his dear Gazetteer:
Tho’ One in his gilt Chariot proudly rolls,
Or heads in D——g-Room his Brother Tools—
And Th’ other labours hard whate’er he says,
Shining in Coffee-house with doubtful Phrase;
Still restless in all Stations, pleas’d with none;
For ever climbing, yet for ever down:
Oft have we seen, that Noblemen have wrote,
And Authors sometimes, strutting in lac’d Coat;
But widely then from Nature’s Ends they err,
And play the Farce quite out of Character.
As well may pious Jobbers of the Alley
Pretend the flying Troops of France to rally.
To proper Spheres, my Friends! yourselves confine!
When Colley writes, a Dunce may praise each Line;
Whether my Lord at Length, he views the Plan,
Or sculks beneath a certain Gentleman;
But if that Lord the Pen or Press invade,
Rouse, rouse, ye Tribe! he’ll undermine your Trade,
Tho’ not one brilliant Thought should hurt the whole,
And ev’ry Verse be bad, or lame, or stole,
Still, like a mad Dog, hunt th’ Usurper dead,
Tho’ he for Fame, ye scribble to be fed;
He stands condemn’d, who robs ye of your Bread.
But if a Genius rise, whose pointed Wit
Corrects your Morals, and all Tastes shall fit,
Claim then the Privilege to be his Foes,
Ye cannot shine, but when ye Worth oppose.
When ye deny him Fame, ye fix your own,
And to be satirized, is to be known.
Some hold, they’re better in a cursed State,
Than to be totally annihilate;
Thrice happy then, ye deathless, duncely Train!
The Subjects of the higher Dunciad’s Strain.
How many, who have Reams of Paper spoil’d,
Have often sleepless Nights obscurely toil’d,
And buried in their Eggs, like Silkworms, lay
’Till his warm Satire shew’d them Life and Day?
Here then, my Sons, is all your living Hope,
To be immortal Scriblers, rail at Pope.
Snatch’d from Oblivion, there the Dunces soar,
Tibbald their Monarch dubb’d, can ask no more,
Nor less shall ye——now Colley gives the Word,
Rouse up! and crowd into the next Record,
Or, lost to Memory, no other Page
Can possibly retrieve ye half an Age;
And now the glad Occasion aptly calls,
To break more Printers, and to spread more Stalls;
To save your Names from Lethe, tho’ your Books
Are doom’d the Prize of Fruiterers and Cooks.
The Streams of Helicon once clearly flow’d,
And Heav’n in their resplendent Bosom shew’d,
Whilst verdant Groves the sacred Mountain spread;
Then Pegasus on Balms and Myrtles fed:
Now blighted Thistles only crown the Top,
Which Herds of young poetic Asses crop;
And, choak’d with common Sew’rs, like Fleet-ditch Flood,
Its sable Waters writhe along the Mud;
Nor murm’ring wake, nor seem they quite asleep,
Whilst Wits, like Water-rats, around them creep.
If any shou’d attempt to cleanse your Streams,
Or wake ye from your kind lethargic Dreams,
Assert your Right, and render vain their Toil;
Yours is the Filth, then join and guard your Soil!
And lest ye’re diffident to aid the Cause,
Not wholly yet broke loose from Reason’s Laws,
View the strange Wonders of the present Times,
Let Empires sleep, but hear the Fate of Rhimes.
Let Pope lull all his Dunces with a Yawn,
Wrapt in their Robes of P—ple or of L—wn,
Whilst he shall leave one tatter’d Muse awake;
That Muse his own and others Rest shall break.
A Prostitute, her Charms their Vigour lose,
Now Colley keeps her, and she sups on Prose;
But free and common, hack’d about the Town,
Each of ye claim her! for she’s all your own.
With him, unmov’d by Salary or Sack,
She d——ns his Impotence of Brain and Back;
That thus in Age he strains at Wit’s Embrace,
And follows W—ff—n from Place to Place;
But tho’ cold Prose to him she’ll only give,
Ye, my pert Sons! who with more Ardour strive,
May raise the bastard Issue of a Verse,
To wear the wither’d Bays, or deck his Hearse.
Now for six Months had O——d shook the State
With grand Removals, and a grand Debate:
Dunce elbow’d Dunce, each foremost wou’d advance,
But backward fell, as in old Bayes’s Dance:
When Dulness spread her pow’rful Yawn around,
“And Sense and Shame, and Right and Wrong were drown’d,
Enquiry ceas’d, and, touch’d by magic Wand,
Ev’n Opposition’s self was at a Stand;
On well-oil’d Hinges creaks the Prison Gate,
And Pains and Penalties will come too late.
’Twas Night’s high Noon at P—is and the H—ge,
And Politics had died, but for poor P—gue;
For why, “The Goddess bade Britannia sleep,
“And pour’d her Spirit o’er the Land and Deep.”
And now the Scriblers, motionless and mute,
Sit down to count their Gains by the Dispute,
To see on which Side Victory hath run;
Like Mackbeth’s Witches, when the Mischief’s done,
They tell ye, that the Battle’s lost and won:
Contriving whom to greet, or whom disgrace,
As Gazettes speak them in or out of Place;
For Panegyrics drein their tilted Wit
On Peers new-made, against the House shall sit,
Or saucily appear before their Betters
In sage Advice, or on an old Member’s Letters:
Thus fate, they waiting the approaching Yawn,
Wishing for Sleep till the next Sessions’ Dawn,
When the kind Goddess did her Jaws unclose,
She snor’d aloud, and strait a Vapour rose,
Unwholsome as the Damps a Collier meets
Too often in his subterraneous Pits;
For Dulness taints all round her where she breathes,
As witness, Colley, thy dry blighted Wreaths:
Nor cou’d the upward Gasp disperse the Steam,
But from below disturb’d her Consort’s Dream;
Yet from her downy Lap he started not,
But mutter’d something thus—as loose of Thought;
“He hurts not me—my Cæsar—Satire—dull,
“Why all the World knows I’ve been long—a F—l;
“But now—I’ll do’t—Yae—ough”—so said, he drops,
Salutes his Queen’s Effulgence, and thus stops.
The Throne where Dulness sate, maintaining Right,
Resembled much some Monarch’s of the Night,
Where gloomy Myrmidons and Punks resort,
And snore on Benches round his ample Court.
Both there and here, as in the busy World,
Lords, Draymen, Linkboys, in Confusion hurl’d;
Beneath the Monarch, fond to be employ’d,
Narcissus lay with too much