A Familiar

EPISTLE

TO THE

Earl of Sunderland,

One of the

Lords Justices of England.

In publica peccem,

Si, longo Sermone, morer tua Tempora --- Hor.

Oaded, my Lok D, with Cares of State;
Prefs'd by the Wealthy and the Great z
Fatigued for GEORGE and Britain's Good;

Crown'd with Succefs, tho' much withstood:

Poftpone your Toil; Deign to perufe

The LITTLE LEVITES, a MUSE,

Not over-gay, at present fends,

To make you smile and please your Friends.
'Tis no new Thing for Bards, with Letters,
In Metre, to addrefs their Betters,

Without being thought UN BRED or RUDE:
Verse must be very bad t' INTRUDE.

This was the constant Trade of Horace,

And others (whom you've read) before us.

But ftop, advent'rous Muse, thy Flight,
Confider well before you write,
Important are his Lordship's Hours}
Not Voide and Humorous, like yours;
The Fate of Empires is his Care,
A glorious Peace! or lawful Warf

Befides, you must not write in hafte;.

His JUDGMENT's good; refin'd his TASTE.
Politeft Learning, brightest Wit;

Whatever with Applaufe is writ: 1 NI

(Whether recorded by the Lore,

In ancient Archives dufty Store;
Or, whether to the Height are brought
Sciences, by modern Thought) ::
These are his Fav'rites, and, of course,
His Conversations can't be worse. L'u?

Think I, thefe Thoughts are juft and true;
A Letter from Kinfale won't do:
Cloudy's the Climate, Poor the Land;
Verfe thrives not on the barren Sand:

Forc'd too from Town; Nay, banifh'd quite,
It is impoffible to write!

Albeit, herein fome Comfort lies,
Bank-Stock and South-Sea mainly rife
Nay, Bubbles turn to folid Good;
Difcharge my Rent, and buy me Food.
And as kind Fate increases Wealth,
So, Wife and Children are in Health.

i

But, if I write, what fhall I fay TJ

An Irish Tale

Once on a Day, &c.

No, No! Be Wife; fink, for this Time,

Thy Love for SUNDERLAND, and RHIMENO.

What is't to Him, that at Kinfale Our Claret's bad, and worfe our Ale? Or, that our Rum and Brandy's good, As e'er was tip'd, or fir'd Mens Blood? And that there is no cheaper Thing Sold in this Town?

GOD blefs the KING!

It muft, for Certain, be amifs,
To fend fuch trifling Stuff, as This:

F 5

To tell him, That the Folk in Town,

For want of War, are quite undone ;
That they have no Eftates in Lands;
And that their Time hangs on their Hands;
How Haddock fnarls at Griffy Beven,
How Jerry laughs from Six t Eleven,
How most Men live at Six and Seven.
In short, the Humours of this Town,
In Piccadilly, will not down:
Neither the Billingsgate of Scilly,
Nor the dry Jokes of Bowler Billy.
And if I fteer Killala-Courfe,

That Journal will be worfe and worse.

Think, Then, I muft, before I write,
And so, be thinking what t' indite ;
I found in this Corrected Age,

Our Diction Chafte, and Juft our Rage:
I found the Wits were strictly taught
Propriety of Style and Thought:

And ftrait on choiceft modern Rhyme,
Imploy'd my Curious, well-fpent Time!
For, truly, of the Claffick-kind,
Little, in our Old Bards, I find.

TO ADDISON 1 first apply'd; Poet, and Orator befide!

Much

Much his Great Name to Juftness owes,
When higheft fwell'd, he ne'er o'er-flows;
And, when the dangerous Deep he fhuns,
Tho' Low, yet Clear and Sweet he runs :
Cool Judgment tempers bottest Fire;

Art guides, what Genius does infpire.

While Garth, with Labour, ftrives to please,
Pope verfifies with perfect Eafe;

While Pope, in Female Softness, shines,
Garth languishes in Manlier Lines.
Both have their Beauties, Both excel
In Thinking, and in Writing well.

Philips I'ye read: He's Pure, He's Terfe,
Sound is his Senfe, and fmooth his Verfe.
AH could he court the Groves again;
And charm a-new th' admiring Swain!
Again, frequent the Mufe's Throng,...
And finish Thule's heav'nly Song!

I've read too (not without Delight) What Tickell, and what Welfted Write; Nature's own Beauties they purfue, Their Stile correct, their Manner new.

This when I'd done, with ftrictest Care,

I ftop'd my own vain fond Career ;