There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year, Dry bodies of Divinity appear: De Lyra there a dreadful front extends, And here the groaning shelves Philemon bends. Of these, twelve volumes, twelve of am- Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies, 160 Quartos, octavos, shape the less'ning pyre, A twisted Birth-day Ode completes the spire. Then he: 'Great tamer of all human art! First in my care, and ever at my heart; Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end, E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig was praise, Obliquely waddling to the mark in view: Secure us kindly in our native night. Some Daemon stole my pen (forgive th' offence), And once betray'd me into common sense: Else all my prose and verse were much the same; 189 This prose on stilts, that poetry fall'n lame. Did on the stage my fops appear confin'd? My life gave ampler lessons to mankind. Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove? The brisk example never fail'd to move. Yet sure, had Heav'n decreed to save the state, Heav'n had decreed these works a longer date. Could Troy be saved by any single hand, This gray-goose weapon must have made her stand. What can I now ? my Fletcher cast aside, Take up the Bible, once my better guide? Or tread the path by venturous heroes trod, 201 This box my Thunder, this right hand my God? Or chair'd at White's, amidst the doctors sit, Teach oaths to Gamesters, and to Nobles Wit ? rhymes; Not sulphur-tipt, emblaze an alehouse fire! With that, a tear (portentous sign of Stole from the master of the sev❜nfold face; And thrice he lifted high the Birthday brand, And thrice he dropt it from his quiv'ring hand; Then lights the structure with averted eyes: The rolling smoke involves the sacrifice. The opening clouds disclose each work by turns, Now flames the Cid, and now Perolla burns; 250 Great Cæsar roars and hisses in the fires; When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies. Rous'd by the light, old Dulness heav'd the head, Then snatch'd a sheet of Thulé from her bed; Prose swell'd to verse, verse loit'ring into prose: How random thoughts now meaning chance to find, Now leave all memory of sense behind: And these to Notes are fritter'd quite The King being proclaimed, the solemnity is graced with public games and sports of various kinds; not instituted by the Hero, as by Eneas in Virgil, but for greater honour by the Goddess in person (in like manner as the games Pythia, Isthmia, &c. were anciently said to be ordained by the Gods, and as Thetis herself appearing, according to Homer, Odyssey xxiv. proposed the prizes in honour of her son Achilles). Hither flock the Poets and Critics, attended. as is but just, with their Patrons and Booksellers. The Goddess is first pleased, for her disport, to propose games to the Booksellers, and setteth up the phantom of a Poet, which they contend to overtake. The Races described, with their divers accidents. Next, the game for a Poetess. Then follow the exercises for the Poets, of tickling, vociferating, diving; the first holds forth the arts and practices of Dedicators, the second of Disputants and fustian Poets, the third of profound, dark, and dirty Party-writers. Lastly, for the Critics the Goddess proposes (with great propriety) an exercise, not of their parts, but their patience, in hearing the works of two voluminous authors, the one in verse and the other in prose, deliberately read, without sleeping; the varions effects of which, with the several degrees and manners of their operation, are here set forth, till the whole number, not of Critics only, but of spectators, actors, and all present, fall fast asleep; which naturally and necessarily ends the games. HIGH on a gorgeous seat, that far outshone Henley's gilt tub or Fleckno's Irish throne, Or that whereon her Curlls the public |