Why not, with fpectacles on nofe,
In chariot lazily repose,
A formal, pompous, deep physician,
HIMSELF A SIGN-POST EXHIBITION?
But hold, my Mufe! you run a-head :
And where's the clue that shall unthread
The maze, wherein you are entangled ?
While out of tune the bells are jangled
Thro' rhimes rough road that serve to deck
My jaded Pegasus his neck.
My mufe with LLOYD alone contends:
Why then fall foul upon his friends?
Unless to shew, like handy-dandy,
Or CHURCHILL'S GHOST, or TRISTRAM SHANDY,
Now here, now there, with quick progreffion,
How smartly you can make digreffion:
Your rambling spirit now confine,
And speak to LLOYD in ev'ry line,
Tell me then, LLOYD, what is't you mean
By cobbling up a MAGAZINE ?
A MAGAZINE, a wretched Olio
Purloin'd from quarto and from folio,
From Pamphlet, News-paper, and Book;
Which toft up by a monthly cook,
Borrows fine fhapes, and titles new,
Of fricafee and rich ragoût,
Which dunces drefs, as well as you.
Say, is't for you, your wit to coop,
And tumble thro' this narrow hoop?
The body thrives, and fo the mind,
When both are free and unconfin'd;
But harness'd in like hackney tit,
To run the monthly stage of wit,
The racer ftumbles in the shaft,
And fhews he was not meant for draft.
Pot-bellied gluttons, flaves of taste,
Who bind in leathern belt their waist,
Who lick their lips at ham or haunch,
But hate to see the strutting paunch,
Full often rue the pain that's felt
From circumfcription of the belt.
Thus women too we ideots call,
Who lace their fhapes too close and small.
Tight stays, they find, oft end in humps,
And take, too late, alas! to jumps.
The Chinese ladies cramp their feet,
Which feem, indeed, both fmall and neat,
While the dear creatures laugh and talk,
And can do ev'ry thing-but walk;
"who trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe,"
And in the Ring are ever seen,
Or Rotten-Row of Magazine,
Will cramp your mufe in four-foot verfe,
And find at last your ease
CLIO already humbly begs
You'd give her leave to stretch her legs,
For tho' fometimes he takes a leap,
Yet quadrupeds can only creep.
While Namby-Pamby thus you scribble,
Your manly genius a mere fribble,
Pinn'd down, and fickly, cannot vapour,
Nor dares to spring, or cut a caper.
Roufe then, for fhame, your ancient spirit!
Write a great work! a work of merit !
The conduct of your friend examine,
And give a PROPHECY OF FAMINE;
Or like yourself, in days of yore,
Write ACTORS, as you did before:
Write what may pow'rful friends create you,
And make your present friends all hate you.
Learn not a fhuffling, shambling, pace,
But go erect with manly grace;
For OVID fays, and pr'ythee heed it,
Os homini fublime dedit.
But if you still waste all your prime
In fpinning Lilliputian rhyme,
Too long your genius will lie fallow,
And ROBERT LLOYD be ROBERT SHALLOW,
BRING paper, Аsн, and let me fend
My hearty service to my friend.
How pure the paper looks and white!
What pity 'tis that folks will write,
And on the face of candour fcrawl
With desperate ink, and heart of gall!
Yet thus it often fares with those
Who, gay and easy in their profe,
Incur ill-nature's ugly crime,
And lay about 'em in their rhyme.
No man more generous, frank and kind,
Of more ingenuous focial mind,
Than CHURCHILL, yet tho' CHURCHILL hear,
I will pronounce him too fevere,
For, whether fcribbled at or not,
He writes no name without a blot.
Yet let me urge one honeft plea, Say, is the Mufe in fault or He?
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