By the same arts they still maintain their sway. Wrapp'd in mysterious secrecy they rise, 110 And, as they are unknown, are safe and wise. At whomsoever aim'd, howe'er severe, The envenom'd slander flies, no names appear: Prudence forbids that step;--then all might know, And on more equal terms engage the foe. But now, what Quixote of the age would care To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air? By interest join'd, the expert confederates stand, And play the game into each other's hand: The vile abuse, in turn by all denied, 120 Is bandied up and down, from side to side: It flies--hey!--presto!--like a juggler's ball, Till it belongs to nobody at all. All men and things they know, themselves unknown, And publish every name--except their own. Nor think this strange,--secure from vulgar eyes, The nameless author passes in disguise; But veteran critics are not so deceived, If veteran critics are to be believed. Once seen, they know an author evermore, 130 Nay, swear to hands they never saw before. Thus in 'The Rosciad,' beyond chance or doubt, They by the writing found the writers out: That's Lloyd's--his manner there you plainly trace, And all the Actor stares you in the face. By Colman that was written--on my life, The strongest symptoms of the 'Jealous Wife.' That little disingenuous piece of spite, Churchill--a wretch unknown!--perhaps might write. How doth it make judicious readers smile, 140 When authors are detected by their style; Though every one who knows this author, knows He shifts his style much oftener than his clothes! Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen, The Muse a trifler, and her theme so mean? What had I done, that angry Heaven should send The bitterest foe where most I wish'd a friend? Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,[86] And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame. For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground, 150 So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound; From Livy's temples tear the historic crown, Which with more justice blooms upon thine own. Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb, But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumb. Who ever read 'The Regicide,' but swore The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before? Others for plots and under-plots may call, Here's the right method--have no plot at all. Who can so often in his cause engage 160 The tiny pathos of the Grecian stage, Whilst horrors rise, and tears spontaneous flow At tragic Ha! and no less tragic Oh! To praise his nervous weakness all agree; And then for sweetness, who so sweet as he! Too big for utterance when sorrows swell, The too big sorrows flowing tears must tell; But when those flowing tears shall cease to flow, Why--then the voice must speak again, you know. Rude and unskilful in the poet's trade, 170 I kept no Naïads by me ready made;