Thou common shore of this poetic town, Where all the excrements of wit are thrown; For sonnet, satire, bawdry, blasphemy, Are emptied, and disburdened all in thee: The choleric wight, untrussing all in rage, Finds thee, and lays his load upon thy page. Thou Julian, or thou wise Vespasian rather, Dost from this dung thy well-pickt guineas gather. All mischief's thine; transcribing, thou wilt stoop From lofty Middlesex[54] to lowly Scroop. What times are these, when, in the hero's room, } Bow-bending Cupid doth with ballads come, } And little Aston[55] offers to the bum? } Can two such pigmies such a weight support, Two such Tom Thumbs of satire in a court? Poor George[56] grows old, his muse worn out of fashion, Hoarsely he sung Ephelia's lamentation. Less art thou helped by Dryden's bed-rid age; That drone has lost his sting upon the stage. Resolve me, poor apostate, this my doubt, What hope hast thou to rub this winter out? Know, and be thankful then, for Providence By me hath sent thee this intelligence. A knight there is,[57] if thou canst gain his grace, Known by the name of the hard-favoured face. For prowess of the pen renowned is he, From Don Quixote descended lineally; And though, like him, unfortunate he prove, Undaunted in attempts of wit and love. Of his unfinished face, what shall I say,-- But that 'twas made of Adam's own red clay; That much, much ochre was on it bestowed; God's image 'tis not, but some Indian god: Our christian earth can no resemblance bring, But ware of Portugal for such a thing; Such carbuncles his fiery face confess, As no Hungarian water can redress. A face which, should he see, (but heaven was kind, And, to indulge his self, Love made him blind,) He durst not stir abroad for fear to meet Curses of teeming women in the street: The best could happen from this hideous sight, } Is, that they should miscarry with the fright,-- } Heaven guard them from the likeness of the knight! } Such is our charming Strephon's outward man, His inward parts let those disclose who can. One while he honoureth Birtha with his flame, And now he chants no less Lovisa's[58] name; For when his passion hath been bubbling long, The scum at last boils up into a song; And sure no mortal creature, at one time, Was e'er so far o'ergone with love and rhyme. To his dear self of poetry he talks, His hands and feet are scanning as he walks; His writhing looks his pangs of wit accuse, The airy symptoms of a breeding muse, And all to gain the great Lovisa's grace. But never pen did pimp for such a face; There's not a nymph in city, town, or court, But Strephon's _billet-doux_ has been their sport. Still he loves on, yet still he's sure to miss,