He reads-of Fates that mar,
Of Woes beyond redress,
Of all the Moons that are,

Of Maids that never bless
(As one, indeed, might guess);
Of Vows, of Hopes too high,
Of Dolours by the yard
That none believe (nor buy),—
Defend us from The Bard!

ENVOY.

PRINCE PHOEBUS, all must die,
Or well- or evil-starred,
Or whole of heart or scarred;
But why in this way—why?
Defend us from The Bard!

TO THE LADY DOROTHY NEVILL

[With a Memoir of HORACE WALPOLE]

HERE is HORACE his Life. I have ventured

to draw him

As the Berrys, the Conways, the Montagus saw him:

Very kind to his friends, to the rest only so-so;
A Talker, Fine Gentleman, Wit, Virtuoso;
With-running through all his sham-Gothic gim-
crackery-

A dash of Sévigné, Saint-Simon and Thackeray.

For errors of ignorance, haste, execution,
From You, his descendant, I ask absolution.

TO EDMUND GOSSE

[With a First Edition of Atalanta in Calydon]

AT your pleasure here I hold

"Atalanta snowy-souled: "
Rather smudgy tho',--the gold
Not so brilliant as of old;
FIRST EDITION,-that is plain;
Monogram of J. B. PAYNE

...

Dogg'rel this, but it was reckoned
Metre under GEORGE THE SECOND.
Then a man was thought a Bard
If by striving very hard

He could write-say once a quarter,
Something just as long, or shorter.
Straight they crowned his head with bay,
Nobles took him home to "tay";
Maids of honour for his muse
Quite forgot their "P's" and "Q's."
See his name on all the posts;
People rush to buy in hosts
TONSON'S last impression with
Author's portrait, done by SMITH;
All his little words are quoted;
All his little airs are noted;
And, if he goes trickling on
From his paltry Helicon,
He is made Court-Footman or,
Possibly, Ambassador!

WH

TO THE SAME

[With CHURCHILL's Poems (1763)]

HEN CHURCHILL wrote, th' Aonian maid
He served was scarce of speech afraid;

She used no phrase to circumvent

The homely article she meant,

But plainly called a spade a spade.

Nor was the public much dismayed.
He but his age's law obeyed ;-

They liked to see the bludgeon's dent
When CHURCHILL wrote.

'Tis not so now.

To-day the trade

Demands the finest Sheffield blade;

We use a subtler instrument;

We cut for depth and not extent. .

But would 'twere ours-the Mark they madeWhen CHURCHILL wrote.

TO THE SAME

[With GOLDSMITH's Selected Poems]

GRUB-STREET is Milton Street to-day;

And that antiqua Mater

Whom GOLDSMITH served has passed away; But is our lot the greater?

Ah no! as some lean rascal hides

His misery from his betters,

We wrap our trash in parchment sides,
And call our task-work "Letters."