Came Blackmore, and cry'd, "Look, all these are my lays,

But at present I beg you'd but read my Essays."

Lampooners and critics rush'd in like a tide,
Stern Dennis and Gildon came first side-by side.
Apollo confess'd that their lashes had stings,
But beadles and hangmen were never chose kings.
Steele long had so cunningly manag’d the town,
He could not be blam'd for expecting the crown;
Apollo demurr'd as to granting his wish,
But wish'd him good luck in his project of fish.
Lame Congreve, unable such things to endure,
Of Apollo begg'd either a crown or a cure;
To refuse such a writer, Apollo was loth,
And almost inclin'd to have granted him both.
When Buckingham came, he scarce car'd to be

seen,

Till Phœbus desir'd his old friend to walk in;
But a laureat peer had never been known,
The commoners claim'd that place as their own.
Yet if the kind god had been ne'er so inclin'd
To break an old rule, yet he well knew his mind,
Who of such preferment would only make sport,
And laugh'd at all suitors for places at court.
Notwithstanding this law, yet Lansdowne was nam'd,
But Apollo with kindness his indolence blam'd,
And said he would choose him, but that he should
fear

An employment of trouble he never could bear.

A prelate for wit and for eloquence fam'd,
Apollo soon miss'd, and he needs not be nam'd;
Since, amidst a whole bench, of which some are so
bright,

No one of them shines so learn'd and polite.

To Shippen, Apollo was cold with respect,
Since he for the state could the Muses neglect:
But said, in a greater assembly he shin'd,
And places were things he had ever declin'd.
Trapp, Young, and Vanbrugh, expected reward,
For some things writ well: but Apollo declar'd,
That one was too flat, the other too rough,
And the third sure already had places enough.

Pert Budgell came next, and, demanding the bays, Said, "Those works must be good, which had Addison's praise;"

But Apollo reply'd, "Child Eustace, 'tis known,
Most authors will praise whatsoever's their own."
When Philips came forth, as starch as a Quaker,
Whose simple profession's a Pastoral-maker;
Apollo advis'd him from playhouse to keep,
And pipe to nought else but his dog and his sheep.
Hughes, Fenton, and Gay, came last in the train,
Too modest to ask for the crown they would gain:
Phoebus thought them too bashful, and said they
would need

More boldness, if ever they hop'd to succeed.
Apollo, now driven to a cursed quandary,
Was wishing for Swift, or the fam'd Lady Mary:
Nay, had honest Tom Southerne but been within
call-

But at last he grew wanton, and laugh'd at them all:

3 Dr. Atterbury, bishop of Rochester.

And so spying one who came only to gaze,
A hater of verse, and despiser of plays;
To him in great form, without any delay,
(Though a zealous fanatic) presented the bay.
All the wits stood astonish'd at hearing the god
So gravely pronounce an election so odd;
And though Prior and Pope only laugh'd in his face,
Most others were ready to sink in the place.

Yet some thought the vacancy open was kept,
Concluding the bigot would never accept :
But the hypocrite told them, he well understood,
Though the function was wicked, the stipend was
good.

At last in rush'd Eusden, and cry'd, "Who shall have it,

But I, the true laureat, to whom the king gave it?"
Apollo begg'd pardon, and granted his claim;
But vow'd though, till then he ne'er heard of his

name.

ON THE TIMES.

SINCE in vain our parsons teach,
Hear, for once, a poet preach.

Vice has lost its very name,
Skill and cozenage thought the same;
Only playing well the game.
Foul contrivances we see
Call'd but ingenuity:
Ample fortunes often made
Out of frauds in every trade,
Which an aukward child afford
Enough to wed the greatest lord.
The miser starves to raise a son,
But, if once the fool is gone,
Years of thrift scarce serve a day,
Rake-hell squanders all away.
Husbands seeking for a place,

Or toiling for their pay;
While their wives undo their race
By petticoats and play:
Breeding boys to drink and dice,
Carrying girls to comedies,
Where mamma's intrigues are shown,
Which ere long will be their own,
Having first at sermon slept,
Tedious day is weekly kept
By worse hypocrites than men,
Till Monday comes to cheat again.
Ev'n among the noblest-born,
Moral virtue is a scorn;
Gratitude, but rare at best,
And fidelity a jest.

All our wit but party-mocks,
All our wisdom raising stocks:
Counted folly to defend
Sinking side, or falling friend.
Long an officer may serve,
Prais'd and wounded, he may starve:
No receipt, to make him rise,
Like inventing loyal lies.
We, whose ancestors have shin'd

In arts of peace, and fields of fame, To ill and idleness inclin'd,

Now are grown a public shame.

Fearless he will his life expose;

So does a lion or a bear.
His very virtues threaten those,

Who more his bold ambition fear.
How stupid wretches we appear,

Who round the world for wealth and empire roam,
Yet never, never think what slaves we are at home!

Did men for this together join.

Quitting the free wild life of Nature?
What other beast did e'er design

The setting up his fellow-creature,
And of two mischiefs choose the greater?

Oh! rather than be slaves to bold imperious men, Give us our wildness, and our woods, our huts and caves again.

There, secure from lawless sway,
Out of Pride or Envy's way;
Living up to Nature's rules,

Not deprav'd by knaves and fools:

Happily we all should live, and harmless as our sheep, And at last as calmly die as infants fall asleep.

CHORUS 11.

Lo! to prevent this mighty empire's doom,
From bright unknown abodes of bliss I come,
The awful genius of majestic Rome.

Great is her danger: but I will engage
Some few, the master-souls of all this age,
To do an act of just heroic rage.

'Tis hard, a man so great should fall so low;
More hard to let so brave a people bow

To one themselves have rais'd, who scorns them

now.

Yet, oh! I grieve that Brutus should be stain'd,
Whose life, excepting this one act, remain'd
So pure, that future times will think it feign'd.

But only he can make the rest combine;
The very life and soul of their design,
The centre, where those mighty spirits join.
Unthinking men no sort of scruples make;
Others do ill, only for mischief's sake;
But ev'n the best are guilty by mistake.
Thus some for envy, or revenge, intend
To bring the bold usurper to his end:
But for his country Brutus stabs his friend.

CHORUS IV.

How great a curse has Providence
Thought fit to cast on human kind!
Learning, courage, eloquence,

The gentlest nature, noblest mind,
Were intermixt in one alone;
Yet in one moment overthrown.
Could chance, or senseless atoms, join
To form a soul so great as his?
Or would those powers we hold divine
Destroy their own chief master-piece ?
Where so much difficulty lies,

The doubtful are the only wise.

And, what must more perplex our thoughts, Great Jove the best of Romans sends,

To do the very worst of faults,

And kill the kindest of his friends. All this is far above our reach, Whatever priests presume to preach.

OUR

PROLOGUE

TO MARCUS BRUTUS.

scene is Athens. And great Athens nam'd,
What soul so dull as not to be inflam'd?
Methinks, at mentioning that sacred place,
A reverend awe appears in every face,
For men so fam'd, of such prodigious parts,
As taught the world all sciences and arts.

Amidst all these ye shall behold a man
The most applauded since mankind began,
Out-shining ev'n those Greeks who most excel,
Whose life was one fix'd course of doing well.
Oh! who can therefore without tears attend
On such a life, and such a fatal end?

But here our author, besides other faults
Of ill expressions, and of vulgar thoughts,
Commits one crime that needs an act of grace,
And breaks the law of unity of place:
Yet to such noble patriots, overcome
By factious violence, and banish'd Rome,
Athens alone a fit retreat could yield;

And where can Brutus fall, but in Philippi field?

Some critics judge ev'n love itself too mean A care to mix in such a lofty scene, And with those ancient bards of Greece believe Friendship has stronger charms to please or grieve: But our more amorous poet, finding love Amidst all other cares, still shines above, Lets not the best of Romans end their lives Without just softness for the kindest wives. Yet, if ye think his gentle nature such As to have soften'd this great tale too much, Soon will your eyes grow dry, and passion fall, When ye reflect 'tis all but conjugal.

This to the few and knowing was addrest; And now 'tis fit I should salute the rest.

Most reverend dull judges ofthe pit, By Nature curs'd with the wrong side of wit! You need not care, whate'er you see to-night, How ill some players act, or poets write; Should our mistakes be never so notorious, You'll have the joy of being more censorious: Show your small talent then, let that suffice ye; But grow not vain upon it, I advise ye: Each petty critic can objections raise, The greatest skill is knowing when to praise.

CHORUSES IN MARCUS BRUTUS.
CHORUS III".

DARK is the maze poor mortals tread ;
Wisdom itself a guide will need:
We little thought, when Cæsar bled,

That a worse Cesar would succeed.
And are we under such a curse,
We cannot change but for the worse?
With fair pretence of foreign force,

By which Rome must herself enthral;
These, without blushes or remorse,

Proscribe the best, impoverish all.
The Gauls themselves, our greatest foes,
Could act no mischiefs worse than those.
That Julius, with ambitious thoughts,

Had virtues too, his foes could find;
These equal him in all his faults,
But never in his noble mind.

That free-born spirits should obey
Wretches, who know not how to sway!
Late we repent our hasty choice,

In vain bemoan so quick a turn.
Hark all to Rome's united voice!

Better that we a while had borne Ev'n all those ills which most displease, Than sought a cure far worse than the disease.

VOWS

CHORUS IV.

OUR Vows thus cheerfully we sing,
While martial music fires our blood;
Let all the neighbouring echoes ring

With clamours for our country's good:
Anl, for reward, of the just gods we claim
A life with freedom, or a death with fame.

May Rome be freed from wars alarms,
And taxes heavy to be borne;
May she beware of foreign arms,

And send them back with noble scorn:
And, for reward, &c.

May she no more confide in friends,

Who nothing farther understood,

Than only, for their private ends,

To waste her wealth, and spill her blood: And for reward, &c.

Our senators, great Jove, restrain

From private piques, they prudence call; From the low thoughts of little gain, And hazarding the losing all:

And, for reward, &c.

The shining arms with haste prepare,
Then to the glorious combat fly;
Our minds unclogg'd with farther care,
Except to overcome or die :

And, for reward, &c.

They fight, oppression to increase,
We for our liberties and laws;

It were a sin to doubt success,

When freedom is the noble cause:

A life with freedom, or a death with fame.