On Poetry: A Rapsody

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And sold by J. Huggonson, next to Kent's Coffee-house, near Serjeant's-inn, in Chancery-lane; [and] at the bookseller's and pamphletshops, 1733 - English poetry - 28 pages
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Page 6 - Are awkward when you try to flatter ; Your portion, taking Britain round, Was just one annual hundred pound ; Now not so much as in remainder, Since Gibber brought in an attainder ; For ever fix'd by right divine (A monarch's right) on Grub Street line.
Page 14 - Elysium by the ears. Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, Employ your Muse on kings alive ; With prudence gathering up a cluster Of all the virtues you can muster, Which, form'd into a garland sweet, Lay humbly at your monarch's feet :. Who, as the odours reach his throne, Will smile, and think them all his own...
Page 20 - If on Parnassus' top you sit, You rarely bite, are always bit: Each poet of inferior size On you shall rail and criticise, And strive to tear you limb from limb; While others do as much for him.
Page 6 - And here a simile comes pat in ; Though chickens take a month to fatten, The guests in less than half an hour Will more than half a score devour. So, after toiling twenty days To earn a stock of pence and praise, Thy labours, grown the...
Page 24 - Appointed sovereign judge to sit On learning, eloquence, and wit. Our eldest hope, divine lulus, (Late, very late, O may he rule us !) What early manhood has he shown, Before...
Page 22 - In bulk there are not more degrees, From elephants to mites in cheese, Than what a curious eye may trace In creatures of the rhyming race. From bad to worse, and worse, they fall ; But who can reach the...
Page 21 - How wrong a taste prevails among us; How much our ancestors outsung us: Can personate an awkward scorn For those who are not poets born; And all their brother dunces lash, Who crowd the press with hourly trash.
Page 8 - To statesmen would you give a wipe, You print it in italic type. When letters are in vulgar shapes, 'Tis ten to one the wit escapes...
Page 10 - Or praise the judgment of the town, And help yourself to run it down. Give up your fond paternal pride, Nor argue on the weaker...
Page 6 - Hath blasted with poetic fire. What hope of custom in the fair, While not a soul demands your ware? Where you have nothing to produce For private life, or public use? Court, city, country want you not; You cannot bribe, betray, or plot.

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