Repelling from his breast the raging god;

At length burst out in this prophetic mood:

"Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him reign, 140 To far Barbadoes on the western main;

Of his dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his father's be his throne;
Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his pen !"
He paused, and all the people cried, "Amen."
145 Then thus continued he: "My son, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuosos in five years be writ,

150 Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And in their folly show the writer's wit;

155 Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of sense.
Let them be all by thy own model made
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
160 Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own:
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and differing but in name;
But let no alien Sedley interpose,
To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.

And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst cull,
Trust nature; do not labour to be dull,

But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:

Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill,
And does thy northern dedications fill.

Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name;

Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part:
What share have we in nature, or in art?
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein,
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?






When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,
As thou whole Etherege dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfused, as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play:
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined;
Which makes thy writings lean to one side still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence






Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
195 A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep.
With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
200 Thy inoffensive satires never bite;

In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius call thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics, but mild anagram.

205 Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command, Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.

There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways;
Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit,

210 Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute."

He said: - but his last words were scarcely heard; For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepared, And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, 215 Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, With double portion of his father's art.

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Or these the false Achitophel was first;
A name to all succeeding ages curst:
For close designs, and crooked counsels fit;
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit;
Restless, unfixed in principles and place;
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace;
A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy-body to decay,

And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity,

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high,
He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit,
Would steer too nigh the sands, to boast his wit.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide;
Else, why should he, with wealth and honour blest,
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest?
Punish a body which he could not please;
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease?

And all to leave what with his toil he won,
To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son;
Got, while his soul did huddled notions try;






And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.
In friendship false, implacable in hate;
Resolved to ruin, or to rule the state.
175 To compass this the triple bond he broke;
The pillars of the public safety shook;
And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke;

Then, seized with fear, yet still affecting fame,
Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name.
180 So easy still it proves in factious times,
With public zeal to cancel private crimes.
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill,

Where none can sin against the people's will?

Where crowds can wink, and no offence be known,

185 Since in another's guilt they find their own? Yet fate deserved no enemy can grudge;

The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge.
In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin

With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean, 190 Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress; Swift of despatch, and easy of access,

Oh! had he been content to serve the crown,
With virtue only proper to the gown;

Or had the rankness of the soil been freed
195 From cockle, that oppressed the noble seed;
David for him his tuneful harp had strung,
And heaven had wanted one immortal song.
But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand,
And fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land.

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