CANDIDATE.
NOUGH of Actors-let them play the play'r,
And, free from cenfure, fret, fweat, ftrut,
and stare.
GARRICK abroad, what motives can engage
To waste one couplet on a barren stage?
Ungrateful GARRICK! when these tasty days,
In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise,
When, at thy bidding, Senfe, for twenty years,
Indulg'd in laughter, or diffolv'd in tears,
When, in return for labour, time, and health,
The Town had giv'n fome little fhare of wealth,
Could'ft Thou repine at being still a slave?
Dar'ft Thou prefume t' enjoy that wealth She gave?
Could'st Thou repine at laws ordain'd by Those,
Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes,
Whom, too refin'd for honesty and trade,
By need made tradesmen, Pride had Bankrupts made,
Whom Fear made Drunkards, and, by modern rules,
Whom Drink made Wits, tho' Nature made them
Fools?
With Such, beyond all pardon is thy crime,
In fuch a manner, and at fuch a time,
To quit the ftage, but Men of real Senfe
Who neither lightly give, nor take offence,
Shall own Thee clear, or pafs an act of grace
Since Thou haft left a POWELL in thy place.
Enough
Enough of Authors-why, when Scribblers fail,
Muft other Scribblers fpread the hateful tale,
Why muft they pity, why contempt express,
And why infult a Brother in distress?
Let Thofe, who boast th' uncommon gift of brains,
The Laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains,
Fresh on their brows for ages let It bloom,
And, ages paft, ftill flourish round their tomb.
Let Thofe, who without Genius write, and write,
Versemen or Profemen, all in Nature's fpite,
The Pen laid down, their courfe of Folly run,
In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone.
Why should I tell to cross the will of fate,
That FRANCIS once endeavour'd to tranflate?
Why, fweet Oblivion winding round his head,
Should I recall poor MURPHY from the dead?
Why may not LANGHORNE, fimple in his lay,
Effufion on Effufion pour away,
With Friendship, and with Fancy trifle here,
Or fleep in Paftoral at BELVIDERE?
Sleep let them all, with DULLNESS on her throne,
Secure from any malice, but their own.
Enough of Critics-let them, if they please, Fond of new pomp, each month país new decrees; Wide and extensive be their infant State, Their Subjects many, and those Subjects great, Whilft all their mandates as found Law fucceed, With Fools who write, and greater fools who read. What, tho' they lay the realms of Genius wafte, Fetter the Fancy, and debauch the Taste;
|