AN EPISTLE To the Right Honourable PHILIP, Earl of Cheſterfield, &c.
[1]O CHESTERFIELD! My Patron and my Pride,
In whom does all that's Great and Good reſide;
Noble by Birth, by Liberal Arts refin'd;
Delight of Heav'n, and Darling of Mankind!
The publick Patriot, and the private Friend;
[2]To hated Indolence no more impute
The Muſe's Silence, if, hereafter mute,
She quits her former Toils for future Eaſe;
And checks that Genius which (perhaps) might pleaſe.
'Tis Time my fruitleſs Labours to decline,
When all Men's Works can climb the Stage, but mine:
When, in my ſtead, behold! a motley Herd
Of upſtart Witlings to my ſelf preferr'd.
Not ſo when Booth, Wilks, Cibber, rul'd the Stage,
Dramatick Ornaments of this our Age:
My ſmall Attempts to pleaſe were then approv'd,
And not for ev'ry trifling Farce remov'd.
Booth ever ſhew'd me Friendſhip and Reſpect,
And Wilks wou'd rather forward than reject.
Ev'n Cibber, Terror to the Scribbling Crew!
Would oft Sollicit me for ſomething New.
Now, Younger Rulers Younger Authors take,
[3]Theſe handy Hirelings can, in half a Day,
Steal a new Ballad FARCE from ſome old PLAY;
To mangled Scraps of many an Ancient Tune
Tagg Feetleſs Jingle, Jarring and Jejune;
The jaded Play'rs with equal haſte rehearſe,
'Till Sing Song limps, to Horrid! Hobbling Verſe.
Tho' Blunder follows Blunder, Line by Line,
The 'Squire is taught to think 'tis wond'rous Fine!
It ſuits his Taſte, he gives his plaudit Voice,
And ſhews his Underſtanding in his Choice.
Framing Conceptions both of Men and Things,
Juſt as Sir Figg directs his Leading-Strings:
Sir Figg, grand Maſter of the double Sneer,
Who, when He moſt deceives, ſeems moſt Sincere;
Diſſembler Born, but much improv'd by Art,
A Friendly Aſpect, an Infernal Heart:
The Miſchievous, the Buſy Go between
Eaſy 'Squire Amb's-Ace, and ſly Harlequin;
Who, like two wrangling Counſellors at Bar,
[4]But yet, in Private, like dear Friends careſs,
And form Deſigns, poor Players to diſtreſs.
Woe to the Stage! if once their Schemes Succeed;
Actors will then be Abject Slaves indeed:
Poets had better lay their Pens aſide,
Than tamely truckle to Stage Tyrant's Pride;
Who, Vain and Partial, keep Old Authors down,
To force their own Low Trump'ry on the Town.
Why to ſuch Wretches ſhould I yeild my Cauſe,
So lately honour'd with ſo much Applauſe?
My little Ballads ſtill on ev'ry Tongue,
Are in politeſt Converſation Sung:
Nor can ſevereſt Cenſure trace one Line.
That tends to Vice, in any Verſe of mine.
To pleaſe and yet inſtruct is all my Aim,
Let Venal Poetaſters boaſt the ſame;
Whoſe utmoſt Views are to corrupt the Taſte,
To ſooth the Vicious, and to ſhock the Chaſte;
[5]And, quite eſtrang'd to any Senſe of Shame,
Make Women ſpeak what Rakes wou'd bluſh to name;
Then, in Excuſe, plead Nothing elſe goes down;
A wretched Compliment upon the Town!
Wretched as falſe—The Town's not ſo deprav'd,
Were Authors and were Actors leſs enſlav'd:
Could one good Piece be ſuffer'd to appear,
The Town wou'd gladly lend a candid Ear;
Prefer pure Nature and the ſimple SCENE,
To all the Monkey Tricks of Harlequin:
The Man of Taſte proves this Aſſertion true,
We want what's rational as well as New.
But, this Declenſion of the Britiſh Stage,
BOOTH, Britain's Roſcius, juſtly did preſage;
That Rules Dramatic, Humour, Taſte and Wit,
Muſt to that Monſter Pantomime ſubmit:
Yet Pantomime, in all its Grandeur dreſt,
Is but a pompous Puppet-Shew at beſt.
[6]
Then, farewell Stage! be Buſ'neſs now my Boaſt,
With what was Irkſome once Delighted moſt;
Pleas'd and contented with my little Store,
I ſcorn to proſtitute my Muſe for more.
Alas! What Fame, what Gain can I propoſe,
When others Father faſt as I compoſe?
To ſuch a pitch is pert Preſumption grown,
'Tis well if this Poor Piece be thought my own.
So when, long ſince, in ſimple Sonnet Lays,
I made the 'Prentice Sing his Sally's Praiſe,
Tho' rude the Numbers, yet the Subject mov'd;
Immortal ADDISON the Song approv'd;
Then Prejudice with Envy did combine,
Becauſe 'twas Good, 'twas thought too Good for mine.
So common Fame did various Authors chuſe
To Namby Pamby, Offspring of my Muſe;
Till POPE, who ever prov'd to Truth a Friend,
With Gen'rous Ardour did my Cauſe defend;
[7]Trac'd me obſcure and in Detraction's Spite
Diſplay'd me in a more conſpicuous Light.
To mention more wou'd prove a needleſs Task,
Why ſhou'd they not be mine? That's all I ask:
Becauſe I'm Chearful, Unreſerv'd and Free,
Can nothing Good or New proceed from me?
What have I done, injurious to Mankind,
My Works muſt be to other Men aſſign'd?
Well! let 'em go, I all my Right reſign,
Entirely Eaſy, had they ne'er been mine:
Yet, this Reflection conſolates my Fate,
I ſee my Error e'er it proves too late.
No more half Maz'd I hurry thro' the Town,
With Magazines of Projects in my Crown:
While Pyrate Printers rob me of my Gain,
And reap the labour'd Harveſt of my Brain.
[8]
Like other Men, I walk a common Pace,
Nor run through London one continued Race;
But know When, Where and What I am to do,
You'll think tis ſtrange, My Lord! but yet 'tis true.
Thrice welcome, Sweet Tranquillity of Mind!
I now a Treaſure in Contentment find;
Can labour or relax when e'er I pleaſe,
And boaſt I've once enjoy'd a moment's Eaſe;
Of all a Moderate Man can wiſh poſſeſt,
But moſt in ſuch a Godlike Patron bleſt.
Beneath the Sacred Sanction of whoſe Name,
I build my preſent Peace, my future Fame.
FINIS.