When a scurvy disease had lain hold of my carcase,
  And death to my chamber was mounting the stair-case. 
  I call’d to remembrance the sins I’d committed,
  Repented, and thought I’d for Heaven been fitted;
  But alas! there is still an old proverb to cross us,
  I found there no room for the sons of Parnassus;
  And therefore contented like others to fare,
  To the shades of Elizium I strait did repair;
  Where Dryden and other great wits o’ the town,
  To reward all their labours, are damn’d to write on. 
  Here Johnson may boast of his judgment and plot,
  And Otway of all the applause that he got;
  Loose Eth’ridge presume on his stile and his wit,
  And Shadwell of all the dull plays he e’r writ;
  Nat.  Lee here may boast of his bombast and rapture,
  And Buckingham rail to the end of the chapter;
  Lewd Rochester lampoon the King and the court,
  And Sidley and others may cry him up for’t;
  Soft Waller and Suckling, chaste Cowley and others,
  With Beaumont and Fletcher, poetical brothers,
  May here scribble on with pretence to the bays,
  E’en Shakespear himself may produce all his plays,
  And not get for whole pages one mouth full of praise.

  To avoid this disaster, while Congreve reforms,
  His muse and his morals fly to Bracegirdle’s arms;
  Let Vanbrugh no more plotless plays e’er impose,
  Stuft with satire and smut to ruin the house;
  Let Rowe, if he means to maintain his applause,
  Write no more such lewd plays as his Penitent was. 
  O Satire! from errors instruct the wild bard,
  Bestow thy advice to reclaim each lewd bard;
  Bid the Laureat sincerely reflect on the matter;
  Bid Dennis drink less, but bid him write better;
  Bid Durfey cease scribbling, that libelling song-ster;
  Bid Gildon and C——­n be Deists no longer;
  Bid B——­t and C——­r, those wits of the age,
  Ne’er expose a dull coxcomb, but just on the stage;
  Bid Farquhar (tho’ bit) to his consort be just,
  And Motteux in his office be true to his trust;
  Bid Duffet and Cowper no longer be mad,
  But Parsons and Lawyers mind each their own trade. 
  To Grubster and others, bold satire advance;
  Bid Ayliffe talk little, and P——­s talk sense;
  Bid K——­n leave stealing as well as the rest;
  When this can be done, they may hope to be blest.

* * * * *

The Revd.  Mr. John Pomfret.

This Gentleman’s works are held in very great esteem by the common readers of poetry; it is thought as unfashionable amongst people of inferior life, not to be possessed of the poems of Pomfret, as amongst persons of taste not to have the works of Pope in their libraries.  The subjects upon which Pomfret wrote were popular, his versification is far from being unmusical, and as there is little force of thinking in his writings, they are level to the capacities of those who admire them.