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Beyond Love's Kingdom let him ſtretch his Pen;
He paus'd, and all the People cry'd Amen.
Then thus, continu'd he, my Son advance
Still in new Impudence, new Ignorance.
Succeſs let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without Birth, and fruitleſs Induſtry.
Let Virtuoſo's in five years be Writ;
Yet not one Thought accuſe thy toil of Wit.
Let gentle George in Triumph tread the Stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the Pit,
And in their folly ſhew the Writers wit.
Yet ſtill thy Fools ſhall ſtand in thy defence,
And juſtify their Author's want of Senſe.
Let 'em be all by thy own Model made
Of Dullneſs, and deſire no Foreign Aid:
That they to future Ages may be known,
Not Copies drawn, but Iſſue of thy own.
Nay let thy Men of Wit too be the ſame,
All full of Thee, and differing but in Name;
But let no Alien S—dl—y interpoſe
To lard with Wit thy hungry Epſom Proſe.
And when falſe Flowers of Rhetorick thou would'ſt cull,
Truſt Nature, do not labour to be dull;
But write thy beſt, and top; and in each line,
Sir Formal's Oratory will be thine.
Sir Formal, though unſought, attends thy Quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.
Nor let falſe Friends ſeduce thy Mind to Fame,
By arrogating Johnſon's hoſtile Name.
Let Father Fleckno fire thy Mind with Praiſe,
And Uncle Ogleby thy Envy raiſe.
Thou art my Blood, where Johnſon has no part;
What ſhare have we in Nature or in Art?
Where did his Wit on Learning fix a Brand,
And rail at Arts he did not underſtand?
Where made he Love in Prince Nicander's Vein,
Or ſwept the Duſt in Pſyche's humble Strain?
