But hold, my Muse; nor farther these pursue!— Great Editors, we have digress’d from you; From you, to whom our trivial lays belong, From you, the sole inspirers of our song! Proceed:—urge on the same vindictive strain, To gain the applauses of great MALMESBURY’S train; 80 With jaundiced eyes the noblest patriot scan: Proceed—be more opprobrious if you can; Proceed—be more abusive ev’ry hour; To be more stupid is beyond your power. TO THE AUTHOR OF THE EPISTLE TO THE EDITORS OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN. _Nostrorum sermonum candide judex!_ Bard of the borrow’d lyre! to whom belong The shreds and remnants of each hackney’d song; Whose verse thy friends in vain for wit explore, And count but _one good line_ in eighty-four! Whoe’er thou art, all hail! Thy bitter smile Gilds our dull page, and cheers our humble toil! For _yet_—though firm and fearless in the cause Of pure Religion, Liberty, and Laws,— Though TRUTH approved, though fav’ring VIRTUE smiled, Some doubts remained: WE _yet_ were _unreviled_. 10 Thanks to thy zeal! those doubts at length are o’er! Thy suffrage crowns our wish!—WE ask no more To stamp with sterling worth each honest line, Than Censure, cloth’d in vapid Verse like thine! But say—in full blown honours dost thou sit ’Midst BROOKES’S ELDERS[48] on the BENCH OF WIT, Where HARE,[49] chief-justice, frames the stern decree, While with their learned brother, sages three, FITZPATRICK,[50] TOWNSHEND,[51] SHERIDAN, agree? Or art thou One—THE PARTY’S flattered fool,[52] 20 Train’d in _Debrett’s_, or _Ridgway’s_ civic school— One, who with rant and fustian daily wears, Well-natured RICHARDSON![53] thy patient ears;— Who sees nor Taste nor Genius in these times, Save PARR’S[54] _buzz_ prose,[55] and COURTENAY’S[56] kidnapp’d rhymes?[57] Or is it he,—the youth,[59] whose daring soul With _half a mission_ sought the Frozen Pole;— And then, returning from the unfinish’d work, Wrote _half a letter_,—to demolish BURKE? Studied Burke’s manner,—aped his forms of speech; 30 Though when he strives his metaphors to reach, One luckless slip his meaning overstrains, And loads the blunderbuss with BEDFORD’S brains.[60] Whoe’er thou art—ne’er may thy patriot fire, Unfed by praise or patronage, expire! Forbid it, Taste!—with Compensation large Patrician hands thy labours shall o’ercharge![61] BEDFORD and WHITBREAD shall vast sums advance, The _Land_ and _Malt_ of Jacobin Finance! Whoe’er thou art—before thy feet we lay, 40 With lowly suit, our _Number of to-day_! Spurn not our offering with averted eyes! Let thy pure breath revive the extinguished _Lies_! _Mistakes, Mis-statements_, now so oft o’erthrown, Rebuild, and prop with nonsense of thy own! Pervert our meaning, and misquote our text— And _furnish us a motto for the next_!