Oh, where's the Bard, who at one view Cou'd look the whole creation through, Who travers'd all the human heart, Without recourse to Grecian art? He scorn'd the modes of imitation, And tore the leaf from Nature's book. AN EPISTLE то C. CHURCHILL, Author of the Rosciad. Ir at a Tavern, where you'd wish to dine, Critics of old, a manly liberal race, Approv'd or censur'd with an open face: Boldly pursu'd the free decisive task, Nor stabb'd, conceal'd beneath a ruffian's mask; But, as all states are subject to decay, The state of letters too will.melt away; Smit with the harlot charms of trilling sound Softness now wantons e'en on Roman ground; Where Thebans, Spartans, sought their honour'd graves, Behold a weak enervate race of slaves. In classic lore, deep science, language dead, Now Quack and Critic differ but in name, Empirics frontless both, they mean the same; This raw in Physic, that in Letters fresh, Yet, in these leaden times, this idle age, When, blind with dulness, or as blind with rage, Author 'gainst author rails with venom curst, And happy He who calls out blockhead first; From the low earth aspiring genius springs, And sails triumphant, born on eagle wings. No toothless spleen, no venom'd critic's aim, Shall rob thee, Churchill, of thy proper fame; While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous rhyme, Fool lives, and shines out fool to latest time. Pity perhaps might wish a harmless fool To scape th' observance of the critic school; But if low malice, leagu'd with folly, rise, Arm'd with invectives, and hedg'd round with lies; Should wakeful dulness, if she ever wake, Write sleepy nonsense but for writing's sake, And, stung with rage, and piously severe, Wish bitter comforts to your dying ear; If some small wit, some silk-lin'd verseman, rakes Courtier, physician, lawyer, parson, cit, All, all are objects of theatric wit. Are ye then, Actors, privileg'd alone, To make that weapon, ridicule, your own? Professions bleed not from his just attack, Who laughs at pedant, coxcomb, knave, or quack; Fools on and off the stage are fools the same, And every dunce is satire's lawful game. Freely you thought, where thought has free'st room, Why then apologize for what? to whom? Though Gray's-Inn wits with author squires unite, Boldly pursue where genius points the way, |