class="smcap">Tully cloy’d;
As Gluttons gorg’d at City Feasts too soon,
Oft get their Naps before the rest lye down;
Their heaving Stomachs turn’d at something tart,
When others doze, oft make them wildly start:
So he—“Why, what a Pax! who’d be a L—d,
“If Worth and Merit only Praise afford?
“I can’t be prais’d as Poet, Wit, or P——r,
“But that dem’d Twick’nam Bard my Parts will jeer;
“If I can’t write myself, here’s Colley shall;
“I’ve often heard him swear—he’ll stand ’em all:
“If he refuse me, I have still another,
“I’ll hammer him conjointly with my B——r;
“But sure the Laureat Harp must tune a Strain,
“New mended by a late V——e C—mb—n;
“For he, to give his Due unto the Devil,
“Was always to us Folks of Fashion civil.”
Resolv’d at once, he tweaks the Monarch’s Nose,
The Monarch snor’d—new Streams from Dulness rose.
Close to his Ear he lays his dimpled Cheek,
And in soft Accents speaks, or seem’d to speak,
“Dear Laureate, rouse, the Enemy’s at Hand,
“Another Dunciad travels round the Land,
“Whence all the sole Proprietors of Trash,
“Thy Friends and mine, most justly fear the Lash.
Vain are his Efforts—yet again he tries,
“Thy Odes!—oh save thy Odes!—dear Laureat rise;
“If not for Odes—yet for Love’s Riddle wake—
“Nor that?—thy Careless Husband’s then at Stake.
All wou’d not do—his soft Distress preferr’d,
Nor the great Mother, nor the Laureat heard;
For on her Lap so daintily he lay,
His Senses, breath’d into her, stole away;
All Aims at a Recovery were vain,
Till she vouchsaf’d to breathe them back again.
“One gentle Imprecation more and then,
“He cries, Farewel the Laureat and his Pen:
“Thy Country calls, if thou resign’st thy Sense,
“Yet rouse to be a Man of Consequence.
“Who calls thee Dunce, abuses too thy K—g,
“Whose Praises, by thy Place, thou’rt bound to sing;
“O! grant me Aid, assume the pleasing Task,
“In thy Nonjuror’s fav’rite Name I ask.
Thrice groan’d the Ompha, and in Thunder spoke,
The Blast his Sense return’d, and Slumber broke;
Nonjure! That Word alone unbinds the Charms,
For Party-Dulness always sounds to Arms;
Upstarts the Sire—“Mistake me not, he cries,
“Whoever says I was asleep———he lies;
“You know, my L—d, how I my Wits exert,
“How always pleasing, and how always pert;
“I know your Grief, before the Cause is told;
“Then here my Pen in Readiness I hold.
“Since by Desire I enter thus the Lists,
“I vow Revenge—know, Colley ne’er desists:
“Then I’ll pursue him with my latest Breath,
“Nor drop this Pen ’till quite benum’d with Death.
High on the Muses Pegasus Dan P—pe
Mounts full of Spirit, nor vouchsafes to stoop,
But hears the Murmurs of the Dull upborn,
Low empty Curses, or vain stingless Scorn;
One Dash strikes all the mean Revilers down,
As sure as Jove should swear by Acheron:
Whether his Person be their standing Jest,
Or his Religion suits their Libels best;
Whether the Author forms his crude Designs,
As the deserted Bookseller repines,
Who, after all his Boasts, is tumbled by,
And looks at D——ley with an evil Eye;
Or if their standing Topics, Spleen and Spite,
A Jesuit,——an Atheist,——Jacobite.
In all their hard-strain’d Labours, squeez’d by Bits,
Mark well the Triumph of these wou’d-be Wits;
Like Village Curs, kick’d backward by the Steed,
Their Noise and Yelping their Destruction breed;
Or if the Rider smacks them with his Whip,
’Tis more t’ unbend the Lash, than make them skip:
Yet still they rise and at it——Goddess hail!
Who o’er thy Suns spread’st such a thick’ning Veil,
That Sense of Pain, as well as Shame, is lost,
And you reward those best, who blunder most;
For where are Honours, Places, Gifts bestow’d,
But where thy Influence is most avow’d?
Rest, while more modern Miracles I sing,
Of Minor Dunces that from thee first spring;
But all who Recreants thy Pow’r disclaim,
And, Laureat-like, to Pertness change thy Name;
And ye, her Sons, who’ve nothing else to do,
Wait, if you please, the——Vision thro’:
You, who in Manuscript your Works retale,
And tag with Rhimes the latter Ends of Ale,
But vow th’ ungrateful Age shall never see,
In Print, how wond’rous wise and smart ye be;
Or you, whose Muse has run you out of Breath,
Or rode you like a Night-mare hagg’d to Death;
Attend and learn from Dulness’ sleeping Shade,
Another Goddess rises to your Aid.
Pleas’d with the Vow, the glad submissive P—r,
Thence leads the Monarch to a nobler Chair;
For why shou’d he at Dulness’ Footstool wait,
Who knows so well to entertain with Prate;
Some g—rt—r’d Dupes no nobler Titles boast,
Than to have been the Objects of his Roast;
For which they fill his Groupe, his Praises have,
And shine like Salmon’s Dolls in Merlin’s Cave.
The young Narcissus, whom (wou’d you believe,
The Cornhill Priest, who never cou’d deceive)
Had robb’d the Sibil of whate’er was sage,
Or Good, or Wise, except her Gums and Age,
Was the old Woman, tho’ in Youth renew’d,
Who led Æneas when he H—ll review’d;
Wrapt in the Steam that spread from Dulness’ Jaws,
From her Posterior’s, perch’d, pert C——r draws,
Conveys him to the Club—the Club despair,
Till they the Snuff-box smell, and see the Chair.
Then all the Dunciad d——n, and, grown elate,
Prick up their Ears, and bray, “To the Debate!
“The Chiefs were sate, the Scriblers waited round
“The Board with Bottles, and with Glasses crown’d,
“When he, the Master of the Seven-fold Face,
“Rose” gleaming thro’ his own Corinthian Brass,
And thus—my L—s, we once again are met,
Nor Sense hath robb’d us of a Vot’ry yet;
Pleas’d, I the present Danger undertake,
And gladly suffer, for my Country’s Sake;
For I a prompt Alacrity agnize
To be esteem’d or witty, smart or wise.
This present War then with the Pope be mine;
But one Thing beg, I, bending to your Shrine,
Due Preference of Honour, Time and Place,
And your Desires my Title Page to grace,
He said and bow’d—a Whisper trill’d the Air
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