Bid general Essay lead the van,
By-Oh! the style will show the man:
Eid major Science bold appear,
With all his pot-hooks in the rear.

AUTHOR.

True, true, our news, our prose, our rhymes, Shall show the colour of the times;

For which most salutary ends,

We've fellow-soldiers, fellow-friends.
For city, and for court afairs,

My lord duke's butler, and the mayor's.
For politics-eternal talkers,

Profound observers, and park-walkers.
For plays, great actors of renown,
(Lately or just arriv'd in town)
Or some, in state of abdication,
Of oratorial reputation;

Or those who live on scraps and bits,
Mere green-room wasps, and Temple wits;
Shall teach you, in a page or two,
What Garrick should, or should not do.
Trim poets from the city desk,
Deep vers'd in rural picturesque,
Who minute down with wond'rous pains,
What Rider's Almanac contains

On flow'r and seed, and wind, and weather,
And bind them in an ode together;
Shall through the seasons monthly sing
Sweet Winter, Autumn, Summer, Spring.

My good man, too-Lord bless us! wives Are born to lead unhappy lives, Although his profits bring him clear Almost two hundred pounds a year, Keeps me of cash so short and bare, That I have not a gown to wear; Except my robe, and yellow sack, And this old lutestring on my back. -But we've no time, my dear, to waste. Come, where's your cardinal, make haste. The king, God bless his majesty, I say, Goes to the house of lords to day, In a fine painted coach and eight, And rides along in all his state. And then the queen

MRS. SCOT.

Aye, aye, you know, Great folks can always make a show.

But tell me, do-I've never seen Her present majesty, the queen.

MRS. BROWN.

Lard! we've no time for talking now, Hark! one-two-three-'tis twelve I vow.

MRS. SCOT.

Kitty, my things,-I'll soon have done, It's time enough, you know, at one. -Why, girl! see how the creature stands! Some water here to wash my hands.

-Be quick-why sure the gipsey sleeps! Look how the drawling daudle creeps. That bason there-why don't you pour, Go on, I say-stop, stop-no more→→→ Lud! I could beat the hussey down, She's pour'd it all upon my gown. -Bring me my ruffles-can'st not mind? And pin my handkerchief behind. Sure thou hast awkwardness enough, Go-fetch my gloves, and fan, and muff. -Well, Heav'n be prais'd-this work is done, I'm ready now, my dear-let's run. Girl,-put that bottle on the shelf, And bring me back the key yourself.

MRS. BROWN.

That clouded silk becomes you much, I wonder how you meet with such, But you've a charming taste in dress, What might it cost you, madam?

MRS. SCOT.

Guess.

MRS. BROWN.

Oh! that's impossible for I Am in the world the worst to buy,

MRS. SCOT.

I never love to bargain hard, Five shillings, as I think, a yard. -I was afraid it should be gone→ 'Twas what I'd set my heart upon.

MRS. BROWN.

Indeed you bargain'd with success, For its a most delightful dress. Besides, it fits you to a hair, And then 'tis slop'd with such an air.

MRS. SCOT.

I'm glad you think so,-Kitty, here,
Bring me my cardinal, my dear.
Jacky, my love, nay don't you cry,
Take you abroad!-Indeed not 1;
For all the bugaboes to fright ye-
Besides the naughty horse will bite ye;
With such a mob about the street,
Bless me, they'll tread you under feet.
Whine as you please, I'll have no blame,
You'd better blubber, than be lame.
The more you cry, the less you'll

-Come, come then, give mamma a kiss,
Kitty, I say, here take the boy,
And fetch him down the last new toy,
Make him as merry as you can,

-There, go to Kitty-there's a man,

Look how the folks press on before, And throng impatient at the door.

MRS. SCOT..

Perdigious! I can hardly stand, Lord bless me, Mrs. Brown, your hand; And you, my dear, take hold of hers, For we must stick as close as burrs, Or in this racket, noise and pother, We certainly shall lose each other.

-Good God! my cardinal and sack Are almost torn from off any back. Lard, I shall faint-Oh Lud-my breastI'm crush'd to atoms, I protest. God bless me-I have dropt my fan, -Pray did you see it, honest man?

In all the gingerbread of state,
And staggering under its own weight.

MRS. SCOT.

Upon my word, it's monstrous fine!
Would half the gold upon't were mine!
How gaudy all the gilding shows!
It puts one's eyes out as it goes.
What a rich glare of various hues,
What shining yellows, scarlets, blues!
It must have cost a heavy price;
'Tis like a mountain drawn by mice.
MRS. BROWN.

So painted, gilded, and so large,
Bless me! 'tis like my lord mayor's barge.
And so it is-look how it reels!
'Tis nothing else-a barge on wheels.

MAN.

Large! it can't pass St. James's gate, So big the coach, the arch so strait, It might be made to rumble through And pass as other coaches do. Could they a body-coachman get So most preposterously fit,

Who'd undertake (and no rare thing) Without a head to drive the king.

MRS. SCOT.

Lard! what are those two ugly things There with their hands upon the springs,

Filthy, as ever eyes beheld,

With naked breasts, and faces swell'd?
What could the saucy maker mean,

To put such things to fright the queen?

MAN.

Oh! they are gods, ma'am, which you see, Of the Marine Society,

Tritons, which in the ocean dwell,
And only rise to blow their shell.

MRS. SCOT.

Gods, d'ye call those filthy men? Why don't they go to sea again? Pray, tell me, sir, you understand, What do these Tritons do on land?

MRS. BROWN.

And what are they? those hindmost things, Men, fish, and birds, with flesh, scales, wings?

MAN.

Oh, they are gods too, like the others,
All of one family and brothers,
Creatures, which seldom come a-shore,
Nor seen about the king before.

For show, they wear the yellow hue,
Their proper colour is true-blue.

MRS. SCOT.

Lord bless us! what's this noise about?

Lord, what a tumult and a rout!

How the folks hollow, hiss, and hoot!
Well-Heav'n preserve the earl of Bute!

I cannot stay, indeed, not I,
If there's a riot I shall die.
Let's make for any house we can,
Do-give us shelter, honest man.

MRS. BROWN.

I wonder'd where you was, my dear, I thought I should have died with fear. This noise and racketing and hurry Has put my nerves in such a flurry! I could not think where you was got, I thought I'd lost you, Mrs. Scot; Where's Mrs. Tape, and Mr. Grin? Lard, I'm so glad we're all got in.

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN THE AUTHOR AND HIS FRIEND.

ર

FRIEND.

You
say, it hurts you to the soul
To brook confinement or controul."
And yet will voluntary run

To that confinement you would shun,
Content to drudge along the track,
With bells and harness on your back,
Alas! what genius can admit
A monthly tax on spendthrift wit,
Which often flings whole stores away,
And oft has not a doit to pay!
-Give us a work, indeed-of length-
Something which speaks poetic strength;
Is sluggish fancy at a stand?

No scheme of consequence in hand?
I, nor your plan, nor book condemn,
But why your name, and why A. M.?

AUTHOR.

Yes it stands forth to public view Within, without, on white, on blue, In proper, tall, gigantic letters, Not dash'd-emvowell'd-like my betters. And though it stares me in the face, Reflects no shame, hints no disgrace. While these unlabour'd trifles please, Familiar chains are worn with ease. -Behold! to yours and my surprise, These trifles to a volume rise. Thus will you see me, as I go, Still gath'ring bulk like balls of snow, Steal by degrees upon your shelf, And grow a giant from an elf. The current studies of the day, Can rarely reach beyond a play: A pamphlet may deserve a look, But Heav'n defend us from a book! A libel flies on scandal's wings, But works of length are heavy things. -Not one in twenty will succeed Consider, sir, how few can read.

FRIEND.

I mean a work of merit

AUTHOR.

True.

FRIEND.

A man of taste must buy.

AUTHOR.

Yes;- You

And half a dozen more, my friend,

Whom your good taste shall recommend.
Experience will by facts prevail,
When argument and reason fail;
The nuptials now-

FRIEND.

Whose nuptials, sir?—
AUTHOR.

A poet's- -did that poem stir?
No-fixt-tho' thousand readers pass,
It still looks through its pane of glass,
And seems indignant to exclaim
"Pass on ye sons of taste, for shame!"
While duly each revolving Moon,
Which often comes, God knows too soon,
Continual plagues my soul molest,
And magazines disturb my rest,
While scarce a night I steal to bed,
Without a couplet in my head.
And in the morning, when I stir,
Pop comes a devil, “ Copy, sir."
I cannot strive with daring flight
To reach the bold Parnassian height;
But at it's foot, content to stray,
In easy unambitious way,

66

Pick up those flowers the Muses send,
To make a nosegay for my friend.
In short, I lay no idle claim

To genius strong, and noisy fame.
But with a hope and wish to please,
I write, as I would live, with ease.

FRIEND.

But you must have a fund, a mine, Prose, poems, letters,

AUTHOR.

Not a line,

And here, my friend, I rest secure;
He can't lose much, who's always poor.
And if, as now, through numbers five,
This work with pleasure kept alive
Can still its currency afford,
Nor fear the breaking of its hoard,
Can pay you, as at sundry times,
For self per Mag, two thousand rhymes,
From whence should apprehension grow,
That self should fail, with richer co?
No doer of a monthly grub,
Myself alone a learned club,
I ask my readers to no treat

Of scientific hash'd-up meat,
Nor seek to please theatric friends,

With scraps of plays, and odds and ends.