To cure the dead, and make the living sick; 110 Let them, in charity, to Murphy give Some old French piece, that he may steal and live; Let them with antic Foote, subscriptions get, And advertise a summer-house of wit. Thus, or in any better way they please, With these great men, or with great men like these, Let them their appetite for laughter feed; I on my Journey all alone proceed. If fashionable grown, and fond of power, With humorous Scots let them disport their hour, 120 Let them dance, fairy like, round Ossian's tomb; Let them forge lies and histories for Hume; Let them with Home, the very prince of verse, Make something like a tragedy in Erse; Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil, Let them, with Ogilvie,[335] spin out a tale Of rueful length; let them plain things obscure, Debase what's truly rich, and what is poor Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth; With every pert, prim prettiness of youth, 130 Born of false taste, with Fancy (like a child Not knowing what it cries for) running wild, With bloated style, by Affectation taught, With much false colouring, and little thought, With phrases strange, and dialect decreed By Reason never to have pass'd the Tweed, With words, which Nature meant each other's foe, Forced to compound whether they will or no; With such materials, let them, if they will, To prove at once their pleasantry and skill, 140 Build up a bard to war 'gainst Common Sense, By way of compliment to Providence; Let them, with Armstrong[336], taking leave of Sense, Read musty lectures on Benevolence, Or con the pages of his gaping Day, Where all his former fame was thrown away, Where all, but barren labour, was forgot, And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot; Let them, with Armstrong, pass the term of light, But not one hour of darkness: when the night 150 Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes, When for our past misdoings, Conscience takes A deep revenge, when, by Reflection led, She draws his curtains, and looks Comfort dead, Let every Muse be gone; in vain he turns, And tries to pray for sleep; an Aetna burns, A more than Aetna, in his coward breast, And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest: Though soft as plumage from young Zephyr's wing, His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring; 160 Ingratitude hath planted daggers there No good man can deserve, no brave man bear. Thus, or in any better way they please, With these great men, or with great men like these, Let them their appetite for laughter feed; I on my Journey all alone proceed. * * * * * Footnotes: [327] 'Journey:' a posthumous publication. [328] 'In four:' he did not complete the fourth. [329] 'Flexney.' the publisher of his poems. [330] 'Franklin:' Dr Franklin, author of a translation of Sophocles. [331] 'Glover:' Dr Glover in his tragedy of Medea.