But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common

draught.

They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, And teach dull harlequins to grin in vain.

How shall our author hope a gentler fate,
Who dares most impudently not translate?
It had been civil, in these ticklish times,
To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes,
Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end,
But spare old England, lest you hurt a friend.
If any fool is by our satire bit,

Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit.
Poets make characters, as salesmen clothes;
We take no measure of your fops and beaux;
But here all sizes and all shapes you meet,
And fit yourselves like chaps in Monmouth Street.
Gallants, look here! this fool's cap has an air,
Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar.
Let no one fool engross it, or confine

A common blessing! now 'tis yours, now mine.
But poets in all ages had the care

To keep this сар, for such as will, to wear.
Our author has it now (for every wit

Of course resign'd it to the next that writ)
And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown; 3
Let him that takes it wear it as his own.

2 Shows a cap with ears.

3 Flings down the cap, and exit.

SANDYS' GHOST;

OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S

METAMORPHOSES: AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY.2

YE Lords and Commons, men of wit

And pleasure about town,
Read this, ere you translate one bit

Of books of high renown.

Beware of Latin authors all,

Nor think your verses sterling,
Though with a golden pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a Berlin :

For not the desk with silver nails,

Nor standish well japann'd, avails

To writing of good sense.

1 George Sandys, the old, and as yet unequalled, translator of Ovid's Metamorphoses.

A note prefixed to this poem in Roscoe's ed. of Pope's Works informs us that "Sir Samuel Garth, who published the Metamorphoses of Ovid, translated by Dryden, Addison, Garth, Mainwaring, Congreve, Rowe, Pope, Gay, Eusden, Croxal, and other eminent hands,' had himself no other share in the undertaking, than engaging the various translators in their task, and putting their labours into some order." The fact is, Sir Samuel translated the whole of the 14th Book, and the story of Cippus in the 15th Book of the Metamorphoses.

Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,

In woful wise did sore affrigh

A wit and courtly 'squire.

Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth!
Like puppy tame, that uses
To fetch and carry in his mouth
The works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil;
And sell his soul for vanity
To rhyming and the devil?

A desk he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Though Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
Forth popp'd the sprite so thin,
And from the keyhole bolted out,

All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff compos'd most duly,
This 'squire he dropp'd his pen full soon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye!
Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right,
To Budgell seek or Carey.

VOL. II.

P

I hear the beat of Jacob's3 drums,

Poor Ovid finds no quarter!

Then lords and lordlings, 'squires and knights, Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers:

Garth at St. James's, and at White's,

Beats up for volunteers.

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,

Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,

Tom Burnet, or Tom D'Urfey may,
John Dunton, Steele, or any one.

If Justice Philips' costive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses:

They shall like Persian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

Let Warwick's Muse with Ash-t join,
And Ozell's with Lord Hervey's,

Tickell and Addison combine,

And Pope translate with Jervas.

L- himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,
Shall join with F— in one accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.

⚫ Old Jacob Tonson, the publisher of the Metamorphoses.

Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;

I

pray, where can the hurt lie? Since you have brains as well as men, As witness Lady Wortley.

Now, Tonson, list thy forces all,
Review them and tell noses:
For to poor Ovid shall befall
A strange metamorphosis;

A metamorphosis more strange

Than all his books can vapour

"To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change?" Quoth Sandys, "To waste paper."

UMBRA.'

CLOSE to the best known author Umbra sits, The constant index to old Button's wits, "Who's here?" cries Umbra: "Only Johnson."? "O!

Your slave," and exit; but returns with Rowe :
"Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies:"
Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel,
And in a moment fastens upon Steele;

Intended, it is said, for Ambrose Philips
Charles Johnson, a third rate dramatist.