Thrown from the Tree of Knowledge, like you, curft

To fcribble in the duft, was Snake the Firft.
Crooked your ways, entangl'd is your Pen,
Ye Sport of Schoolboys! and ye dread of Men!
But tho' Men start, fome filly Nymphs you please,
Who think all Wits, who play the fool with ease,
And now their Tea, their Toilet now you deck,
Glide in the bofom, or curl round the neck;
A Dragon thus the fair Olympia prest,

Charm'd with his spotted Pride, and brazen Creft.

What, if the Figure fhou'd in Fact prove true? It did in Elkenab, why not in You?

Poor Elkenah, all other Changes paft,

For bread, in Smithfield Dragons hift at last,
Spit ftreams of fire, to make the Butchers gape,
And found his Manners fuited to his Shape:

Such

Such is the Fate of talents mifapply'd,

So liv'd your prototype, and so he dy'd.

Th' abandon'd Manners of our writing Train, May tempt mankind to think Religion vain; But in their Fate, their Habit, and their Mein, That Gods there are, is eminently seen.

Heaven's ftands abfolv'd by Vengeance on their Pen, And marks the Murderers of Fame, from Men.

Thro' meager jaws they draw their venal breath, As ghaftly as their Brothers in Macbeth.

Their feet thro' faithlefs leather meet the dirt,
And oftner chang'd their Principles than Shirt.
The tranfient Veftmenrs of these frugal Men

Haften to Paper for our mirth again.

Too foon (O merry-melancholy fate!)

They beg in Rhyme, and warble thro' a Grate:

The

The man lampoon'd forgets it at the Sight;

The Friend thro' pity gives, the Foe thro' Spight; And tho' full confcious of his injur'd purse,

Lintot relents, nor Curl can wish them worse.

So fare the Men, who Writers dare commence
Without their Patent, Probity and Sense.

From thefe, their Politicks our Qidnunc's seek, And Saturday's the learning of the Week.

Thefe labouring Wits, like paviours, mend our ways, With heavy, huge, repeated, flat Effays,

Ram their coarse nonfenfe down, tho' ne'r fo dull,

And hem, at every thump upon your Skull.
Thefe ftaunch-bred Writing-hounds begin the Cry,
And honeft Folly eccho's to the Lye.

O how I laugh, when I a Blockhead see,
Thanking a Villain for his Probity,

Who

Who ftretches out a most respectful ear,
With fnares for Woodcocks in his holy leer:
It tickles thro' my Soul, to hear the Cock's

Sincere Encomium, on his Friend the Fox,
Sole Patron of his Liberties, and Rights!

While graceless Reynard liftens

till he bites.

As when the Trumpet founds, th' o'er-loaded State Discharges all her Poor, and Profligate;

Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons weild,

And Prifons pour their filth into the field;
Thus Nature's refufe, and the Dregs of men,
Compose the black Militia of the Pen.

Nought can restrain fuch Ruffians from a Knife, And a dark Ally, but regard for life;

Nought but rank Cowardice fecures our Throats, From Bravo's at their Pens, and in their Vates.

Such

Such are our Teachers, Britain! go to School,

To ballance Europe, learn from Knave, and Fool.

EPIS