And hark! from rock to rock the sound Of winding horn, and deep-mouth'd hound, Breaking with rapture on the ear, Proclaims the blithesome Phoebe near: See where she hastes with eager pace, In vain shall foam, and thirst for sanguine plains. To speak the joys that paint her face. Up hill, down the valley, by thicket or grove: Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds With the notes of the horns, and the cry of the hounds. Let the wretched be slaves to ambition and wealth; All the blessing we ask is the blessing of health. So shall innocence self give a warrant to joys No envy disturbs, no dependance destroys: Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds With the notes of the horn, and the cry of the hounds. O'er hill, dale, and woodland, with rapture we And the heart speaks content in the smiles of the Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds With the notes of the horn, and the cry of the hounds. DAMÆTAS, RECITATIVE. Small care, my friends, your youth annoys, Which only looks to present joy s. SYLVIA. Though the white locks of silver'd age, And long experience hail thee sage; Il suits it in this joy, to wear A brow so over-hung with care. Better with us thy voice to raise, And join a whole Arcadia's praise. DAMÆTAS. With you I joy that Thyrsis reigns The guardian o'er his native plains: But praise is scanty to reveal The speaking blessings all must feel. DAMON. True, all must feel-but thankless too? Nor give to virtue, virtue's due? My grateful heart shall ever show The debt I need not blush to owe. AIR. That I go where I list, that I sing what I please, That my labour's the price of contentment and ease, That no care from abroad my retirement annoys, That my sheep graze secure from the robber or fox; These are blessings I share with the rest of the swains, For it's Thyrsis who gave them, and Thyrsis maintains. DAMÆTAS. RECITATIVE. Perish my voice, if e'er I blame But eye them with a jealous fear. The generous youth forgets his own; The virtue which their sire hath shown, AIR. With joy the parent loves to trace Resemblance in his children's face: And as he forms their docile youth To walk the steady paths of truth, Observes them shooting into men, And lives in them life o'er again. While active sons, with eager flame, Catch virtue at their father's name; When full of glory, full of age, The parent quits this busy stage, What in the sons we most admire, Calls to new life the honour'd sire. SYLVIA. RECITATIVE. O prudent sage, forgive the zeal Of thoughtless youth. With thee I feel, Oh mighty Pan! attend Arcadia's voice, Inspire, direct, and sanctify his choice. AIR. So may all thy sylvan train, Trip it o'er the russet lawn! Though thy Syrinx, like a dream, Bearing all thy hopes away, If again thy heart should burn, Blest, and blessing, May'st thou find a wish'd return. CHORUS. O mighty Pan! attend Arcadia's voice, Inspire, direct, and sanctify his choice. 101 [A dunce of huntsmen and huntresses." AN EPISTLE TO MR. COLMAN. You know, dear George, I'm none of those I vent a notion here in private, Which public taste can ne'er connive at, With easy verse most bards are smitten, Oft bit his nails, and scratch'd his head, To make my meaning clear, and please ye, I have a simile will hit him; His verse, like clothes, was made to fit him, Though I have mentioned Prior's name, Think not I aim at Prior's fame. "Tis the result of admiration To spend itself in imitation; If imitation may be said, Which is in me by nature bred, And you have better proofs than these, Who, but a madman, would engage Write what we will, our works bespeak us Imitatores, servum pecus. Tale, elegy, or lofty ode, We travel in the beaten road: The Moon still shines with borrow'd light, The first advantage which 1 see, (I love a fling at politics) Amuse the nation, court, and king, With breaking Fowke, and hanging Byng; If match'd with something more alike While the sly rogue, who filch'd the prey, Too close beset to run away, "Stop thief! stop thief!" exclaims aloud, And so escapes among the crowd? So ministers, &c. O England, how I mourn thy fate! For sure thy losses now are great; Two such, what Briton can endure, Minorca and the Connoisseur! To day, before the Sun goes down, He dies, whoe'er takes pains to con him, THE PUFF. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE BOOKSELLER AND AUTHOR. PREFIXED TO THE ST. JAMES'S MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER, 1762. BOOKSELLER. MUSEUM, sir! that's not enough. -That Shakspeare is prodigious fine! AUTHOR. Oh! I perceive the thing you meanCall it St. James's Magazine. BOOKSELLER. Or the New British AUTHOR. Oh! no more. One name's as good as half a score. BOOKSELLER. Your method, sir, will never do; You're right in theory, it's true. But then, experience in our trade Says, there's no harm in some parade. Suppose we said, by Mr. Lloyd? AUTHOR. The very thing I would avoid; And wrapt in darkness, laughs unhurt, BOOKSELLER. True but a name will always bring A better sanction to the thing: And all your scribbling foes are such, Their censure cannot hurt you much; And, take the matter ne'er so ill, If you don't print it, sir, they will. AUTHOR. Well, be it so that struggle's o'er➡ Nay, this shall prove one spur the more. Pleas'd if success attends, if not, I've writ my name, and made a blot. BOOKSELLER. But a good print. AUTHOR. The print? why there I trust to honest Leach's' care. BOOKSELLER. You quite mistake the thing I mean, -I'll fetch you, sir, a magazine; You see that picture there-the queen. AUTHOR. A dedication to her too! No, no, my friend, by helps like these, And curve and incidental line Fall out, fall in, and cross each other, Ye tiny poets, tiny wits, Who frisk about on tiny tits, 1 Dryden Leach, a printer of note at that time. C. Who words disjoin, and sweetly sing, Great letters lacing down each line; BOOKSELLER. But would not ornament produce Some real grace and proper use? A frontispiece would have its weight, Neatly engrav'd on copper-plate. AUTHOR. Plain letter-press shall do the feat, What need of foppery to be neat? The paste-board Guard delights me more, That stands to watch a bun-house door 2, Than such a mockery of grace, And ornament so out of place. BOOKSELLER. But one word more, and I have doneA patent might ensure its run. AUTHOR. Patent! for what! can patents give For fame, for honest fame we strive, BOOKSELLER. But should not something, sir, be said, Particular on ev'ry head? What your originals will be, What infinite variety, Multum in parvo, as they say, And something neat in every way? AUTHOR. I wish there could-but that depends Not on myself, so much as friends. I but set up a new machine, With harness tight, and furnish'd clean; 2 This paste-board Guard might have been seen, until within these few years, at various bun-houses and tea-gardens in the vicinity of the metropolis. C. Where such, who think it no disgrace, To send in time, and take a place, The book-keeper shall minute down, And I with pleasure drive to town. BOOKSELLER. Ay, tell them that, sir, and then say, What letters come in every day; And what great wits your care procures, To join their social hands with yours. AUTHOR. What! must I hugè proposals print, Will give their works, and not their name? BOOKSELLER. Get it! Ay, sir, you do but jest, You'll have assistance, and the best. There's Churchill-will not Churchill lend Assistance? AUTHOR. Surely-to his friend. BOOKSELLER. And then your interest might procure Something from either Connoisseur. Colman and Thornton, both will join Their social hand to strengthen thine: And when your name appears in print, Will Garrick never drop a hint? AUTHOR. True, I've indulg'd such hopes before, The friends we wish, the work must make: BOOKSELLER. Perhaps, too, in our way of trade, We might procure some useful aid: Could we engage some able pen, To furnish matter now and then; There's what's his name, sir? would compile, And methodize the news in style. AUTHOR. Take back your newsman whence he came, Carry your crutches to the lame. BOOKSELLER. You must enrich your book, indeed! Bare merit never will succeed; Which readers are not now a-days, By half so apt to buy, as praise; And praise is hardly worth pursuing, Which tickles authors to their ruin. Books shift about like ladies' dress, And there's a fashion in success. But could not we, like little Bayes, Armies imaginary raise? And bid our generals take the field, To head the troops that lie conceal'd? |