Whoe'er he be that to a _Taste_ aspires, Let him read this, and be what he desires. In men and manners vers'd from life I write, Not what was once but what is now polite. Those who of courtly _France_ have made the tour, Can scarce our _English_ awkwardness endure. But honest men who never were abroad, Like _England_ only, and its _Taste_ applaud. Strife still persists, which yields the better _gout_; Books or the world, the many or the few. True _Taste_ to me is by this touchstone known, That's always best that's nearest to my own. To shew that my pretensions are not vain, My Father was a play'r in _Drury-lane_. Pears and Pistachio-nuts my Mother sold, He a Dramatick-poet, She a Scold. His tragick muse could Countesses affright, Her wit in boxes was my Lord's delight. No mercenary _Priest_ e'er join'd their hands, Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetick bands. _Laws_ my Pindarick parents matter'd not, So I was tragi-comically got. My infant tears a sort of measure kept, I squal'd in Distichs, and in Triplets wept. No youth did in I education waste, Happy in an _Hereditary Taste_. Writing ne'er cramp'd the sinews of my thumb, Nor barb'rous birch e'er brush'd my brawny bum. My guts ne'er suffer'd from a college-cook, My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book. _Grammar_ in vain the sons of _Priscian_ teach, Good Parts are better than _Eight Parts of Speech_: Since these declin'd those undeclin'd they call, I thank my Stars, that I declin'd 'em all. To _Greek_ or _Latin Tongues_ without pretence, I trust to mother Wit, and father Sense. _Nature_'s my guide, all Sciences I scorn, Pains I abhor, I was a _Poet born_. Yet is my _gout_ for criticism such, I've got some _French_, and know a little _Dutch_. Huge commentators grace my learned shelves, Notes upon books out-do the books themselves. Criticks indeed are valuable men, But hyper-criticks are as good agen. Tho' _Blackmore_'s works my soul with raptures fill, With notes by _Bently_ they'd be better still. The _Boghouse-Miscellany_'s well design'd, To ease the body, and improve the mind. _Swift_'s whims and jokes for my resentment call, For he displeases me, that pleases all. Verse without rhyme I never could endure, Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure. To him as Nature, when he ceas'd to see, _Milton_'s an _universal Blank_ to me. Confirm'd and settled by the Nations voice, Rhyme is the poet's pride, and peoples choice. Always upheld by national Support, Of Market, University, and Court: _Thompson_, write blank; but know that for that reason, These lines shall live, when thine are out of season. Rhyme binds and beautifies the Poet's lays, As _London_ Ladies owe their shape to stays. Had _Cibber_'s self the _Careless Husband_ wrote, He for the Laurel ne'er had had my Vote: But for his Epilogues and other Plays, He thoroughly deserves the _Modern Bays_.