THE APOLOGY. ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS.

THE APOLOGY . ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS . LAUGHS not the heart , when Giants , big with pride , Assume the pompous port , the martial stride ; O'er arm Herculean heave th' enormous shield , Vast as a weaver's beam the javelin wield ; With the loud voice of thund'ring JOVE defy , And dare to single combat — What ? — A Fly . AND laugh we less , when Giant names , which shine Establish'd as it were by right divine ; Critics whom ev'ry captive art adores , To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores ; Who high in letter'd reputation sit , And hold , ASTRAEA like , the scales of Wit ; With partial rage rush forth , — Oh ! shame to tell ! — To crush a bard just bursting from the shell ? GREAT are his perils in this stormy time Who rashly ventures on a sea of Rhime . Around vast surges roll , winds envious blow , And jealous rocks and quicksands lurk below . Greatly his foes he dreads , but more his friends ; He hurts me most who lavishly commends . LOOK thro' the world — in ev'ry other trade The same employment's cause of kindness made ; At least appearance of good will creates ; And ev'ry fool puffs off the fool he hates : Cobblers with cobblers smoke away the night , And in the common cause e'en play'rs unite . Authors , alone , with more than savage rage , Unnat'ral war with brother authors wage . The pride of Nature would as soon admit Competitors in empire as in wit . Onward they rush at Fame's imperious call , And , less than greatest , would not be at all . SMIT with the love of Honour , — or the Pence , O'er-run with wit , and destitute of sense , If any novice in the rhiming trade , With lawless pen the realms of verse invade ; Forth from the court , where scepter'd sages sit , Abus'd with praise , and flatter'd into wit ; Where in lethargic majesty they reign , And what they won by dullness still maintain ; Legions of factious authors throng at once ; Fool beckons fool , and dunce awakens dunce . To H—M—LT—N's the Ready Lies repair ; — Ne'er was Lie made which was not welcome there . — Thence , on maturer judgment's anvil wrought , The polish'd falshood's into public brought . Quick circulating slanders mirth afford , And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word . A CRITIC was of old a glorious name , Whose sanction handed merit up to fame : Beauties as well as faults he brought to view : His Judgment great , and great his Candour too . No servile rules drew sickly taste aside ; Secure he walk'd , for Nature was his guide . But now , Oh strange reverse ! our Critics bawl In praise of Candour with a Heart of Gall . Conscious of guilt , and fearful of the light , They lurk enshrouded in the veil of night : Safe from detraction , seize the unwary prey , And stab , like bravoes , all who come that way . WHEN first my Muse , perhaps more bold than wise , Bad the rude trifle into light arise , Little she thought such tempests would ensue , Less , that those tempests would be rais'd by you . The thunder's fury rends the tow'ring oak , Rosciads , like shrubs , might 'scape the fatal stroke . Vain thought ! A Critic's fury knows no bound ; Drawcansir like , he deals destruction round ; Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare Who gives no quarter to his friend VOLTAIRE . UNHAPPY Genius ! plac'd , by partial Fate , With a free spirit in a slavish state ; Where the reluctant Muse , oppress'd by kings , Or droops in silence , or in fetters sings . In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borne The bigot's furious zeal , and tyrant's scorn . Why did'st thou safe from home-bred dangers steer ? Reserv'd to perish more ignobly here . Thus , when the Julian tyrant's pride to swell Rome with her POMPEY at Pharsalia fell , The vanquish'd chief escap'd from CAESAR's hand To die by ruffians in a foreign land . HOW could these self-elected monarchs raise So large an empire on so small a base ? In what retreat , inglorious and unknown , Did Genius sleep when Dullness seiz'd the throne ? Whence , absolute now grown , and free from awe , She to the subject world dispenses law . Without her licence , not a letter stirs ; And all the captive criss cross row is her's . The stagyrite , who rules from Nature drew , Opinions gave , but gave his reasons too . Our great Dictators take a shorter way — Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say ? Their word's sufficient ; and to ask a reason , In such a state as their's , is downright treason . True judgment , now , with Them alone can dwell ; Like church of Rome they're grown infallible . Dull superstitious readers they deceive , Who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve , And , knowing nothing , ev'ry thing believe ! But why repine we , that these Puny Elves Shoot into Giants ? — We may thank ourselves . Fools that we are , like Israel's fools of yore , The Calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore . But let true Reason once resume her reign , This God shall dwindle to a Calf again . FOUNDED on arts which shun the face of day , By the same arts they still maintain their sway . Wrapp'd in mysterious secrecy they rise , And , as they are unknown , are safe and wise . At whomsoever aim'd , howe'er severe Th' envenom'd slander flies , no names appear . Prudence forbid that step . — Then all might know , And on more equal terms engage the foe . But now , what Quixote of the age would care To wage a war with dirt , and fight with air ? By int'rest join'd , th' expert confed'rates stand , And play the game into each other's hand . The vile abuse , in turn by all deny'd , Is bandy'd up and down from side to side : It flies — hey ! — presto ! — like a jugler's ball , 'Till it belongs to nobody at all . ALL men and things they know , themselves unknown , And publish ev'ry name — except their own . Nor think this strange — secure from vulgar eyes The nameless author passes in disguise . But vet'ran critics are not so deceiv'd , If vet'ran critics are to be believ'd . Once seen they know an author evermore , Nay swear to hands they never saw before . Thus in the ROSCIAD , beyond chance or doubt , They , by the writing , found the writers out . " That's LLOYD's — his manner there you plainly trace , " And all the ACTOR stares you in the face . " By COLMAN that was written . — On my life , " The strongest symptoms of the JEALOUS WIFE . " That little disingenuous piece of spite , " CHURCHILL , a wretch unknown , perhaps might write . " How doth it make judicious readers smile , When authors are detected by their stile : Tho' ev'ry one who knows this author , knows He shifts his stile much oftner than his cloaths ? WHENCE could arise this mighty critic spleen , The Muse a trifler , and her theme so mean ? What had I done , that angry HEAVEN should send The bitt'rest Foe , where most I wish'd a Friend ? Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name , And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame . For me let hoary FIELDING bite the ground So nobler PICKLE stand superbly bound . From LIVY's temples tear th' historic crown Which , with more justice blooms upon thine own . Compar'd with thee , be all life-writers dumb , But he who wrote the Life of TOMMY THUMB . Who ever read the REGICIDE but swore The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before ? Others for plots and under-plots may call , Here's the right method — have no plot at all . Who can so often in his cause engage , The tiny Pathos of the Grecian stage , Whilst horrors rise , and tears spontaneous flow At tragic Ha ! and no less tragic Oh ! ? His NERVOUS WEAKNESS all to praise agree ; And then , for sweetness , who so sweet as he ? Too big for utterance when sorrows swell The too big sorrows flowing tears must tell : But when those flowing tears shall cease to flow , Why , — then the voice must speak again you know . RUDE and unskilful in the Poet's trade , I kept no Naiads by me ready-made ; Ne'er did I colours high in air advance , Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France : No flimsey linsey-woolsey scenes I wrote With patches here and there like Joseph's coat . Me humbler themes befit : Secure , for me , Let Playwrights smuggle nonsense duty free : Secure , for me , ye lambs , ye lambkins bound , And frisk and frolic o'er the fairy ground : Secure , for me , thou pretty little fawn Lick SYLVIA's hand , and crop the flow'ry lawn : Uncensur'd let the gentle breezes rove , Thro' the green umbrage of th' enchanted grove : Secure , for me , let foppish Nature smile , And play the coxcomb in the DESART ISLE . THE Stage I chose — a subject fair and free — 'Tis yours — 'tis mine — 'tis Public Property . All Common Exhibitions open lye For Praise or Censure to the Common Eye . Hence are a thousand Hackney-writers fed ; Hence Monthly Critics earn their Daily Bread . This is a gen'ral tax which all must pay , From those who scribble , down to those who play . Actors , a venal crew , receive support From public bounty , for the public sport . To clap or hiss , all have an equal claim , The cobbler's and his lordship's right the same . All join for their subsistence ; all expect Free leave to praise their worth , their faults correct . When active PICKLE Smithfield stage ascends , The three days wonder of his laughing friends ; Each , or as judgment , or as fancy guides , The lively witling praises or derides . And where's the mighty diff'rence , tell me where , Betwixt a Merry Andrew and a Play'r ? THE strolling tribe , a despicable race , Like wand'ring Arabs , shift from place to place . Vagrants by law , to justice open laid , They tremble , of the beadle's lash afraid , And fawning cringe , for wretched means of life , To Madam May'ress or his Worship's Wife . The mighty monarch , in theatric sack , Carries his whole regalia at his back ; His royal consort heads the female band , And leads the heir-apparent in her hand ; The pannier'd ass creeps on with conscious pride , Bearing a future prince on either side . No choice musicians in this troop are found To varnish nonsense with the charms of sound ; No swords , no daggers , not one poison'd bowl ; No lightning flashes here , no thunders roll ; No guards to swell the monarch's train are shewn ; The monarch here must be an host ALONE . No solemn pomp , no slow processions here ; No Ammon's entry , and no Juliet's bier . BY need compell'd to prostitute his art , The varied actor flies from part to part ; And , strange disgrace to all theatric pride , His character is shifted with his side . Question and Answer he by turns must be , Like that small wit in MODERN TRAGEDY ; Who , to support his fame , — or fill his purse , — Still pilfers wretched plans , and makes them worse ; Like gypsies , least the stolen brat be known , Defacing first , then claiming for his own . In shabby state they strut , and tatter'd robe ; The scene a blanket , and a barn the globe . No high conceits their mod'rate wishes raise , Content with humble profit , humble praise . Let dowdies simper , and let bumpkins stare , The strolling pageant heroe treads in air : Pleas'd for his hour he to mankind gives law , And snores the next out on a truss of straw . BUT if kind Fortune , who we sometimes know Can take a heroe from a puppet-shew , In mood propitious should her fav'rite call , On royal stage in royal pomp to bawl , Forgetful of himself he rears the head , And scorns the dunghill where he first was bred : Conversing now with well-dress'd kings and queens , With gods and goddesses behind the scenes , He sweats beneath the terror-nodding plume , Taught by Mock Honours Real Pride t' assume . On this great stage the World , no monarch e'er Was half so haughty as a Monarch-Player . DOTH it more move our anger or our mirth To see these THINGS , the lowest sons of earth , Presume , with self-sufficient knowledge grac'd , To rule in Letters and preside in Taste . The TOWN's decisions they no more admit , Themselves alone the ARBITERS of Wit ; And scorn the jurisdiction of that COURT To which they owe their being and support . Actors , like monks of old , now sacred grown , Must be attack'd by no fools but their own . LET the Vain Tyrant sit amidst his guards , His puny GREEN-ROOM Wits and Venal Bards , Who meanly tremble at the Puppet's frown , And , for a Playhouse Freedom lose their own ; In spite of new-made Laws , and new-made Kings , The free-born Muse with lib'ral spirit sings , Bow down , ye Slaves ; before these Idols fall ; Let Genius stoop to them who've none all ; Ne'er will I flatter , cringe , or bend the knee To those who , Slaves to ALL , are Slaves to ME . ACTORS , as Actors , are a lawful game ; The poet's right ; and Who shall bar his claim ? And , if o'er-weening of their little skill , When they have left the Stage they're Actors still ; If to the subject world they still give laws , With paper crowns , and sceptres made of straws ; If they in cellar or in garret roar , And Kings one night , are Kings for evermore ; Shall not bold Truth , e'en there , pursue her theme , And wake the Coxcomb from his golden dream ? Or if , well worthy of a better fate , They rise superior to their present state ; If , with each social virtue grac'd , they blend The gay companion and the faithful friend ; If they , like PRITCHARD , join in private life The tender parent and the virtuous wife ; Shall not our Verse their praise with pleasure speak , Though Mimics bark and Envy split her cheek ? No honest worth's beneath the Muse's praise ; No greatness can above her censure raise : Station and wealth , to Her , are trifling things ; She stoops to Actors , and she soars to Kings . IS there a man , in vice and folly bred , To sense of honour as to virtue dead ; Whom ties nor human , nor divine , can bind ; Alien to GOD , and foe to all mankind ; Who spares no character ; whose ev'ry word , Bitter as gall , and sharper than the sword , Cuts to the quick ; whose thoughts with rancour swell : Whose tongue , on earth , performs the work of Hell ? If there be such a monster , the REVIEWS Shall find him holding forth against Abuse . " Attack Profession ! — 'tis a deadly breach ! — " The Christian laws another lesson teach : — " Unto the end should charity endure , " And Candour hide those faults it cannot cure . " Thus Candour's maxims flow from Rancour's throat , As devils , to serve their purpose , Scripture quote . THE Muse's office was by HEAVEN design'd , To please , improve , instruct , reform mankind ; To make dejected Virtue nobly rise Above the tow'ring pitch of splendid Vice ; To make pale Vice , abash'd , her head hang down , And trembling crouch at Virtue's awful frown . Now arm'd with wrath , she bids eternal shame ; With strictest justice brands the villain's name : Now in the milder garb of Ridicule She sports , and pleases while she wounds the Fool . Her shape is often varied ; but her aim , To prop the cause of Virtue , still the same . In praise of Mercy let the guilty bawl , When Vice and Folly for Correction call ; Silence the mark of weakness justly bears , And is partaker of the crimes it spares . BUT if the Muse , too cruel in her mirth , With harsh reflexions wound the man of worth ; If wantonly she deviate from her plan , And quits the Actor to expose the Man ; Asham'd , she marks that passage with a blot , And hates the line where Candour was forgot . BUT what is Candour , what is Humour's vein , Tho' Judgment join to consecrate the strain , If curious numbers will not aid afford , Nor choicest music play in ev'ry word ? Verses must run , to charm a modern ear , From all harsh , rugged interruptions clear : Soft let them breathe , as Zephyr's balmy breeze ; Smooth let their current flow as summer seas ; Perfect then only deem'd when they dispense A happy tuneful vacancy of sense . Italian fathers thus , with barb'rous rage , Fit helpless infants for the squeaking stage ; Deaf to the calls of pity , Nature wound , And mangle vigour for the sake of sound . Henceforth farewell then , fev'rish thirst of fame ; Farewell the longings for a Poet's name ; Perish my Muse ; — a wish 'bove all severe To him who ever held the Muses dear , If e'er her labours weaken to refine Th' gen'rous roughness of a nervous line . OTHERS affect the stiff and swelling phrase ; Their Muse must walk in stilts and strut in stays : The sense they murder , and the words transpose , Lest Poetry approach too near to Prose . See , tortur'd Reason how they pare and trim , And , like Procrustes , stretch or lop the limb . WALLER , whose praise succeeding bards rehearse , Parent of harmony in English verse , Whose tuneful Muse in sweetest accent flows , In couplets first taught straggling sense to close . IN polish'd numbers , and majestic sound , Where shall thy rival , POPE , be ever found ? But whilst each line with equal beauty flows , E'en excellence , unvary'd , tedious grows . Nature , thro' all her works , in great degree , Borrows a blessing from VARIETY . Music itself her needful aid requires To rouze the soul , and wake our dying fires . Still in one key , the Nightingale would teize : Still in one key , not BRENT would always please . HERE let me bend , great DRYDEN , at thy shrine , Thou dearest name to all the tuneful nine . What if some dull lines in cold order creep , And with his theme the poet seems to sleep ? Still when his subject rises proud to view , With equal strength the poet rises too . With strong invention , noblest vigour fraught , Thought still springs up and rises out of thought ; Numbers , ennobling numbers in their course , In varied sweetness flow , in varied force ; The pow'rs of Genius and of Judgment join , And the Whole Art of Poetry is Thine . BUT what are Numbers , what are Bards to me , Forbid to tread the paths of Poesy ? " A sacred muse should consecrate her Pen ; " Priests must not hear nor see like other Men ; " Far higher themes should her ambition claim ; " Behold where STERNHOLD points the way to Fame . " WHILST , with mistaken zeal , dull bigots burn , Let REASON for a moment take her turn . When Coffee-sages hold discourse with kings , And blindly walk in Paper Leading-strings , What if a man delight to pass his time In spinning Reason into harmless Rhime ; Or sometimes boldly venture to the Play ? Say , Where's the Crime ? — Great Man of Prudence , say ? No two on earth in one thing can agree , All have some darling singularity . Women and men , as well as girls and boys , In Gew-gaws take delight , and sigh for toys . Your sceptres , and your crowns , and such like things , Are but a better kind of toys for kings . In things indiff'rent , REASON bids us chuse , Whether the Whim's a MONKEY or a MUSE . WHAT the grave triflers on this busy scene , When they make use of this word REASON , mean , I know not ; but , according to my plan , 'TIS LORD-CHEIF-JUSTICE in the COURT OF MAN , Equally form'd to rule in age and youth , The Friend of Virtue and the Guide to Truth . To HER I bow , whose sacred power I feel ; To HER decision make my last appeal ; Condemn'd by HER , applauding worlds , in vain , Should tempt me to resume the Pen again : By HER absolv'd , my course I'll still pursue : If REASON's for me , GOD is for me too .