Ah! still o'er Britain stretch that peaceful wand, Which lulls th' Helvetian and Batavian land; Where rebel to thy throne if science rise, She does but show her coward face, and dies: There thy good scholiasts with unwearied pains Make Horace flat, and humble Maro's strains: Here studious I unlucky moderns save, Nor sleeps one error in its father's grave, Old puns restore, lost blunders nicely seek, And crucify poor Shakspeare once a week. For thee supplying, in the worst of days. Notes to dull books, and prologues to dull plays; Not that my quill to critics was confined, My verse gave ampler lessons to mankind; So gravest precepts may successless prove. But sad examples never fail to move. As, forced from wind-guns, &c. VER. 195. Yet sure had Heaven, &c. In the former edition-- Had Heaven decreed such works a longer date, Heaven had decreed to spare the Grub Street state. But see great Settle to the dust descend, And all thy cause and empire at an end! Could Troy be saved, &c.-- VER. 213. Hold--to the minister. In the former edition-- Yes, to my country I my pen consign Yes, from this moment, mighty Mist! am thine. VER. 225. O born in sin, &c. In the former edition-- Adieu, my children! better thus expire Unstall'd, unsold; thus glorious mount in fire, Fair without spot; than greased by grocer's hands, Or shipp'd with Ward to ape-and-monkey lands, Or wafting ginger, round the streets to run, And visit ale-house, where ye first begun, With that he lifted thrice the sparkling brand, And thrice he dropp'd it, &c.-- VER. 250. Now flames the Cid, &c. In the former edition-- Now flames old Memnon, now Rodrigo burns, In one quick flash see Proserpine expire, And last, his own cold Aeschylus took fire. Then gushed the tears, as from the Trojan's eyes, When the last blaze, &c. After VER. 268, in the former edition, followed these two lines-- Raptured, he gazes round the dear retreat, And in sweet numbers celebrates the seat. VER. 293. Know, Eusden, &c. In the former edition-- Know, Settle, cloy'd with custard and with praise, Is gather'd to the dull of ancient days, Safe where no critics damn, no duns molest, Where Gildon, Banks, and high-born Howard rest. I see a king! who leads my chosen sons To lands that flow with clenches and with puns: Till each famed theatre my empire own; Till Albion, as Hibernia, bless my throne! I see! I see!--Then rapt she spoke no more. God save King Tibbald! Grub Street alleys roar. So when Jove's block, &c. BOOK THE SECOND. ARGUMENT.