TOM, DICK, and WILL, were little known to Fame;-- No matter;-- But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came, To chatter. It was the custom of these three To sit up late; And, o'er the embers of the Ale-house fire, When steadier customers retire, The choice _Triumviri_, d'ye see, Held a debate. Held a debate?--On politicks, no doubt. Not so;--they care'd not who was in, No, not a pin;-- Nor who was out. All their discourse on modern Poets ran; For in the Muses was their sole delight;-- They talk'd of such, and such, and such a man; Of those who could, and those who could not write. It cost them very little pains To count the modern Poets, who had brains. 'Twas a small difficulty;--'twasn't any; They were so few: But to cast up the scores of men Who wield a stump they call a pen, Lord! they had much to do,-- They were so many! Buoy'd on a sea of fancy, Genius rises, And like the rare Leviathan surprises; But the _small fry_ of scribblers!--tiny souls! They wriggle thro' the mud in shoals. It would have raise'd a smile to see the faces They made, and the ridiculous grimaces, At many an author, as they overhaul'd him. They gave no quarter to a calf, Blown up with puff, and paragraph; But, if they found him bad, they maul'd him. On modern Dramatists they fell, Pounce, _vi et armis_--tooth and nail--pell mell. They call'd them Carpenters, and Smugglers; Filching their incidents from ancient hoards, And knocking them together, like deal boards: And Jugglers; Who all the town's attention fix, By making--Plays?--No, Sir, by making _tricks_. The Versifiers--Heaven defend us! They play'd the very devil with their rhymes. They hope'd Apollo a new set would send us; And then, invidiously enough, Place'd modish verse, which they call'd stuff, Against the writing of the elder times. To say the truth, a modern versifier Clap'd cheek by jowl With Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior, Would look most scurvily, upon my soul! For Novels, should their critick hints succeed, The Misses might fare better when they took 'em; But it would fare extremely ill, indeed, With gentle _Messieurs Lane_ and _Hookham_. "A Novel, now," says WILL, "is nothing more Than an old castle,--and a creaking door,-- A distant hovel;-- Clanking of chains--a gallery--a light,-- Old armour--and a phantom all in white,-- And there's a Novel!" [Illustration] "Scourge me such catch-penny inditers Out of the land," quoth WILL--rousing in passion-- "And fy upon the readers of such writers, Who bring them into fashion!" WILL rose in declamation. "'Tis the bane," Says he, "of youth;--'tis the perdition: It fills a giddy female brain With vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,-- With superstition.