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Too much satirical and ribaldric Poetry,

Satire has long since done his best; and curst
And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst;
Fancy has sporied all her pow'rs away
In tales, in trifles, and in children's play;
And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true,
Whate'er we write we bring forth nothing new.
'Twere new indeed, to see a bard all fire,

Touch'd with a coat from heav'n, assume the lyre,
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung,
With more than mortal music on his tongue,
That He, who died below, and reigns above,
Inspires the song, and that his name is love.
For, after all, if merely to beguile,

By flowing numbers and a flow'ry style,
The tædium that the lazy rich endure,

Which now and then sweet poetry may cure;
Or, if to see the name of idle self,

Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf,

To float a bubble on the breath of fame,

Prompt his endeavour, and engage his aim,

Sternhold and Hopkins preferred to Pope, &c.

Debas'd to servile purposes of pride,
How are the pow'rs of genius misapplied!
The gift, whose office is the Giver's praise,
To trace him in his word, his works, his ways!
Then spread the rich discov'ry, and invite
Mankind to share in the divine delight.
Distorted from its use and just design,
To make the pitiful possessor shine,
To purchase at the fool-frequented fair
Of vanity, a wreath for self to wear,
Is profanation of the basest kind-

Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind.

A. Hail Sternhold, then; and Hopkins, hail!

B. Amen.

If flatt'ry, folly, lust, employ the pen ;

If acrimony, slander, and abuse,

Give it a charge to blacken and traduce;

Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's ease,
With all that fancy can invent to please,
Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall,

One madrigal of their's is worth them all.

Sternhold and Hopkins preferred to Pope, &c.

A. Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe, To dash the pen through all that you proscribe. B. No matter we could shift when they were not; And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot.

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