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To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes, In fullest tide roll down to latest times.

[thine, "Presumptuous wretch! and shall a Muse like An English Muse, the meanest of the nine, Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak strain Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane? Should he from toils of government retire, And for a moment fan the poet's fire, Should he, of sciences the moral friend, Each curious, each important search suspend, Leave unassisted Hill of herbs to tell, And all the wonders of a cockle-shell, Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes; Would not he Home step forth, and gain the prize? Or, if this wreath of honour might adorn The humble brows of one in England born, Presumptuous still thy daring must appear; Vain all thy tow'ring hopes, whilst I am here." Thus spake a form, by silken smile, and tone Dull and unvaried, for the laureat known, Folly's chief friend, decorum's eldest son, In ev'ry party found, and yet of none. This airy substance, this substantial shade, Abash'd I heard, and with respect obey'd.

From themes too lofty for a bard so mean, Discretion beckons to an humbler scene. The restless fever of ambition laid, Calm I retire, and seek the sylvan shade. Now be the Muse disrob'd of all her pride, Be all the glare of verse by truth supplied; And if plain nature pours a simple strain, Which Bute may praise, and Ossian not disdain, Ossian, sublimest, simplest bard of all, Whom English infidels Macpherson call, Then round my head shall honour's ensigns wave, And pensions mark me for a willing slave.

Two boys, whose birth beyond all question
springs

From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings,
Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred
On the same bleak and barren mountain's head;
By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks
To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks;
Fresh as the morning, which, enrob'd in mist,
The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd,
Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose;
Soon clad I ween, where nature needs no clothes;
Where, from their youth inur'd to winter skies,
Dress and her vain refinements they despise.
Jockey, whose manly high-bon'd cheeks to crown
With freckles spotted flam'd the golden down,
With mickle art could on the bagpipes play,
E'en from the rising to the setting day;
Sawney as long without remorse could bawl
Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal.
Oft at his strains, all natural though rude,
The Highland lass forgot her want of food,
And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest,
Sunk pleas'd, though hungry, on her Sawney's
breast.

Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen,

Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green.
The plague of locusts they secure defy,
For in three hours a grasshopper must die.
No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there,
But the cameleon, who can feast on air.
No birds, except as birds of passage, flew,
No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo.
No streams as amber smooth, as amber clear,
Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here.
Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran,
Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan.
No flow'rs embalm'd the air, but one white rose,
Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows,
By instinct blows at morn, and, when the shades
Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades.

One, and but one poor solitary cave,
Too sparing of her favours, nature gave;
That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!)
Shelter at once for man and beast supplied.
Their snares without entangling briers spread;
And thistles, arm'd against th' invader's head,
Stood in close ranks all entrance to oppose,
Thistles now held more precious than the rose.
All creatures which on nature's earliest plan,
Were form'd to lothe, and to be loth'd by man,
Which ow'd their birth to nastiness and spite,
Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight,
Creatures, which when admitted in the ark,
Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark,
Found place within: marking her noisome road
With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad;
There webs were spread of more than common size,
And half-starv'd spiders prey'd on half-starv'd flies;
In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl;
Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall;
The cave around with hissing serpents rung;
On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung;
And Famine, by her children always known,
As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.
Here, for the sullen sky was overcast,
And summer shrunk beneath a wintry blast,
A native blast, which, arm'd with hail and rain,
Beat unrelenting on the naked swain,
The boys for shelter made; behind-the sheep,
Of which those shepherds every day take keep,
Sickly crept on, and with complainings rude,
On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food.
Jockey.

Sith to this cave, by tempest, we're confin'd,
And within ken our flocks, under the wind,
Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm,
Are laid emong yon thistles, dry and warm,
What, Sawney, if by shepherd's art we try
To mock the rigour of this cruel sky?
What if we tune some merry roundelay?
Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play.
Sawney.

Ah, Jockey, ill adviseth thou, I wis,
To think of songs at such a time as this.
Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks,
Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks,
Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south,

And we forget to live from hand to mouth,
Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart
The songs of gladness with an aching heart.
Jockey.

Still have I known thee for a silly swain:
Of things past help what boots it to complain?
Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite;
No sky is heavy, if the heart be light:
Patience is sorrow's salve; what can't be cur'd,
So Donald right arreads, must be endur'd.
Sawney.

Full silly swain, I wot, is Jockey now; How didst thou hear thy Maggy's falsehood? how, When with a foreign loon she stole away, Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay? Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when I Applied those proverbs, which you now apply? Jockey.

O she was bonny! All the Highlands round, Was there a rival to my Maggy found! More precious (though that precious is to all) Than the rare med'cine which we brimstone call, Or that choice plant, so grateful to the nose, Which in I know not what far country grows, Was Maggy unto me; dear do I rue,

A lass so fair should ever prove untrue.

Sawney.

Whether with pipe or song to charm the ear, Through all the land did Jamie find a peer? Curs'd be that year by ev'ry honest Scot, And in the shepherd's calendar forgot, That fatal year, when Jamie, hapless swain, In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain. Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled, Was seiz'd and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead. Jockey.

Full sorely may we all lament that day;
For all were losers in the deadly fray.

Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains, [swains;
Well dost thou know were none more hopeful
Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride,
Two in the field, and three on gibbets died:
Ah! silly swains, to follow war's alarms!
Ah! what hath shepherd's life to do with arms!
Sawney.

Mention it not-There saw I strangers clad
In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid;
Saw the ferrara, too, our nation's pride,
Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side.
There fell our choicest youth, and from that day
Mote never Sawney tune the merry lay; [survive,
Bless'd those which fell! curs'd those which still
To mourn fifteen renew'd in forty-five.

Thus plain'd the boys,when from her throne of turf, With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with scurf, (Vile humours, which in life's corrupted well, Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell,) Pale Famine rear'd the head: her eager eyes, Where hunger ev'n to madness seem'd to rise, Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart, Strain'd to get loose, and from their orbs to start ;

Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-sunk cell,
Where wretchedness and horror lov'd to dwell;
With double rows of useless teeth supplied,
Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide,
Which, when for want of food her entrails pin'd,
She op'd, and, cursing, swallow'd nought but wind;
All shrivell'd was her skin, and here and there,
Making their way by force, her bones lay bare:
Such filthy sight to hide from human view,
O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid she threw.
Cease, cried the goddess, cease, despairing swains,
And from a parent hear what Jove ordains!
Pent in this barren corner of the isle,
Where partial fortune never deign'd to smile;
Like nature's bastards, reaping for our share
What was rejected by the lawful heir;
Unknown amongst the nations of the earth,
Or only known to raise contempt and mirth;
Long free, because the race of Roman braves
Thought it not worth their while to make us slaves;
Then into bondage by that nation brought,
Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought;
Whom still with unslack'd hate we view, and still,
The pow'r of mischief lost, retain the will;
Consider'd as the refuse of mankind,

A mass till the last moment left behind,
Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay,
Whether to stamp with life, or throw away;
Which, form'd in haste, was planted in this nook,
But never enter'd in creation's book;
Branded as traitors, who for love of gold

Would sell their God, as once their king they sold;
Long have we borne this mighty weight of ill,
These vile injurious taunts, and bear them still.
But times of happier note are now at hand,
And the full promise of a better land:
There, like the sons of Israel, having trod,
For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God,
A barren desart, we shall seize rich plains,
Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns.
With some few natives join'd, some pliant few,
Who worship int'rest, and our track pursue,
There shall we, though the wretched people grieve
Ravage at large, nor ask the owners leave.

For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase;
For us, the flocks shall wear a golden fleece;
Fat beeves shall yield us dainties not our own,
And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown;
For our advantage shall their harvests grow,
And Scotsmen reap what they disdain'd to sow;
For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill;
For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil;
When to our wishes nature cannot rise,
Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh supplies.
His brawny arm shall drudging labour strain,
And for our pleasure suffer daily pain;
Trade shall for us exert her utmost pow'rs,
Her's all the toil, and all the profit our's;
For us,
the oak shall from his native steep
Descend, and fearless travel through the deep;
The sail of commerce, for our use unfurl'd,
Shall waft the treasures of each distant world;

He gets applause-I wish he'd get his part.
When hot impatience is in full career,
How vilely "Hark'e! Hark'e!" grates the ear!
When active fancy from the brain is sent,
And stands on tip-toe for some wish'd event,
I hate those careless blunders which recal
Suspended sense, and prove it fiction all,

In characters of low and vulgar mould,
Where nature's coarsest features we behold,
Where, destitute of ev'ry decent grace,
Unmanner'd jests are blurted in your face,
There Yates with justice strict attention draws,
Acts truly from himself, and gains applause.
But when to please himself or charm his wife,
He aims at something in politer life,
When, blindly thwarting nature's stubborn plan,
He treads the stage, by way of gentleman,
The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows,
Looks like Tom Errand dress'd in Clincher's clothes.
Fond of his dress, fond of his person grown,
Laugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown,
From side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates,
And seems to wonder what's become of Yates.
Woodward, endow'd with various tricks of face,
Great master in the science of grimace,
From Ireland ventures, fav'rite of the town,
Lur'd by the pleasing prospect of renown;
A speaking Harlequin, made up of whim,
He twists, he twines, he tortures ev'ry limb,
Plays to the eye with a mere monkey's art,
And leaves to sense the conquest of the heart.
We laugh indeed, but on reflection's birth
We wonder at ourselves, and curse our mirth.
His walk of parts he fatally misplac'd,
And inclination fondly took for taste;
Hence hath the town so often seen display'd
Beau in burlesque, high life in masquerade.

But when bold wits, not such as patch up plays,
Cold and correct, in these insipid days,
Some comic character, strong featur'd, urge
To probability's extremest verge,

Where modest judgment her decree suspends,
And for a time nor censures nor commends;
Where critics can't determine on the spot,
Whether it is in nature found or not;
There Woodward safely shall his pow'rs exert,
Nor fail of favour where he shows desert.
Hence he in Bobadil such praises bore,
Such worthy praises, Kitely scarce had more.
By turns transform'd into all kind of shapes,
Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and

scrapes:

Now in the centre, now in van or rear,
The Proteus shifts, bawd, parson, auctioneer.
His strokes of humour, and his burst of sport,
Are all contain'd in this one word-distort.
Doth a man stutter, look a-squint, or halt?
Mimics draw humour out of nature's fault,
With personal defects their mirth adorn,
And hang misfortunes out to public scorn.
Ev'n I, whom nature cast in hideous mould,
Whom, having made, she trembled to behold,

Beneath the load of mimicry may groan,
And find that nature's errors are my own.
Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward osny;
Wilkinson this, Obrien was that name:
Strange to relate, but wonderfully true,
That even shadows have their shadows too!
With not a single comic pow'r endu’d,
The first a mere mere mimic's mimic stood;
The last by nature form'd to please, who shows,
In Jonson's Stephen, which way genius grows;
Self quite put off, affects, with too much art,
To put on Woodward, in each mingled part;
Adopts his shrug, his wink, his stare; nay, more,
His voice, and croaks; for Woodward croak'd before.
When a dull copier simple grace neglects,
And rests his imitation in defects,
We readily forgive; but such vile arts
Are double guilt in men of real parts.

By nature form'd in her perversest mood,
With no one requisite of art endu'd,
Next Jackson came.-Observe that settled glare,
Which better speaks a puppet than a player:
List to that voice-did ever discord hear
Sounds so well fitted to her untun'd ear?
When, to enforce some very tender part,
The right hand sleeps by instinct on the heart,
His soul, of every other thought bereft,
Is anxious only where to place the left;
He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse,
To soothe his weeping mother, turns and bows.
Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully, or standing still,
One leg, as if suspicious of his brother,
Desirous seems to run away from t' other.

Some errors, handed down from age to age,
Plead custom's force, and still possess the stage.
That's vile-should we a parent's faults adore,
And err, because our fathers err'd before?
If, inattentive to the author's mind,
Some actors made the jest they could not find,
If by low tricks they marr'd fair nature's mien,
And blurr'd the graces of the simple scene,
Shall we, if reason rightly is employ'd,
Not see their faults, or seeing not avoid?
When Falstaff stands detected in a lie,
Why, without meaning, rolls Love's glassy eye?
Why? There's no cause at least no cause we
It was the fashion twenty years ago. [know-
Fashion a word which knaves and fools may use,
Their knavery and folly to excuse.
To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence
To fame-to copy faults, is want of sense.

Yet (though in some particulars he fails,
Some few particulars, where mode prevails,)
If in these hallow'd times, when sober, sad,
All gentlemen are melancholy mad;
When 'tis not deem'd so great a crime by half
To violate a vestal, as to laugh;

Rude mirth may hope presumptuous to engage
An act of toleration for the stage,
And courtiers will, like reasonable creatures,
Suspend vain fashion, and unscrew their features;

Old Falstaff, play'd by Love, shall please once more, And humour set the audience in a roar.

Actors I've seen, and of no vulgar name,
Who, being from one part possess'd of fame,
Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, or bawl,
Still introduce that fav'rite part in all.
Here, Love, be cautious-ne'er be thou betray'd
fo call in that wag Falstaff's dang'rous aid;
Like Goths of old, howe'er he seems a friend,
He'll seize that throne you wish him to defend.
In a peculiar mould by humour cast,

For Falstaff fram'd-himself the first and last,
He stands aloof from all-maintains his state,
And scorns, like Scotsmen, to assimilate.
Vain all disguise-too plain we see the trick,
Though the knight wears the weeds of Dominic;
And Boniface, disgrac'd, betrays the smack,
In Anno Domini, of Falstaff's sack.

[ing slow,
Arms cross'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet march-
A band of malecontents with spleen o'erflow;
Wrapt in conceit's impenetrable fog,
Which pride, like Phoebus, draws from every bog,
They curse the managers and curse the town,
Whose partial favours keep such merit down.

But if some man, more hardy than the rest, Should dare attack these gnatlings in their nest; At once they rise with impotence of rage, Whet their small stings, and buzz about the stage. ""Tis breach of privilege!-Shall any dare To arm satiric truth against a player? Prescriptive rights we plead time out of mind; Actors, unlash'd themselves, may lash mankind." What! shall opinion then, of nature free And lib'ral as the vagrant air, agree To rust in chains like these, impos'd by things Which, less than nothing, ape the pride of kings? No-though half-poets with half-players join To curse the freedom of each honest line; Though rage and malice dim their faded cheek; What the Muse freely thinks, she'll freely speak. With just disdain of ev'ry paltry sneer, Stranger alike to flattery and fear, In purpose fix'd, and to herself a rule, Public contempt shall wait the public fool.

Austin would always glisten in French silks,
Ackman would Norris be, and Packer Wilks;
For who, like Ackman, can with humour please?
Who can, like Packer, charm with sprightly ease?
Higher than all the rest, see Bransby strut:
A mighty Gulliver in Lilliput!

Ludicrous nature! which at once could show
A man so very high, so very low.

If I forget thee, Blakes, or if I say
Aught hurtful, may I never see thee play.
Let critics, with a supercilious air,
Decry thy various merit, and declare
Frenchman is still at top ;-but scorn that rage
Which, in attacking thee, attacks the age.
French follies, universally embrac'd,

At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste.
Long, from a nation ever hardly us'd,
At random censur'd, wantonly abus'd,

Have Britons drawn their sport, with partial view
Form'd gen'ral notions from the rascal few;
Condemn'd a people, as for vices known,
Which, from their country banish'd, seek our own.
At length, howe'er, the slavish chain is broke,
And, sense awaken'd, scorns her ancient yoke:
Taught by thee, Moody, we now learn to raise
Mirth from their foibles; from their virtues, praise.
Next came the legion, which our summer Bayes,
From alleys, here and there, contriv'd to raise,
Flush'd with vast hopes, and certain to succeed
With wits who cannot write, and scarce can read.
Vet'rans no more support the rotten cause,
No more from Elliot's worth they reap applause;
Each on himself determines to rely;
Be Yates disbanded, and let Elliot fly.
Never did play'rs so well an author fit,
To nature dead, and foes declar'd to wit.
So loud each tongue, so empty was each head,
So much they talk, so very little said,

So wondrous dull, and yet so wondrous vain,
At once so willing, and unfit to reign,
That reason swore, nor would the oath recal,
Their mighty master's soul inform'd them all.
As one with various disappointments sad,
Whom dullness only kept from being mad,
Apart from all the rest great Murphy came-
Common to fools and wits, the rage of fame.
What though the sons of nonsense hail him sire,
Auditor, author, manager, and 'squire,
His restless soul's ambition stops not there,
To make his triumphs perfect, dub him player.
In person tall, a figure form'd to please,
If symmetry could charm, depriv'd of ease;
When motionless he stands, we all approve;
What pity 'tis the thing was made to move.

His voice, in one dull, deep, unvaried sound, Seems to break forth from caverns under ground. From hollow chest the low sepulchral note Unwilling heaves, and struggles in his throat.

Could authors butcher'd give an actor grace,
All must to him resign the foremost place.
When he attempts, in some one fav'rite part,
To ape the feelings of a manly heart,
His honest features the disguise defy,
And his face loudly gives his tongue the lie.
Still in extremes, he knows no happy mean,
Or raving mad, or stupidly serene./
In cold-wrought scenes the lifeless actor flags,
In passion tears the passion into rags.

Can none remember?-Yes-I know all must-
When in the Moor he ground his teeth to dust;
When o'er the stage he folly's standard bore,
Whilst common-sense stood trembling at the door.
How few are found with real talents bless'd!
Fewer with nature's gifts contented rest.
Man from his sphere eccentric starts astray;
All hunt for fame; but most mistake the way.
Bred at St. Omer's to the shuffling trade,
The hopeful youth a Jesuit might have made,
With various readings stor'd his empty skull,
Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull;

Or, at some banker's desk, like many more,
Content to tell that two and two make four,
His name had stood in city annals fair,
And prudent dullness mark'd him for a mayor.
What then could tempt thee, in a critic age,
Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage?
Could it be worth thy wondrous waste of pains
To publish to the world thy lack of brains?
Or might not reason ev'n to thee have shown
Thy greatest praise had been to live unknown?
Yet let not vanity like thine despair:
Fortune makes folly her peculiar care.

A vacant throne high-plac'd in Smithfield view,
To sacred dullness and her first born due;
Thither with haste in happy hour repair,
Thy birth-right claim, nor fear a rival there.
Shuter himself shall own thy juster claim,
And venal ledgers puff their Murphy's name,
Whilst Vaughan or Dapper, call him what you will,
Shall blow the trumpet and give out the bill.

There rule secure from critics and from sense,
Nor once shall genius rise to give offence;
Eternal peace shall bless the happy shore,
And little factions break thy rest no more.

From Covent-Garden crowds promiscuous go,
Whom the Muse knows not, nor desires to know.
Vet'rans they seem'd, but knew of arms no more
Than if, till that time, arms they never bore;
Like Westminster militia train'd to fight,
They scarcely knew the left hand from the right.
Asham'd among such troops to show the head,
Their chiefs were scatter'd, and their heroes fled.
Sparks at his glass sat comfortably down

To sep'rate frown from smile, and smile from frown;
Smith, the genteel, the airy, and the smart,
Smith was just gone to school to say his part;
Ross (a misfortune which we often meet)
Was fast asleep at dear Statira's feet;
Statira, with her hero to agree,
Stood on her feet as fast asleep as he;
Macklin, who largely deals in half-form'd sounds,
Who wantonly transgresses nature's bounds;
Whose acting's hard, affected, and constrain'd;
Whose features, as each other they disdain'd,
At variance set, inflexible and coarse,
Ne'er know the working of united force,
Ne'er kindly soften to each other's aid,
Nor show the mingled pow'rs of light and shade;
No longer for a thankless stage concern'd,
To worthier thoughts his mighty genius turn'd,
Harangu'd, gave lectures, made each simple elf
Almost as good a speaker as himself;

Whilst the whole town, mad with mistaken zeal,
An awkward rage for elocution feel;
Dull cits and grave divines his praise proclaim,
And join with Sheridan's their Macklin's name.
Shuter, who never car'd a single pin
Whether he left out nonsense, or put in;
Who aim'd at wit, though, levell'd in the dark,
The random arrow seldom hit the mark;
At Islington, all by the placid stream
Where city swains in lap of dullness dream,

Where, quiet as her strains their strains do flow,
That all the patron by the bards may know,
Secret as night, with Rolt's experienc'd aid,
The plan of future operations laid;
Projected schemes the summer months to cheer,
And spin out happy folly through the year.

But think not though these dastard-chiefs are fled,
That Covent-Garden troops shall want a head:
Harlequin comes their chief!-See from afar,
The hero seated in fantastic car!
Wedded to novelty, his only arms
Are wooden swords, wands, talismans, and charms;
On one side folly sits, by some call'd fun,
And on the other, his arch patron, Lun.
Behind, for liberty athirst in vain,
Sense, helpless captive, drags the galling chain.
Six rude misshapen beasts the chariot draw,
Whom reason lothes, and nature never saw;
Monsters with tails of ice and heads of fire;
Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire.
Each was bestrode by full as monstrous wight,
Giant, dwarf, genius, elf, hermaphrodite.
The town, as usual, met him in full cry;
The town, as usual, knew no reason why.
But fashion so directs, and moderns raise
On fashion's mould'ring base their transient praise.
Next to the field a band of females draw
Their force; for Britain owns no salique law:
Just to their worth, we female rights admit,
Nor bar their claim to empire or to wit.

First, giggling, plotting chamber-maids arrive,
Hoydens and romps, led on by Gen'ral Clive.
In spite of outward blemishes, she shone
For humour fam'd, and humour all her own.
Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod,
Nor sought the critic's praise, nor fear'd his rod.
Original in spirit and in ease,

She pleas'd by hiding all attempts to please.
No comic actress ever yet could raise,
On humour's base, more merit or more praise.
With all the native vigour of sixteen,
Among the merry troop conspicuous seen,
See lively Pope advance in jig and trip,
Corinua, Cherry, Honeycomb, and Snip.
Not without art, but yet to nature true,
She charms the town with humour just, yet new.
Cheer'd by her promise, we the less deplore
The fatal time when Clive shall be no more.

Lo! Vincent comes-with simple grace array'd,
She laughs at paltry arts, and scorns parade;
Nature through her is by reflection shown,
Whilst Gay once more knows Polly for his own.
Talk not to me of diffidence and fear-

I see it all, but must forgive it here.
Defects like these which modest terrors cause,
From impudence itself extort applause.
Candour and reason still take virtue's part;
We love ev'n foibles in so good an heart.

Let Tommy Arne, with usual pomp of style,
Whose chief, whose only merit's to compile,
Who meanly pilfering, here and there a bit,
Deals music out as Murphy deals out wit,

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