Tho' not one brilliant Thought should hurt the whole, And ev'ry Verse be bad, or lame, or stole, Still, like a _mad Dog_, hunt th' Usurper dead, } Tho' he _for Fame_, ye scribble to _be fed_; } He stands condemn'd, who robs ye of your _Bread_. } But if a Genius rise, whose pointed Wit Corrects your Morals, and all Tastes shall fit, Claim then the Privilege to be his Foes, Ye cannot shine, but when ye Worth oppose. When ye _deny_ him _Fame_, ye _fix_ your _own_, And to be satirized, is to be known. Some hold, they're better in a cursed State, Than to be totally annihilate; Thrice happy then, ye deathless, duncely Train! The Subjects of the higher DUNCIAD's Strain. How many, who have Reams of Paper spoil'd, Have often sleepless Nights obscurely toil'd, And buried in their Eggs, like Silkworms, lay 'Till his warm Satire shew'd them Life and Day? Here then, my Sons, is all your living Hope, To be immortal Scriblers, rail at POPE. Snatch'd from Oblivion, there the _Dunces_ soar, TIBBALD their Monarch dubb'd, can ask no more, Nor less shall ye----now COLLEY gives the Word, Rouse up! and crowd into the next Record, Or, lost to Memory, no other Page Can possibly retrieve ye half an Age; And now the glad Occasion aptly calls, To _break_ more _Printers_, and to _spread_ more _Stalls_; To save your _Names_ from _Lethe_, tho' your Books Are doom'd the Prize of _Fruiterers_ and _Cooks_. The Streams of _Helicon_ once clearly flow'd, And Heav'n in their resplendent Bosom shew'd, Whilst verdant Groves the sacred Mountain spread; Then _Pegasus_ on Balms and Myrtles fed: Now blighted _Thistles_ only crown the Top, Which Herds of young _poetic Asses_ crop; And, choak'd with common Sew'rs, like _Fleet-ditch_ Flood, Its sable Waters writhe along the Mud; Nor murm'ring wake, nor seem they quite asleep, Whilst _Wits_, like _Water-rats_, around them creep. If any shou'd attempt to cleanse your Streams, Or wake ye from your kind lethargic Dreams, Assert your Right, and render vain their Toil; Yours is the Filth, then join and guard your Soil! And lest ye're diffident to aid the Cause, Not wholly yet broke loose from Reason's Laws, View the strange Wonders of the present Times, Let Empires sleep, but hear the Fate of Rhimes. Let POPE lull all his _Dunces_ with a Yawn, Wrapt in their Robes of _P--ple_ or of _L--wn_, Whilst he shall leave one tatter'd _Muse_ awake; That _Muse_ his own and others Rest shall break. A Prostitute, her Charms their Vigour lose, Now COLLEY keeps her, and she sups on Prose; But free and common, hack'd about the Town, Each of ye claim her! for she's all your own. With him, unmov'd by Salary or Sack, She d----ns his Impotence of _Brain_ and _Back_; That thus in Age he strains at Wit's Embrace, And follows W--FF--N from Place to Place; But tho' _cold Prose_ to him she'll only give,