From Carthage brought, the sword I'll send That help'd queen Dido to her end : The snake-skin, which, you may believe, The serpent cast who tempted Eve; A fig-leaf apron, 'tis the same Which Adam wore to hide his shame; But now wants darning; sir, beside, The jaw by which poor Abel died; A whetstone worn exceeding small, Which Time hath whet his teeth withal. The pigeon stuft, which Noah sent To tell which way the waters wentA ring I've got of Sampson's hair, The same which Dalilah did wear. St. Dunstan's tongs, as story goes, That pinch'd the Devil by the nose. The very shaft, as all may see, Which Cupid shot at Antony: And, what beyond them all I prize, A glance of Cleopatra's eyes. Some strains of eloquence which hung, In Roman times, on Tully's tongue; Which long conceal'd and lost had lain, 'Till Cowper found them out again ! Then I've (most curious to be seen) A scorpion's bite to cure the spleen. As Moore cures worms in stomach bred, I've pills cure maggots in the head; With the receipt how you may make 'em, ́ To you I leave the time to take 'em. I've got a ray of Phoebus' shine, A lawyer's conscience, large and clear, I ha'n't collected any care, Of that there's plenty every where : I only beg, that when you show 'em; T. H. EPISTLE XIV. ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE TO HIMSELF. WELL, this poetic itch creeps on, Curll prints your works, and writes your life. If Maevius scribble, 'tis to feed A bard inspir'd by daring need: But, having wherewithal to dine, What vengeance damns thee to the Nine ? Taste differs, just as men who read: This loves an easy line, and that Deems all that is not glaring, flat. Some, wit and thought can scarce endure; Swift is too vulgar, Pope obscure; Whim, Weather, Envy, Party, Spite, To mark his progress through the skies He perishes from vulgar sight. s; Your Muse could win her way to praise, And Chesterfield approve the lays; Now sudden wreaths your temples crown, Proclaim'd a poet-about town, Thee, toasts admire, and peers caress; Peers treat their poets as their whores, This happy Minion of the Nine, We wonder when he means to shine; Fool! would you prattle, tête-à-tête, With all the fair and all the great : Mark whom their favors are bestow'd on, True, but who loves or fears a name? Is it for fame Sir For fame that Such hate a poet, or despise ; Their prospect in oblivion lies. Search far and wide where Virtue dwells, In camps, or colleges, or cells. Our leagues and wars, and Spithead fleet: Yet has a serpent oft conceal'd. A jury finds your words in print, |