Senfe may they seek, and less engage
In papers fill'd with party-rage.
But if their riches fpoil their vein,
Ye Mufes, make them poor again.

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I ftrike the fcales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The facred altar floats with red,

And now he dies, and now he 's dead.
How like the fon of Jove I ftand,
This Hydra ftretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To fee what dangers threat the year :
Ye Gods what fonnets on a wench!
What lean tranflations out of French!
'Tis plain, this lobe is fo unfound,
Sprints, before the months go round.
But hold, before I close the scene,
The facred altar fhould be clean.
Oh had I Shadwell's fecond bays,
Or, Tate! thy pert and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never miss'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine,
(That only way you please the Nine.)
But fince I chance to want these two,
I'll make the fongs of Durfey do.

Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,
I hang the fcales that brac'd it in;

I

I hang

I hang my ftudious morning-gown,
And write my own infcription down.
"This trophy from the Python won,
"This robe, in which the deed was done,
"Thefe, Parnell, glorying in the feat,
"Hung on these shelves, the Mufes feat.
"Here ignorance and hunger found
"Large realms of wit to ravage round:
"Here ignorance and hunger fell :
"Two foes in one I fent to hell.
"Ye poets, who my labours fee,
"Come share the triumph all with me!
"Ye Critics born to vex the Mufe,
"Go mourn the grand ally you lofe."

AN ALLEGORY ON MA N.

A Thoughtful Being, long and spare,

Our race of mortals call him Care

(Were Homer living, well he knew
What name the Gods have call'd him too);
With fine mechanic genius wrought,

And lov'd to work, through no one bought,
This being, by a model bred

In Jove's eternal fable head,

Contriv'd a shape impower'd to breathe,
And be the worldling here beneath.
The man rose staring, like a stake;
Wondering to fee himself awake!

Then look'd fo wife, before he knew
The business he was made to do;
That, pleas'd to fee with what a grace
He gravely fhew'd his forward face,
Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
An under-fomething of the sky.
But ere he gave the mighty nod,
Which ever binds a Poet's God
(For which his curls ambrofial shake,
And mother Earth's oblig'd to quake):
He faw old mother Earth arise,
She stood confefs'd before his eyes;
But not with what we read the wore,
A caftle for a crown before,

Nor with long streets and longer roads
Dangling behind her, like commodes:
As yet with wreaths alone she drest,
And trail'd a landskip-painted veft.
Then thice fhe rais'd, as Ovid faid,
And thrice fhe bow'd her weighty head.
Her honours made, Great Jove, the cry'd,
This thing was fashion'd from my fide:
His hands, his heart, his head, are mine;
'Then what haft thou to call him thine?

Nay rather ask, the Monarch said,
What boots his hand, his heart, his head,

Were what I gave remov'd away?

Thy part 's an idle shape of clay.

Halves, more than halves! cry'd honest Care,

Your pleas would make your titles fair,

You

You claim the body, you the foul,
But I who join'd them, claim the whole.
Thus with the Gods debate began,
On fuch a trivial caufe, as man.
And can celeftial tempers rage?

Quoth Virgil, in a later age.

As thus they wrangled, Time came by;
(There's none that paint him fuch as I,
For what the fabling Ancients fung
Makes Saturn old, when Time was young.)
As yet his winters had not fhed
Their filver honours on his head
He just had got his pinions free,
From his old fire, Eternity.
A ferpent girdled round he wore,
The tail within the mouth, before;
By which our almanacks are clear
That learned Egypt meant the year.
A staff he carry'd, where on high
A glass was fix'd to measure by,
As amber boxes made a fhow

For heads of canes an age ago.
His veft, for day and night, was py'd;
A bending fickle arm'd his fide;

And Spring's new months his train adorn!
The other Seafons were unborn.

Known by the gods, as near he draws,
They make him umpire of the cause.
O'er a low trunk his arm he laid,
Where fince his hours a dial made;

Then leaning heard the nice debate,
And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate.
Since body from the parent Earth,
And foul from Jove receiv'd a birth,
Return they where they firft began ;
But fince their union makes the man,
Till Jove and Earth shall part these two,
To Care who join'd them, man is due.

He faid, and sprung with swift career
To trace a circle for the year;
Where ever fince the Seasons wheel,
And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, faid Jove, and for confent
Thundering he shook the firmament.
Our umpire Time shall have his way,
With Care I let the creature ftay:
Let business vex him, avarice blind,
Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind,
Let error act, opinion speak,

And want afflict, and fickness break,

And anger burn, dejection chill,

And joy diftract, and forrow kill.

Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow,
Time draws the long deftructive blow i
And wasted man, whose quick decay
Comes hurrying on before his day,
Shall only find by this decree,
The foul flies fooner back to me.

AN