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The Sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Tull on the silial dnlness: long he stood, -j
Repelling from his Breast the raging God; >
At length burst out in this propherick mood: *
Heavens bless my Son, from Ireland let him reign
To far Barkadoa on the Western main;
Of his Dominion may rto end be known,
And grearer than his Father's be his Throne;
Beyond love's Kingdom let him stretch his Pen,
He paus'd, and all the People cry'd •Amen.
Then thus, conrinu'd he, my Son advance
Srill in new Impudence, new Ignorance.
Success let others reach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth, and fruirless Industry.
Let Virtuoso's in sive Years be writ;
Y et not one thought accuse thy toyl of Wit.
Let genrle George in triumph tread the Stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockjuood, Fopling, charm the Pit,
And in their folly shew the Wrirers wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justisie their Author's want of fense.
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid:
That they to future ages may be known,'
Not Copies drawn, but issue of thy own.
Nay let thy men of Wit too be the fame,
All full of thee, and differing but in name;
But let no alien S—dl--y inrerpose
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.
And when false flowers of T^teoru^thou would'st
Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull; [cull,
But wrire thy best, and top; and in each line,
Sit Format's oratory will be thine.
Sit Formal, though unsought, atrends thy cjuill,
And does thy Northern Dedicarions sill.
Not ler false friends seduce thy Mind to Farrres By arrogaring Johnson's Hostile name. Let Father Flecknoe sire thy Mind with praise, And Unkle Ogleby thy Envy raise. Thou art my blood, where Johnson has no part; What share have we in Nature or in Art? Where did his wit on learning six a brand, And rail at Arts he did not understand? Where made he love in Prince Meander's vein, Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain? Where sold he Bargains, Whip-stitch, kiss my Arse, Promis'd a Play, and dwindled to a Farce? When did his Muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, As thou whole Eth'ridg dost transfuse ro thine? But so transsus'd as Oyl and Warers flow,. His always floats above, thine sinks btlo^r. This is thy Province, this thy wondrous way, New Humours to invent for each new Play: This is that boasted Byass of thy mind, By which one way, to dulness, 'ris inclin'd. Which makes thy wrirings lean on one side still, And in all changes that way bends thy will. Nor let thy mountain belly make prerence Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. A Tun of Man in thy large Bulk is writ, But sure thou'rt but a Kilderkin of wit. Like mine thy genrle numbers feebly creep, Thy Tragick Muse gives smiles, th y Comick sleep. With whare'er gall thou sert'st thy self to wrire, Thy inoffensive Satyrs never bire. In thy fellonious heart, though Venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish Pen, and dyes. Thy Genius calls thee not to purchase Fame In keen Iambicks, but mild Anagram: Leave wriring Plays, and chuse for thy command Some peaceful Province in Acrostick Land. There thou may'st Wings display and Altars raise, And Torture one poor word Ten thousand ways.
Or if thou would'st thy difPrent talents suit,
Set thy own Songs, and sing them to thy lute.
He said, but his last words were scarcely heard, -p
For Bruce and Longuil had a Trap prepar'd, f
And down they sent the yet declaiming Bard. *
Sinking he left his Drugget Robe behind,
Born upwards by a Subterranean wind.
The Mantle fell to the young Prophet's part,
With double portion of hit father's Att.
-— Si propius ftes
Te capiet magis
LONDON: Printed in the Year MDCCXVl.