PO E M S. EM

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN THE AUTHOR AND HIS FRIEND.

FRIEND.

You
YOU fay," it hurts you to the soul

To brook confinement or controul."

And yet will voluntary run

To that confinement you would shun,
Content to drudge along the track,
With bells and harness on your back.
Alas! what genius can admit
A monthly tax on spendthrift wit,
Which often flings whole ftores away,
And oft has not a doit to pay !

-Give us a work, indeed-of length-
Something which speaks poetic ftrength;
Is fluggish fancy at a stand? `

No scheme of confequence in hand?

VOL. II.

A

I, nor

I, nor your plan, nor book condemn,
But why your name, and why A, M?

AUTHOR.

Yes-it ftands forth to public view,
Within, without, on white, on blue,
In proper, tall, gigantic Letters,

Not dafh'd-emvowell'd-like my betters.
And though it ftares me in the face,
Reflects no fhame, hints no difgrace.
While these unlaboured trifles please,
Familiar chains are worn with ease.
-Behold! to yours and my furprize,
Thefe trifles to a VOLUME rife.
Thus will you fee me, as I go,
Still gath'ring bulk like balls of snow,
Steal by degrees upon your shelf,
And grow a giant from an elf.
The current ftudies of the day,
Can rarely reach beyond a PLAY:
A PAMPHLET may deferve a look,
But Heav'n defend us from a Book!
A LIBEL flies on Scandal's wings,
But works of length are heavy things.
-Not one in twenty will fucceed-
Confider, fir, how few can read.

FRIEND.

FRIEn d.

mean a work of merit

AUTHOR.

True.

FR. I END.

A man of Tafte MUST buy.

AUTHOR.

Yes; You

And half a dozen more, my friend,

Whom your good Tafte fhall recommend.

Experience will by facts prevail,

When argument and reafon fail;

The NUPTIALS now

FRIEND.

Whofe nuptials, fir

AUTHOR.

A Poet's did that poem ftir? No-fixt-tho' thoufand readers pafs, It still looks through its pane of glass, And feems indignant to exclaim

Pafs on ye Sons of TASTE, for fhame!

While duly each revolving moon, Which often comes, God knows too foon, Continual plagues my foul moleft,

And Magazines disturb my reft,

While fcarce a night I fteal to bed,
Without a couplet in my head,
And in the morning, when I ftir,
Pop comes a Devil, "Copy fir."
I cannot ftrive with daring flight
To reach the bold Parnaffian HEIGHT;
But at its foot, content to ftray,

In eafy unambitious way,

Pick up thofe flowers the mufes fend,
To make a nofegay for my friend.
In fhort, I lay no idle claim

To genius ftrong, and noisy fame.
But with a hope and wish to please,
I write, as I would live, with ease.

FRIEND.

But you muft have a fund, a mine, Profe, poems, letters

AUTHOR.

Not a line.

And here, my friend, I rest secure;
He can't lose much, who's always poor.
And if, as now, thro' numbers five,
This work with pleasure kept alive,
Can ftill its currency afford,

Nor fear the breaking of its hoard,

Can

Can pay you, as at fundry times,
For felf per Mag, two thousand Rhimes,
From whence fhould apprehenfion grow,
That felf fhould fail, with richer Co?

No doer of a monthly grub,
Myfelf alone a learned club,

I ask my readers to no treat
Of fcientifick hash'd-up meat,
Nor feek to please theatric friends

With scraps of plays, and odds and ends.

FRIEN D.

Your method, fir, is plain enough; And all the world has read your PUFF.* Th' allufion's neat, expreffion clean, About your travelling MACHINE,

Why let it be, and wherefore fhame? As JULIET fays, what's in a name ? Befides it is the way of trade,

Through which all science is convey'd,

}

* See a Poem, called the PUFF, in the firft Volume of Mr. Lloyd's Magazine.