The Design of Printing the Suscriber's Names, is to shew, that the late Undertaking has the Sanction of a College Act; and that 'tis not a Project carried on by Five or six Members, as those that oppose it, wou'd unjustly insinuate.
To DR. G-th, UPON THE Dispensary. 1)
Oh that some Genius, whose Poetick Vein,
Like Mountague's, cou'd a just Piece sustain,
Would search the Græcian and the Latin Store,
And thence present thee with the purest Oar.
In lasting Numbers praise thy whole Design,
And Manly Beauty of each Nervous Line.
Show how your pointed Satyr's Sterling Wit
Do's only Knaves, or formal Blockheads hit;
Who're gravely Dull, insipidly Serene,
And carry all their Wisdom in their Mien.
Whom thus expos'd, thus strip'd of their Disguise,
None will again Admire, most will Despise.
Show in what Noble Verse Nassau you sing,
How such a Poet's worthy such a King.
When Sommer's Charming Eloquence you Praise,
How loftily your Tuneful Voice you raise!
But my por feeble Muse is as unfit
To Praise, as Imitate what you have writ.
Artists alone should venture to Commend
What D is can't Condemn, nor D-en Mend:
What must, writ with that Fire and with that Ease, The Beaux, the Ladies, and the Criticks please.
1) Sämtliche Lobgedichte erschienen zum ersten Male in der 2. Auflage.
TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR, DESIRING MY OPINION
Ask me not, Friend, what I Approve or Blame Perhaps I know not why I like, or Damn;
I can be Pleas'd; and I dare own I am.
I read Thee over with a Lover's Eye,
Thou hast no Faults, or I no Faults can spy;
Thou art all Beauty, or all Blindness I.
Criticks, and aged Beaux of Fancy chast,
Who ne'er had Fire, or else whose Fire is past,
Must judge by Rules what they want Force to Taste.
I wou'd a Poet, like a Mistress, try,
Not by her Hair, her Hand, her Nose, her Eye;
But by some Nameless Pow'r, to give me Joy.
The Nymph has Grafton's, Cecil's, Churchil's Charms,
If with resistless Fires my Soul she warms
With Balm upon her Lips, and Raptures in her Arms,
Such is thy Genius, and such Art is thine,
Some secret Magick works in ev'ry Line;
We judge not, but we feel the Pow'r Divine.
Where all is Just, is Beauteous, and is Fair,
Distinctions vanish of peculiar Air.
Lost in our Pleasure, we Enjoy in you
Lucretius, Horace, Sheffeild, Mountague.
And yet 'tis thought, some Criticks in this Town,
By Rules to all, but to themselves unknown
Will Damn thy Verse, and Justify their own.
Why, let them Damn: Were it not wondrous hard
Facetious M- and the City B-
So near ally'd in Learning, Wit, and Skill,
Shou'd not have leave to Judge, as well as Kill?
Nay, let them write; Let them their Forces join,
And hope the Motly Piece may Rival thine.
Safely despise their Malice, and their Toil,
Which Vulgar Ears alone will reach, and will defile.
Be it thy Gen'rous Pride to please the Best,
Whose Judgement, and whose Friendship is a Test.
With Learned Hannes thy healing Cares be join'd,
Search thoughtful Ratcliffe to his in most Mind:
Unite, restore your Arts, and save Mankind,
Whilst all the busie M-Is of the Town
Envy our Health, and pine away their own.
When e'er thou wou'dst a Tempting Muse engage
Judicious Walsh can best direct her Rage.
To Sommers, and to Dorset too submit,
And let their Stamp Immortalize thy Wit.
Consenting Phoebus bows, if they Approve,
And Ranks thee with the foremost Bards above:
Whilst these of Right the Deathless Laurel send,
Be it my Humble Bus'ness to Commend
The faithful, honest Man, and the well-natur'd Friend.
TO MY FRIEND Dr. G-th, THE AUTHOR OF THE
To Praise your Healing Art would be in vain,
The Health you give, prevents the Poet's Pen.
Sufficiently confirm'd is your Renown,
And I but fill the Chorus of the Town.
That let me wave, and only now Admire,
The dazling Rays of your Poetick Fire:
Which its diffusive Virtue does dispense,
In flowing Verse, and elevated Sense.
The Town, which long has swallow'd foolish Verse, Which Poetasters ev'ry where rehearse;
Will mend their Judgement now, refine their taste,
And gather up th' Applause they threw in Waste.
The Playhouse shan't Encourage false, sublime,
Abortive Thoughts, with Decoration-Rhime.
The Satyr of Vile Scribblers shall appear
On none, except upon themselves severe:
While Yours Contemns the Gall of Vulgar Spight;
And when You seem to Smile the most, you Bite.
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