ly_ they'd be better still.
The _Boghouse-Miscellany_'s well design'd,
To ease the body, and improve the mind.
_Swift_'s whims and jokes for my resentment call,
For he displeases me, that pleases all.
Verse without rhyme I never could endure,
Uncouth in numbers, and in sense obscure.
To him as Nature, when he ceas'd to see,
_Milton_'s an _universal Blank_ to me.
Confirm'd and settled by the Nations voice,
Rhyme is the poet's pride, and peoples choice.
Always upheld by national Support,
Of Market, University, and Court:
_Thompson_, write blank; but know that for that reason,
These lines shall live, when thine are out of season.
Rhyme binds and beautifies the Poet's lays,
As _London_ Ladies owe their shape to stays.
Had _Cibber_'s self the _Careless Husband_ wrote,
He for the Laurel ne'er had had my Vote:
But for his Epilogues and other Plays,
He thoroughly deserves the _Modern Bays_.
It pleases me, that _Pope_ unlaurell'd goes,
While _Cibber_ wears the Bays for Playhouse Prose.
So _Britain_'s Monarch once uncover'd fate,
While _Bradshaw_ bully'd in a broad-brimm'd hat.
Long live old _Curl!_ he ne'er to publish fears,
The speeches, verses, and last wills of Peers.
How oft has he a publick spirit shewn,
And pleas'd our ears regardless of his own?
But to give Merit due, though _Curl_'s the same?
Are not his Brother-booksellers the same?
Can Statutes keep the _British_ Press in awe,
While that sells best, that's most against the Law?
_Lives_ of dead _Play'rs_ my leisure hours beguile,
And _Sessions-Papers_ tragedize my stile.
'Tis charming reading in _Ophelia_'s life,
So oft a Mother, and not once a Wife:
She could with just propriety behave,
Alive with Peers, with Monarchs in her grave:
Her lot how oft have envious harlots wept,
By Prebends bury'd and by Generals kept.
T'improve in Morals _Mandevil_ I read,
And _Tyndal_'s Scruples are my settled Creed.
I travell'd early, and I soon saw through
Religion all, e'er I was twenty-two.
Shame, Pain, or Poverty shall I endure,
When ropes or opium can my ease procure?
When money's gone, and I no debts can pay,
Self-murder is an honourable way.
As _Pasaran_ directs I'd end my life,
And kill myself, my daughter, and my wife.
Burn but that _Bible_ which the Parson quotes,
And men of spirit all shall cut their throats.
But not to writings I confine my pen,