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The Sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness: long he stood,
Repelling from his Breaft the raging God;
At length burft out in this prophetick mood:
Heavens blefs my Son, from Ireland let him reign
To far Barbadoes on the Western main;
Of his Dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his Father's be his Throne ;
Beyond love's Kingdom let him ftretch his Pen;
He paus'd, and all the People cry'd Amen.
Then thus, continu'd he, my Son advance
Still in new Impudence, new Ignorance.
Success let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth, and fruitless Induftry.
Let Virtuofo's in five Years be writ;

Yet not one thought accufe thy toy of Wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the Stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the Pit,
And in their folly fhew the Writers wit.
Yet ftill thy fools fhall ftand in thy defence,
And juftifie their Author's want of fenfe.
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulnefs, and defire no foreign aid:
That they to future ages may be known,'
Not Copies drawn, but iffue 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 interpofe

To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.
And when falfe flowers of Rhetorick thou would'ft
Truft Nature, do not labour to be dull; [cull,
But write thy beft, and top; and in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine.

Sir Formal, though unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.

Nor let falfe friends feduce thy Mind to Fame,
By arrogating Johnson's Hoftile name.

Let Father Flecknoe fire 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 fix a brand,
And rail at Arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or fwept the duft in Pfyche's humble ftrain?
Where fold he Bargains, Whip-stitch, kiss my Arse,
Promis'd a Play, and dwindled to a Farce?
When did his Mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridg doft transfufe to thine?
But fo transfus'd as Oyl and Waters flow,
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy Province, this thy wondrous way,
New Humours to invent for each new Play:
This is that boafted Byafs of thy mind,
By which one way, to dulnefs, 'tis inclin'd.
Which makes thy writings lean on one fide ftill,
And in all changes that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A Tun of Man in thy large Bulk is writ,
But fure thou'rt but a Kilderkin of wit.
Like mine thy gentle numbers feebly creep,
Thy Tragick Mufe gives fmiles, thy Comick fleep.
With whate'er gall thou fett'ft thy felf to write,
Thy inoffenfive Satyrs never bite.

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 writing Plays, and chufe for thy command
Some peaceful Province in Acroftick Land.
There thou may'ft Wings display and Altars raise,
And Torture one poor word Ten thousand ways.

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Or if thou would't thy diffrent talents fuit,
Set thy own Songs, and fing them to thy lute.
He faid, but his laft words were fcarcely heard,
For Bruce and Longvil had a Trap prepar'd,
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 his Father's Art.

B4

AND

ACHITOPHEL

A

POEM.

Si propiùs ftes

Te capiet magis

The NINTH EDITION.

LONDON:

Printed in the Year MDCC XVI.

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