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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-
plest size,

Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies,
Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise;
A hecatomb of pure unsullied lays
That altar crowns; a folio Commonplace
Founds the whole pile, of all his works the
base:

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,
To the last honours of the Butt and Bays:
O thou! of bus'ness the directing soul
To this our head, like bias to the bowl, 170
Which, as more pond'rous, made its aim
more true,

Obliquely waddling to the mark in view:
Oh! ever gracious to perplex'd mankind,
Still spread a healing mist before the mind;
And, lest we err by Wit's wild dancing
light,

Secure us kindly in our native night.
Or, if to Wit a coxcomb make pretence,
Guard the sure barrier between that and

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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 ?

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rhymes;

Not sulphur-tipt, emblaze an alehouse fire!
Not wrap up oranges to pelt your sire!
O! pass more innocent, in infant state,
To the mild limbo of our Father Tate:
Or peaceably forgot, at once be blest
In Shadwell's bosom with eternal rest! 240
Soon to that mass of nonsense to return,
Where things destroy'd are swept to things
unborn.'

With that, a tear (portentous sign of
grace!)

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;
King John in silence modestly expires:
No merit now the dear Noujuror claims,
Molière's old stubble in a moment flames.
Tears gush'd again, as from pale Priam's
eyes,

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;

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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:
How Prologues into Prefaces decay,

And these to Notes are fritter'd quite

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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

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