have discarded The men with whom till now you herded. 355 I thought, forfook their ancient friends. In Ode and Epic, plain the cafe is, I'll strait demolish this objection. 360 365 First, Poets, all the world agrees, Write half to profit, half to please. Matter and figure they produce; For garnish this, and that for ufe; And, in the structure of their feasts, They seek to feed and please their guests: And take things otherwise than meant. Thus, if 370 375 Roaft-beef and venison is your fare ; Thence you proceed to fwan and buftard, And perfevere in tart and cuftard: 380 But tulip-leaves and lemon-peel Help only to adorn the meal; 385 And he must be an idle dreamer, Who leaves the pie, and gnaws the streamer. That Cupid goes with bow and arrows, 390 And Venus keeps her coach and sparrows, For who conceives, what bards devife, 395 Your Your Horace owns, he various writ, As wild or fober maggots bit : 406 And, where too much the poet ranted, The fage Philofopher recanted. His grave Epiftles may difprove Yet, free from this poetic madness, 405 410 415 Our health or hanging, weal or woe; Nor once disturb their heavenly spirits With Scapin's cheats, or Cæfar's merits. Where lies the real feat of Love. 420 Fecur they burn, and Cor they pierce, As either beft fupplies their verfe; And, if folks ask the reason for't, 425 May take the freedom ftrangers use. |