I too must aid, and pay to see my Name Hung in these dirty Avenues to Fame; Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen And sung, could make those Avenues more clean; Could stop one Slander ere it found its way, And gave to public Scorn its helpless Prey. By the same Aid, the Stage invites her Friends, And kindly tells the Banquet she intends; Thither from real Life the Many run, With SIDDONS weep, or laugh with ABINGDON; Pleas’d in fictitious Joy or Grief, to see The mimic Passion with their own agree; To steal a few enchanted Hours away From Care and drop the Curtain on the Day. But who can steal from Self that wretched Wight, Whose darling Work is try’d, some fatal Night? Most wretched Man! when, bane to every Bliss, He hears the Serpent-Critic’s rising Hiss; Then Groans succeed: not Traitors on the Wheel, Can feel like him, or have such Pangs to feel. Nor end they here; next day he reads his Fall, In every Paper; Critics are they all; He sees his branded Name, with wild affright, And hears again the Cat-calls of the Night. Such Help the STAGE affords; a larger Space, Is fill’d by PUFFS and all the Puffing Race. Physic had once alone the lofty Style, The well-known Boast, that ceas’d to raise a smile: Now all the Province of that Tribe invade, And we abound in Quacks of every Trade. The simple Barber, once an honest Name, CERVANTES founded, FIELDING rais’d his Fame: Barber no more; a gay Perfumer comes, On whose soft Cheek his own Cosmetic blooms; Here he appears, each simple Mind to move, And advertises Beauty, Grace, and Love.-- “Come, faded Belles, who would your Youth renew, And learn the Wonders of Olympian Dew; Restore the Roses that begin to faint, Nor think celestial Washes, vulgar Paint: Your former Features, Airs, and Arts assume, Circassian Virtues, with Circassian Bloom, “Come, batter’d Beaux, whose Locks are turn’d to gray, And crop Discretion’s lying Badge away; Read where they vend these smart engaging Things, These flaxen Frontlets with elastic Springs; No Female Eye the fair Deception sees, Not Nature’s self so natural as these.” Such are their Arts, but not confin’d to them, The Muse impartial must her Sons condemn: For they, degenerate! join the venal Throng, And puff a lazy Pegasus along: More guilty these, by Nature less design’d For little Arts that suit the Vulgar-kind. That Barber’s Boys, who would to Trade advance, Wish us to call them, smart Frisseurs from France; That he who builds a Chop-house, on his Door Paints “The true old original Blue Boar!” These are the Arts by which a thousand live, Where Truth may smile and Justice may forgive; But when amid this Rabble-rout we find A puffing Poet to his Honour blind;