An Epistle to A—r M—y, Esq.

You'll, doubtless, M — y, be surpriz'd to see
My rhimes address'd familiarly to thee;
Nine years, or thereabouts, now gone and past
Since the first time I saw you and the last:
But, as epistles 'tis the mode to write,
Witness the Day, and witness too the Night,
Why may not I be modishly employ'd,
And write to you, as Churchill does to Lloyd?

My grave acquaintance may reply, 'tis true,
That I have got much better things to do.
What then? no respite must the jaded mind
From paradox and crabbed problems find?
Must I, perplex'd, continue evermore
On puzzling schemes and diagrams to pore
Dull Philomath himself gets these dismiss'd,
And spends his evenings pleasantly at whist,
Now just as pleasantly I pass my time,
Set in to play an harmless game at rhime.
Severer studies may more nobly please,
But pleasure yields the palm sometimes to ease;
And tho' no great adept in Philo's way
The haut calcul or conjuring algebra;
Yet, entre nous, of that perplexing stuff,
Call'd metaphysicks, I have had enough;
And therefore hope no censor will refuse
An hour's indulgence to an idle muse.
Idle I call her, who ne'er toils to please:
Verse, if I write, 'tis always at my ease.
No poet bred, compleatly careless I,
Whether my Pegasus or creep or fly;
Whether on hobbling feet my lame verse goes,
Or soft and smooth in easy numbers flows;
Whether in lines the rhime and sense chime pat;
To me, as Falstaff says, all's one for that.
Criticks allow, in looser strains 'tis fitting
Epistolary writing should be written.

I smile to see the letter to a friend,
With curious art and studied caution penn'd:
Fill'd with choice terms, and freed from all defect;
So nice! so quaint! so labour'd! so correct!
Nor should I shake my sides much more to see
The messenger, with like propriety,
Take equal caution not to soil or tear it;
And, in a birth-day suit, ride post to bear it.

My plain muse travels in less state the roads;
And brings, for letters, elegies nor odes.
Booted and spurr'd, she leaves her palfry free
Nor picks the flowery paths of poesy,
Culls thee no plants that on the borders smile,
Therewith t'adorn another Desart Isle;
But jogging on, nor seeks, nor shuns the dirt,
Fearless herself, as meaning none to hurt:
And when of flowers of rhetorick in need,
Takes up with high-way furze or hedge-row weed;
And tho' e'en these with safety may not pass
The keen reviewer's hard-mouth'd critic ass;
Here let him crop the literary thistle;
Hard are his gums who grinds this rough epistle.

Authors, you know and actors, as they're call'd
Have been of late unmercifully maul'd;
Whilst, M—y, you, howe'er to own it loth,
A fellow-feeling must have had for both.
Indeed 'twas natural in th' adventurous wit,
Who brav'd at once both coffee-house and pit,
To feel for those engag'd, in either case,
To prove their powers of genius, lungs, or face.
Bold was the man who ventur'd first to sea;
Poh! all's comparative—he bold! —not he.
Bold is the man, indeed, who in this age
Ventures his works, or person, on the stage;
Doom'd to submit to th' insolence of power,
And wait an o'ergrown actor's leisure hour;
To watch his coming at the play-house door,
Or what is worse, the lodgings of his whore;
To bear a manager's insulting airs:
Prime ministers not half so proud as players!
To find himself of all their art in need;
Shewn how to write by those who cannot read;
Or kindly taught to mouth a speech as well
As one who in his life ne'er learn'd to spell.
But, mortified seven years, this penance past,
Suppose himself or play brought on at last;
What is the raging of the stormy seas!
A stormy house no merit can appease:
The gods above may hear the sea-man's prayer;
But gallery gods nor bard nor actor spare.
How have I seen their light'nings flash around,
And dart, in shape of candles, to the ground!
Those flaming instruments of vengeance hurl'd,
Threat'ning destruction to the mimic world!
How have I seen them, wanton in their ire,
Shower down their rattling balls of solid fire:
(Pippins and oranges to mortal eyes),
But thunder-bolts they were in that disguise;
Which th' angry gods, to strike presumption dead,
Aim'd, at th' aspiring player's devoted head!
How have I heard arise the dismal yell,
Where poets damn'd and damning critics dwell;
When now the demons of th' infernal pit
Tear up the lordly thrones on which they sit;
And, wanting lightnings, hurl their seats in rage
With double horrour on th' affrighted stage!
In vain mean while the powers of earth and air
Skreening the destin'd victim from despair;
While heav'n and hell appear at once combin'd
With fate itself against the culprit join'd:
For lo! aloft, beneath a cat-call's form,
Malicious Fun, shrill spirit of the storm!
Pleas'd with the ruin of th' advent'rous wight,
Enjoys the glorious mischief of the night.
Hard lot of Genius! but, as such the rage
Of these tremendous rulers of the stage;
Let me advise thee, tempt thy fate no more,
Where critics groan, fools hiss, and bullies roar.
Forbear to wage with witlings endless war,
But push thy better fortunes at the bar;
No criticks groaning for damnation call,
Within the precincts of Westminster-hall;
Nor gods above, nor devils in the pit,
There pelt their council for his want of wit.
But all are kept in a tremendous awe,
By the dread weight and dullness of the law:
Beneath whose influence, gouty, rich and fat,
May'st thou out-bully N—n and out-patriot P—t!