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AN EPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL, AUTHOR of the ROSCIAD.
Telumque imbelle ſine ictu Conjecit. VIRG.
By R. LLOYD, M. A.
LONDON: Printed for WILLIAM FLEXNEY, near Grays-Inn Gate, Holborn. MDCCLXI.
ADVERTISEMENT.
[iii]AS in Parts of the following Poem there is an Alluſion to a late delicate Production, it may not be improper to let the Reader into ſome Secrets concerning its Origin, that He may know the Progreſs of Wit, and how dangerous it is for young Adven⯑turers to attack Veterans in the Service, and teach them to pay a due Deference to all diſtinguiſh'd Writers. An Author poſſeſſed of thoſe happy Qua⯑lities which appear ſo notoriouſly in that Publication, viz. MODESTY, DECENCY, and GOOD NATURE, has an indiſputable Right to be believed upon his own Aſ⯑ſertion; and therefore it would be illiberal to doubt, but that he is, as he ought to be, DISTINGUISHED. This Ode then was perform'd by the Maker, as a Coffin to hold the dead Bodies of thoſe unfortunate Heroes ſlain by his redoubtable Pen. A Gentleman it ſeems [iv] unhappily differ'd in Opinion with our Champion, and expreſs'd his Sentiments in a Paper call'd the Craftſman. Out-ſallies the vindictive Knight (I ſhould ſay Squire) to uſe his own Language, does him, ſlaps him into the Coffin, where he laid quietly for ſome Months, till a ſecond Paroxyſm of Indignation, produced a ſecond Murder, and the former Body was obliged to give Place to the latter. The Coffin is nailed down, the Plate alter'd, and the brazen Inſcription informs us C. CHURCHILL died the 12th of June 1761.
HAPPY is the Man that is always prepared for his Enemy, and has "his NAIADS by him ready made." It muſt be allowed that this Gentleman has made huge Strides towards Parnaſſus, and hath ſtrangely walk'd over all our Heads. I wiſh him Joy of hav⯑ing exalted himſelf to the Pinnacle of this aery Moun⯑tain, but beg Leave to remind him, that People ſome⯑times
tolluntur in altum
Ut lapſu graviore cadant.
An EPISTLE to C. CHURCHILL.
[1]IF at a Tavern, where you'd wiſh to dine,
They cheat your Palate with adulterate Wine,
Would you, reſolve me Critics, for you can,
Send for the Maſter up, or chide the Man.
The Man no doubt a knaviſh Buſineſs drives,
But tell me what's the Maſter who connives?
Hence you'll infer, and ſure the Doctrine's true,
Which ſays, no Quarter to a foul Review.
It matters not who vends the nauſeous ſlop,
Maſter or Prentice; we deteſt the Shop.
CRITICS of old, a manly liberal Race,
Approv'd or cenſur'd with an open Face:
Boldly perſu'd the free deciſive Taſk,
Nor ſtabb'd, conceal'd beneath a Ruffian's Maſk.
[2] To Works not Men, with honeſt Warmth ſevere,
Th'impartial Judges laugh'd at Hope or Fear:
Theirs was the noble Skill, with gen'rous Aim,
To fan true Genius to an active Flame;
To bring forth Merit in its ſtrongeſt Light,
Or damn the Blockhead to his native Night.
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,
Tho' modern Witlings are but ſcantly read,
Profeſſors * fail not, who will loudly bawl
In Praiſe of either, with the Want of all.
Hail'd mighty Critics to this preſent Hour.
—The Tribune's Name ſurviv'd the Tribune's Pow'r.
[3]
Now Quack and Critic differ but in Name,
Empirics frontleſs both, they mean the ſame;
This raw in Phyſic, that in Letters freſh,
Both ſpring like Warts, Excreſcence from the Fleſh.
Half form'd, half bred in Printers' hireling Schools,
For all Profeſſions have their Rogues and Fools,
Tho' the pert Witling, or the coward Knave,
Caſts no Reflection on the Wiſe or Brave.
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 Rime,
Fool lives, and ſhines out Fool to lateſt Time.
PITY perhaps might with a harmleſs Fool,
To ſcape the Obſervance of the Critic School;
[4] 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 Sake,
And ſtung with Rage, and piouſly ſevere,
Wiſh bitter Comforts to your dying Ear;
If ſome ſmall Wit, ſome ſix-lin'd Verſeman, rakes
For quaint Reflections in the putrid Jakes,
Talents uſurp'd, demand a Cenſor's Rage,
A Dunce is Dunce proſcrib'd in ev'ry Age.
COURTIER, Phyſician, Lawyer, Parſon, Cit,
All, all are Objects of Theatric Wit.
Are ye then, Actors, priviledg'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?
[5]
THOUGH Grays-Inn Wits with Author Squire's unite,
And ſelf-made Giants club their labour'd Mite,
Though pointleſs Satire make its weak Eſcape
In the dull Babble of a mimic Ape,
Boldly perſue where Genius points the Way,
Nor heed what monthly puny Critics ſay.
Firm in thyſelf with calm Indifference ſmile,
When the wiſe Vet'ran knows you by your Stile,
With critic Scales weighs out the partial Wit,
What I, or You, or He, or no one writ;
Denying thee thy juſt and proper Worth,
But to give Falſhood's ſpurious Iſſue Birth;
And all ſelf-will'd with lawleſs Hand to raiſe
Malicious Slander on the Baſe of Praiſe.
DISGRACE eternal wait the Wretch's Name
Who lives on Credit of a borrow'd Fame;
Who wears the Trappings of another's Wit,
Or fathers Bantlings which he cou'd not get.
But ſhrewd Suſpicion with her ſquinting Eye
To Truth declar'd, prefers a whiſper'd Lye.
[6] With greedy Mind the proffer'd Tale believes,
Relates her Wiſhes, and with Joy deceives.
THE World, a pompous Name, by Cuſtom due
To the ſmall Circle of a talking few,
With heart-felt Glee th'injurious Tale repeats,
And ſends the Whiſper buzzing through the Streets.
The Prude demure with ſober ſaint-like Air,
Pities her Neighbour for ſhe's wondrous fair.
And, when Temptations lie before our Feet,
Beauty is frail, and Females indiſcreet.
She hopes the Nymph will every Danger ſhun,
Yet prays devoutly—that the Deed were done.
Mean Time ſits watching for the daily Lie,
As Spiders lurk to catch a ſimple Fly.
YET is not Scandal to one Sex confin'd,
Though Men would fix it on the weaker Kind.
Yes, this great Lord, Creation's Maſter Man,
Will vent his Malice where the Blockhead can,
Imputing Crimes, of which e'en Thought is free,
For Inſtance now, your ROSCIAD all to me.
[7]
IF partial Friendſhip in thy ſterling Lays
Grows all too wanton in another's Praiſe,
Critics who judge by Ways themſelves have known,
Shall ſwear the Praiſe, the Poem is my own;
For 'tis the Method in theſe learned Days
For Wits to ſcribble firſt, and after praiſe.
Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched Stuff,
And help out Nonſenſe by a monthly Puff,
Exalt to Giant's Forms weak puny Elves,
And deſcant ſweetly on their own dear ſelves;
For Works per Month by Learning's Midwives paid,
Demand a Puffing in the Way of Trade.
RESERV'D and cautious with no partial Aim,
My Muſe e'er ſought to blaſt another's Fame.
With willing Hand cou'd twine a Rival's Bays,
From Candour ſilent where ſhe cou'd not praiſe.
But if vile Rancour, from (no Matter who)
Actor, or Mimic, Printer, or Review,
Lies oft o'erthrown with ceaſeleſs Venom ſpread,
Still hiſs out Scandal from their Hydra Head,
[8] If the dull Malice boldly walk the Town,
Patience herſelf wou'd wrinkle to a Frown.
Come then with Juſtice draw the ready Pen,
Give me the Works, I wou'd not know the Men.
All in their Turns might make Repriſals too,
Had all the Patience but to read them through.
Come, to the utmoſt, probe the deſperate Wound,
Nor ſpare the Knife where'er Infection's found.
BUT Prudence, CHURCHILL, or her Siſter Fear,
Whiſpers Forbearance to my fright'ned Ear.
Oh! then with me forſake the thorny Road,
Leſt we ſhould flounder in ſome Fleet-Ditch Ode,
And ſunk for ever in the lazy Flood,
Weep with the NAIADS heavy Drops of Mud.
HAIL mighty Ode! which like a Picture Frame,
Hold any Portrait, and with any Name;
Or like your Nitches planted thick and thin,
Will ſerve to cram the Random Hero in.
[9]
HAIL mighty Bard too—whatſoe'er thy Name,
—or DURFY, for it's all the ſame.
To Brother Bards ſhall equal Praiſe belong,
For Wit, for Genius, Comedy and Song.
No coſtive Muſe is thine, which freely rakes
With eaſe familiar in the well known Jakes,
Happy in Skill to ſouſe through foul and fair,
And toſs the Dung out with a lordly Air.
So have I ſeen amidſt the grinning Throng
The Sledge Proceſſion ſlowly dragg'd along,
Where the mock Female Shrew and hen-peck'd Male
Scoop'd rich Contents from either copious Pail,
Call'd Burſts of Laughter from the roaring Rout,
And daſh'd and ſplaſh'd the filthy Grains about.
QUIT then, my Friend, the Muſes lov'd Abode,
Alas! they lead not to Preferment's Road,
Be ſolemn, ſad, put on the prieſtly Frown,
Be dull, 'tis ſacred, and becomes the Gown.
Leave Wit to others, do a Chriſtian Deed,
Your Foes ſhall thank you, for they know their Need.
[10]
BROAD is the Path by Learning's Sons poſſeſs'd
A thouſand modern Wits might walk abreaſt,
Did not each Poet mourn his luckleſs Doom
Joſtled by Pedants out of Elbow Room.
I, who nor court their Love, nor fear their Hate,
Muſt mourn in Silence o'er the Muſes Fate.
No Right of Common now on Pindus' Hill,
While all our Tenures are by Critics Will.
Where, watchful Guardians of the Lady Muſe,
Dwell monſtrous Giants, dreadful tall REVIEWS,
Who, as we read in fam'd Romance of Yore,
Sound but a Horn preſs forward to the Door.
But let ſome Chief, ſome bold advent'rous Knight,
Provoke theſe Champions to an equal Fight,
Strait into Air to ſpaceleſs nothing fall
The Caſtle, Lions, Giants, Dwarf and all.
ILL it befits with undiſcerning Rage
To cenſure Giants in this poliſh'd Age.
No lack of Genius ſtains theſe happy Times,
No Want of Learning, and no Dearth of Rimes.
[11] The ſee-ſaw Muſe that flows by meaſur'd Laws,
In tuneful Numbers, and affected Pauſe,
With Sound alone, Sound's happy Virtue fraught,
Which hates the Trouble, and Expence of Thought,
Once, every Moon, throughout the circling Year
With Even Cadence charms the critic Ear.
While, dire Promoter of Poetic Sin,
A Magazine muſt hand the Lady in.
HOW Moderns write, how nervous, ſtrong and well,
The ANTI-ROSCIAD'S decent Muſe does tell.
Which, while ſhe ſtrives to cleanſe each Actor hurt,
Daubs with her Praiſe, and rubs him into Dirt.
SURE never yet was happy Aera known
So gay, ſo wiſe, ſo taſteful as our own.
Our curious Hiſtories riſe at once COMPLETE,
Yet ſtill continued, as they're paid, per Sheet.
SEE every Science which the World wou'd know,
Your Magazines ſhall every Month beſtow,
[12] Whoſe very Titles fill the Mind with Awe,
Imperial, Chriſtian, Royal, Britiſh, Law;
Their rich Contents will every Reader fit,
Stateſman, Divine, Philoſopher and Wit;
Compendious Schemes! which teach all Things at once,
And make a pedant Coxcomb of a Dunce.
BUT let not Anger to ſuch Frenzy grow,
Drawcanſir like, to ſtrike down Friend and Foe.
To real Worth be Homage duly paid,
But no Allowance to the paltry Trade.
My Friends I name not (though I boaſt a few,
To Me an Honour and to Letters too)
Fain would I praiſe, but when ſuch Things oppoſe
My Praiſe of Courſe muſt make them—'s Foes.
IF manly JOHNSON, with ſatyric Rage,
Laſh the dull Follies of a trifling Age,
If his ſtrong Muſe with genuine Strength aſpire,
Glows not the Reader with the Poet's Fire?
HIS the true Fire, where creep the witling Fry
To warm themſelves, and light their Ruſhlights by.
[13]
WHAT Muſe like GRAY'S ſhall pleaſing penſive flow
Attemper'd ſweetly to the ruſtic Woe?
Or who like him ſhall ſweep the Theban Lyre,
And, as his Maſter, pour forth Thoughts of Fire?
E'EN now to guard afflicted Learning's Cauſe,
To judge by Reaſon's Rules, and Nature's Laws,
Boaſt we true Critics in their proper Right,
While LOWTH and Learning, HURD and Taſte unite.
HAIL ſacred Names—Oh arm'd with honeſt Rage,
Save your lov'd Miſtreſs from a Ruffian's Rage;
See how ſhe gaſps and ſtruggles hard for Life,
Her Wounds all bleeding from the Butcher's Knife:
Critics, like Surgeons, bleſt with curious Art,
Shou'd mark each Paſſage to the human Heart,
But not unſkilful, yet with lordly Air
Read Surgeon's Lectures while they ſcalp and tear.
To Names like theſe, I pay the hearty Vow,
Proud of their Worth, and not aſham'd to bow.
[14] To theſe inſcribe my rude, but honeſt Lays,
And feel the Pleaſures of my conſcious Praiſe.
Not that I mean to court each letter'd Name,
And poorly glimmer from reflected Fame,
But that the Muſe which owns no ſervile Fear,
Is proud to pay her willing Tribute here.
FINIS.
Notes
*
The Author takes this Opportunity, notwithſtanding all Inſinuations to the contrary, to declare, that he has no particular Aim at a Gentleman, whoſe Abilities he ſufficiently acknowledges.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3551 An epistle to C Churchill author of The rosciad By R Lloyd M A. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5FBA-9