Like _Village Curs_, kick'd backward by the _Steed_, Their _Noise_ and _Yelping_ their _Destruction_ breed; Or if the Rider _smacks_ them with his _Whip_, 'Tis more _t' unbend the Lash_, than make them _skip_: Yet still they rise and at it----Goddess hail! Who o'er thy Suns spread'st such a thick'ning Veil, That Sense of Pain, as well as Shame, is lost, And you _reward_ those best, who _blunder_ most; For where are Honours, Places, Gifts bestow'd, But where thy Influence is most avow'd? Rest, while more modern Miracles I sing, Of _Minor Dunces_ that from thee first spring; But all who Recreants thy Pow'r disclaim, And, Laureat-like, to _Pertness_ change thy Name; And ye, her Sons, who've nothing else to do, Wait, if you please, the----Vision thro': You, who in Manuscript your Works retale, And tag with Rhimes the latter Ends of Ale, But vow th' ungrateful Age shall never see, In Print, how wond'rous wise and smart ye be; Or you, whose Muse has run you out of Breath, Or rode you like a Night-mare hagg'd to Death; Attend and learn from _Dulness'_ sleeping Shade, Another Goddess rises to your Aid. Pleas'd with the Vow, the glad submissive P--r, Thence leads the Monarch to a nobler Chair; For why shou'd he at _Dulness'_ Footstool wait, Who knows so well to entertain with Prate; Some _g--rt--r'd Dupes_ no nobler Titles boast, Than to have been the Objects of his _Roast_; For which they fill his Groupe, his Praises have, And shine like SALMON'_s Dolls_ in MERLIN'_s Cave_. The young NARCISSUS, whom (wou'd you believe, The _Cornhill_ Priest, who never cou'd deceive) Had robb'd the _Sibil_ of whate'er was sage, Or _Good_, or _Wise_, except her _Gums_ and _Age_, Was the old Woman, tho' in Youth renew'd, Who led ÆNEAS when he _H--ll_ review'd; Wrapt in the Steam that spread from _Dulness'_ Jaws, From her Posterior's, perch'd, pert C----R draws, Conveys him to the Club--the Club despair, Till they the Snuff-box smell, and see the Chair. Then all the _Dunciad_ d----n, and, grown elate, Prick up their Ears, and bray, "_To the Debate!_ "The Chiefs were sate, the Scriblers waited round "The Board with Bottles, and with Glasses crown'd, "When he, the Master of the Seven-fold Face, "Rose" gleaming thro' his own _Corinthian_ Brass, And thus--my L--s, we once again are met, Nor Sense hath robb'd us of a Vot'ry yet; Pleas'd, I the present Danger undertake, And gladly suffer, for my Country's Sake; For I a prompt Alacrity agnize To be esteem'd or witty, smart or wise. This present War then with the POPE be mine; But one Thing beg, I, bending to your Shrine, Due Preference of Honour, Time and Place, And _your Desires_ my Title Page to grace, He said and bow'd--a Whisper trill'd the Air Much as when C--MP--N wou'd have been L--d M--r. However, each assents, then forth he drew An Oglio Letter ready cook'd for _View_;