[34] When _James_ the _first_, at great _Britannia_'s helm, Rul'd this word-clipping and word-coining Realm, No words to Royal favour made pretence, But what agreed in sound and clash'd in sense. Thrice happy he! how great that Speaker's praise, Whose ev'ry Period look'd an hundred ways. What then? we now with just abhorrence shun The trifling Quibble, and the School-boys Pun; Tho' no great Connoisseur, I make a shift Just to find out a _Durfey_ from a _Swift_; I can discern with half an eye, I hope, _Mist_ from _Jo Addison_, from _Eusden Pope_: I know a Farce from one of _Congreve_'s Plays, And _Cibber_'s Opera from _Johnny Gay_'s. [35] When pert _Defoe_ his sawcy Papers writ, He from a Cart was Pillor'd for his Wit: By Mob was pelted half a Morning's space, And rotten Eggs besmear'd his yellow face; The _Censor_ then improv'd the list'ning Isle, And held both Parties in an artful Smile. A Scribbling Crew now pinching Winter brings,) That spare no earthly nor no heav'nly things,) Nor Church, nor State, nor Treasurers, nor Kings.) But Blasphemy displeases all the Town;) And for defying Scripture, Law, and Crown,) _Woolston_ should pay his Fine, and lose his Gown,) [36] It must be own'd the _Journals_ try all ways To merit their respective Party's praise: They jar in every Article from _Spain_; A War these threaten, those a Peace maintain: Tho' Lye they will, to give 'em all their due, In Foreign matters, and Domestick too. Whoe'er thou art that would'st a _Postman_ write, Enquire all day, and hearken all the night. Sure, _Gazetteers_ and Writers of _Courants_ Might soon exceed th' Intelligence of _France_: To be out-done old _England_ should refuse, As in her Arms, so in her Publick News; But Truth is scarce, the Scene of Action large, And Correspondence an excessive Charge. [37] There are who say, no Man can be a Wit Unless for _Newgate_ or for _Bedlam_ fit; Let Pamphleteers abusive Satyr write, To shew a Genius is to shew a Spite: That Author's Works will ne'er be reckon'd good Who has not been where _Curl_ the Printer stood. [38] Alass Poor Me, you may my fortune guess: I write, and yet Humanity profess; (Tho' nothing can delight a modern Judge, Without ill-nature and a private Grudge) I love the King, the Queen, and Royal Race: I like the Government, but want no Place: Too low in Life to be a _Justice_ I, And for a Constable, thank God, too high; Was never in a Plot, my Brain's not hurt; I Politicks to Poetry convert.