It pleases me, that _Pope_ unlaurell'd goes, While _Cibber_ wears the Bays for Playhouse Prose. So _Britain_'s Monarch once uncover'd fate, While _Bradshaw_ bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat. Long live old _Curl!_ he ne'er to publish fears, The speeches, verses, and last wills of Peers. How oft has he a publick spirit shewn, And pleas'd our ears regardless of his own? But to give Merit due, though _Curl_'s the same? Are not his Brother-booksellers the same? Can Statutes keep the _British_ Press in awe, While that sells best, that's most against the Law? _Lives_ of dead _Play'rs_ my leisure hours beguile, And _Sessions-Papers_ tragedize my stile. 'Tis charming reading in _Ophelia_'s life, So oft a Mother, and not once a Wife: She could with just propriety behave, Alive with Peers, with Monarchs in her grave: Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept, By Prebends bury'd and by Generals kept. T'improve in Morals _Mandevil_ I read, And _Tyndal_'s Scruples are my settled Creed. I travell'd early, and I soon saw through Religion all, e'er I was twenty-two. Shame, Pain, or Poverty shall I endure, When ropes or opium can my ease procure? When money's gone, and I no debts can pay, Self-murder is an honourable way. As _Pasaran_ directs I'd end my life, And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife. Burn but that _Bible_ which the Parson quotes, And men of spirit all shall cut their throats. But not to writings I confine my pen, I have a taste for buildings, musick, men. Young travell'd coxcombs mighty knowledge boast, With superficial Smatterings at Most. Not so my mind, unsatisfied with hints, Knows more than _Budgel_ writes, or _Roberts_ prints. I know the town, all houses I have seen, From _High-Park_ corner down to _Bednal-Green_. Sure wretched _Wren_ was taught by bungling _Jones_, To murder mortar, and disfigure stones! Who in _Whitehall_ can symmetry discern? I reckon _Convent-garden_ Church a _Barn_. Nor hate I less thy vile Cathedral, _Paul_! The choir's too big, the cupola's too small: Substantial walls and heavy roofs I like, 'Tis _Vanbrug_'s structures that my fancy strike: Such noble ruins ev'ry pile wou'd make, I wish they'd tumble for the prospect's sake. To lofty _Chelsea_ or to _Greenwich_ Dome, Soldiers and sailors all are welcom'd home. Her poor to palaces _Britannia_ brings, St. _James_'s hospital may serve for kings. Building so happily I understand, That for one house I'd mortgage all my land. _Dorick_, _Ionick_, shall not there be found, But it shall cost me threescore thousand pound. From out my honest workmen, I'll select A _Bricklay'r_, and proclaim him architect; First bid him build me a stupendous Dome, Which _having finish'd_, we set out for _Rome_; Take a weeks view of _Venice_ and the _Brent_, Stare round, see nothing, and come home content. I'll have my _Villa_ too, a sweet abode,