A poet does not work by fquare or line,
As fmiths and joiners perfect a defign,

At least we moderns, our attention lefs,
Beyond th' example of our fires, digrefs,
And claim a right to fcamper and run wide,
Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide.
The world and I fortuitoufly met,

I ow'd a trifle and have paid the debt,
She did me wrong, I recompens'd the deed,
And having ftruck the balance, now proceed.
Perhaps, however, as fome years have pass'd,
Since she and I convers'd together laft,

And I have liv'd reclufe in rural fhades,
Which feldom a diftinct report pervades,
Great changes and new manners have occurr'd,
And bleft reforms that I have never heard,
And the may now be as difcreet and wife,

As once abfurd in all difcerning eyes.

Sobriety, perhaps may now be found,
Where once intoxication prefs'd the ground,

The

The fubtle and injurious may be just,

And he grown chafte that was the flave of luft;
Arts once esteem'd may be with fhame difmifs'd,
Charity may relax the mifer's fift,

The gamefter may have caft his cards away,
Forgot to curfe and only kneel to pray.

It has indeed been told me (with what weight,
How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state)
That fables old that feem'd for ever mute,
Reviv'd, are haft'ning into fresh repute,
And gods and goddeffes discarded long,
Like useless lumber or a stroller's fong,
Are bringing into vogue their heathen train,

And Jupiter bids fair to rule again.

That certain feafts are inftituted now,

Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow,

That all Olympus through the country roves,
To confecrate our few remaining groves,

And echo learns politely to repeat,

The praise of names for ages obfolete,

That

That having prov'd the weakness, it should feem,

Of revelation's ineffectual beam,

To bring the paffions under fober fway,

And give the moral fprings their proper play,
They mean to try what may at last be done,
By ftout fubftantial gods of wood and stone,
And whether Roman rites may not produce
The virtues of old Rome for English ufe.
May fuch fuccefs attend the pious plan,
May Mercury once more embellish man,
Grace him again with long forgotten arts,
Reclaim his taste aad brighten up his parts,
Make him athletic as in days of old,
Learn'd at the bar, in the palæstra bold,

Divest the rougher fex of female airs,
And teach the fofter not to copy theirs:

The change fhall pleafe, nor fhall it matter aught
Who works the wonder if it be but wrought.
'Tis time, however, if the cafe stands thus,
For us plain folks, and all who fide with us,

Το

To build our altar, confident and bold,
And say as ftern Elijah faid of old,

The ftrife now stands upon a fair award,

If Is'rael's Lord be God, then ferve the Lord-
If he be filent, faith is all a whim,

Then Baal is the God, and worship him,
Digreffion is fo much in modern ufe,

Thought is fo rare, and fancy fo profuse,
Some never seem so wide of their intent,
As when returning to the theme they meant;
As mendicants, whose business is to roam,
Make ev'ry parish, but their own, their home
Though fuch continual zigzags in a book
Such drunken reelings have an aukward look,
And I had rather creep to what is true,
Than rove and stagger with no mark in view;
Yet to confult a little, feem'd no crime,
The freakish humour of the present time.
But now to gather up what feems difpers'd
And touch the fubject I design'd at first

May

May prove, though much befide the rules of art,

Beft for the public, and my wifeft part.

And first, let no man charge me that I mean

To clothe in fable every focial scene,

And give good company a face fevere,
As if they met around a father's bier;
For tell fome men that pleafure all their bent,
And laughter all their work, is life mifpent,
Their wisdom burfts into this fage reply,
Then mirth is fin, and we fhould always cry.
To find the medium asks some share of wit,
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit..
But though life's valley be a vale of tears,
A brighter fcene beyond that vale appears,
Whofe glory with a light that never fades,
Shoots between fcatter'd rocks and op'ning fhades,

And while it shows the land the foul defires,

The language of the land fhe feeks, infpires.

Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a facred cure
Of all that was abfurd, profane, impure;

Held