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Nor think their ſtrictures can affront thy lays,
Whole praiſe is ſatire, and whoſe ſatire's praiſe.
Such is the ſtern, yet kind decree of fate,
On every bard his evil Genii wait:
Even when divine Moenian ſong was heard,
A Zoilus and a Scaliger appear'd.
Even Milton 'ſcap'd not, by fell envy ſtung,
And Dennis rav'd when Pope ſublimeſt ſung,
But, vainly dullneſs breathes interval night,
Genius diſpels the gloom by native light:
So, from a cloud, the ſun's emergent ray,
Reſumes the hemiſphere with brighter day.
Whilſt fools are pleas'd to pay for all they read,
Forgive the hiseling who extorts hi bread:
When nature's wants the drudging hand impell,
The Critic on himſelf inflicts his hell.
'Tis full revenge; his aukward ſtare we ſee,
Fangs without birth, and coſtive induſtry.
Almighty hunger, hail! whoſe potent ſway,
Unnumber'd quills implicitly obey:
Whoſe active train, collected with rapid haſte,
The excrements of genius and of taſte.
Then vend, in gaping throngs, the motely page,
To bribe not ſatiate thy ⟨relentleſs⟩ rage.
Inſpir'd by thee behold the grave divine
Aſſume the laural and the gown reſign:
Calumniate virtue, truth herſelf refute,
And ſtand confeſs'd a party proſtitute.
Thy ſtrongeſt vapours animate the crew,
Whoſe brains effuſe the Critical Review.
On the re-admiffion of a great Commoner to the Adminiftration.
LET faction inculcate to gratify ſpite.
That a king of Great Britain can never do right:
'Tis confirm'd by experience, by proſe, and by ſong,
