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Nor Kings, nor Poetry regarding,

And writing Odes not worth one farthing,
Long liv'd the Laureat Colly.

IV.

Him Pope affail'd, by Legions back'd,
And often to his couplets tack'd

The name of Idle Cibber:

Yet Coll, unskill'd in long and short,
Made in plain Prose a smart Retort,
To Pope a damn'd Grim-Gribber*.

V.

Will. Whitehead bad the reign commence
Of Birth-Day Odes and Common-Sense:
And there his efforts rested:

True Poetry, by Genius fir'd,
Billy's cold bofom ne'er inspir'd;
For Bill was chicken-breafted.

VI.

WARTON, on Greek and Roman Bafe,
Refcued the Laurel from difgrace,
With Fame no foes fhall hinder.
Bleft with the gift of ev'ry tongue,
Themes Royal Royally he fung,

A HORACE and a PINDAR!

* Grim Gribber. See Tom's Law Jargon in the Conscious Lovers: "I touched him to the quick about Grim Gribber.”

From

From the ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE, May 25, 1786.

To the Printer of the ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE:

SIR,

WERE

ERE we to analyfe the Literary Merits of Dr. Johnson, perhaps an accurate Critick would ascribe his highest praise to his labours in Biography. In that branch, one of his first, and most splendid efforts, was the Life of Savage. This idea might be pursued with no fmail degree of entertainment and inftruction. At prefent, however, I fhall only fay, that this train of thought gave birth to the following Epigram, which (if you pleafe) you may hitch into your Poet's Corner.

EPIGRAM.

THEE, Johnfon, both dead and alive we may note
In the fam'd Biographical Line :

When living the Life of a Savage you wrote,
Now many a Savage writes thine.

A POST

A

POSTHUMOUS WORK OF S. JOHNSON.

ANO D E.

April 15, 1786.

I.

ST. Paul's deep bell, from stately tow'r

Had founded once and twice the hour,

Blue burnt the midnight taper;

Hags their dark spells o'er cauldron brew'd,
While Sons of Ink their work purfu'd,
Printing the Morning Paper.

II.

Say Herald, Chronicle, or Poft,

Which then beheld great JOHNSON'S Ghoft,

Grim, horrible, and squalid?

Compofitors their letters dropt,

Preffmen their groaning engine støpt,

And Devils all grew pallid.

1

III.

Enough, the Spectre cried! Enough!
No more of your fugacious ftuff,
Trite Anecdotes and Stories!

Rude martyrs of SAM JOHNSON's name,
You rob him of his honeft fame,

And tarnish all his glories.

IV.

Firft in the futile tribe is feen

TOM TYERS in the Magazine,

That teazer of Apollo!

With goofe-quill he, like desperate knife,
Slices, as Vauxhall beef, my life,

And calls the town to swallow.

V.

The cry once up, the Dogs of News,
Who hunt for paragraphs the stews,
Yelp out JOHNSONIANA!

Their naufeous praise but moves my bile
Like Tartar, Carduus, Camomile,

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Yet, garrulous, he tells too much,

On fancied-failings prone to touch,
With fedulous loquacity.

VII.

At length-Job's patience it would tire-
Brew'd on my lees, comes THRALE's Entire,
Straining to draw my picture

For She a common-place-book kept,
JOHNSON at Streatham din'd and flept,
And who fhall contradict her?

VIII.

THRALE, loft 'mongst Fidlers and Sopranos,
With them play Fortes and Pianos,

Adagio and Allegro !

I lov'd THRALE's widow and THRALE's wife;

But now, believe, to write my life

I'd rather truft my Negro. *

IX.

I gave the Publick works of merit,
Written with vigour, fraught with spirit;

Applaufe crown'd all my labours.

But thy delufive pages fpeak

My palfied pow'rs, exhaufted, weak,
The fcoff of friends and neighbours.

*His Black Servant

X.

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