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 Thus did I speak, and spoke it in a strain, Above my common-rate, and usual vein; As if inspir'd by presence of the Bard, Who with a Frown thus to reply was heard; In style of Satyr, such wherein of old He the fam'd Tale of Mother Hubberd told.

I come, fond Ideot, ere it be too late, Kindly to warn thee of thy wretched Fate: Take heed betimes; repent, and learn of me To shun the dang'rous Rocks of Poetry: Had I the choice of Flesh and Blood again, To act once more in Life's tumultuous Scene; I'd be a Porter, or a Scavenger,

A Groom, or any thing, but Poet here: Hast thou observ'd some Hawker of the Town, Who thro' the Streets with dismal Scream and Tone, Cries Matches, Small-coal, Brooms, Old Shoes and Boots, Socks, Sermons, Ballads, Lies, Gazetts, and Votes?

So unrecorded to the Grave I'd go, And nothing but the Register tell, who: Rather that poor unheard-of Wretch I'd be, Than the most glorious Name in Poetry, With all its boasted Immortality: Rather than He, who sings on Phrygia's Shore,

The Grecian Bullies fighting, for a Whore: Or he of Thebes, whome Fame so much extols For praising Jockies, and New-Market Fools.

So many now, and bad the Scriblers be, 'Tis scandal to be of the Company: The foul Disease is so prevailing grown. So much the Fashion of the Court and Town, That scarce a Man well-bred in either's deem'd: But who has kill'd, been often clapt, and oft has rhim'd: The Fools are troubled with a Flux of Brains, And on each Paper squirt their filthy sense: A leash of Sonnets, and a dull Lampoon, Set up an Author, who forthwith is grown A Man of Parts, of Rhiming, and Renown: Ev'n