An epistle to C. Churchill, author of The rosciad. By R. Lloyd, M.A

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- ADVERTISEMENT.

An EPISTLE to C. CHURCHILL.

IF at a Tavern, where you'd wish to dine,

They cheat your Palate with adulterate Wine,

Would you, resolve me Critics, for you can,

Send for the Master up, or chide the Man.

The Man no doubt a knavish Business drives,

But tell me what's the Master who connives?

Hence you'll infer, and sure the Doctrine's true,

Which says, no Quarter to a foul Review.

It matters not who vends the nauseous slop,

Master or Prentice; we detest the Shop.

CRITICS of old, a manly liberal Race,

Approv'd or censur'd with an open Face:

Boldly persu'd the free decisive Task,

Nor stabb'd, conceal'd beneath a Ruffian's Mask.

To Works not Men, with honest Warmth severe,

Th'impartial Judges laugh'd at Hope or Fear:

Theirs was the noble Skill, with gen'rous Aim,

To fan true Genius to an active Flame;

To bring forth Merit in its strongest Light,

Or damn the Blockhead to his native Night.

BUT, as all States are subject to Decay,

The State of Letters too will melt away.

Smit with the Harlot Charms of trilling Sound,

Softness now wantons e'en on Roman Ground;

Where Thebans, Spartans, sought their honour'd Graves,

Behold a weak enervate Race of Slaves.

In Classic Lore, deep Science, Language dead,

Tho' modern Witlings are but scantly read,

Professors [*] fail not, who will loudly bawl

In Praise of either, with the Want of all.

Hail'd mighty Critics to this present Hour.

—The Tribune's Name surviv'd the Tribune's Pow'r.

Now Quack and Critic differ but in Name,

Empirics frontless both, they mean the same;

This raw in Physic, that in Letters fresh,

Both spring like Warts, Excrescence from the Flesh.

Half form'd, half bred in Printers' hireling Schools,

For all Professions have their Rogues and Fools,

Tho' the pert Witling, or the coward Knave,

Casts no Reflection on the Wise or Brave.

YET in these leaden Times, this idle Age,

When blind with Dulness, or as blind with Rage,

Author 'gainst Author rails with Venom curst,

And happy He who calls out Blockhead first,

From the low Earth aspiring Genius springs,

And sails triumphant, born on Eagle Wings.

No toothless Spleen, no venom'd Critic's aim,

Shall rob thee, CHURCHILL, of thy proper Fame;

While hitch'd for ever in thy nervous Rime,

Fool lives, and shines out Fool to latest Time.

PITY perhaps might with a harmless Fool,

To scape the Observance of the Critic School;

But if low Malice leagu'd with Folly rise,

Arm'd with Invectives, and hedg'd round with Lies;

Should wakeful Dulness, if she ever wake,

Write sleepy Nonsense but for Writing Sake,

And stung with Rage, and piously severe,

Wish bitter Comforts to your dying Ear;

If some small Wit, some six-lin'd Verseman, rakes

For quaint Reflections in the putrid Jakes,

Talents usurp'd, demand a Censor's Rage,

A Dunce is Dunce proscrib'd in ev'ry Age.

COURTIER, Physician, Lawyer, Parson, Cit,

All, all are Objects of Theatric Wit.

Are ye then, Actors, priviledg'd alone

To make that Weapon Ridicule your own?

Professions bleed not from his just Attack,

Who laughs at Pedant, Coxcomb, Knave, or Quack;

Fools on and off the Stage are Fools the same,

And every Dunce is Satire's lawful Game.

Freely you thought, where Thought has free'st Room,

Why then apologize? for what? to whom?

THOUGH Grays-Inn Wits with Author Squire's unite,

And self-made Giants club their labour'd Mite,

Though pointless Satire make its weak Escape

In the dull Babble of a mimic Ape,

Boldly persue where Genius points the Way,

Nor heed what monthly puny Critics say.

Firm in thyself with calm Indifference smile,

When the wise Vet'ran knows you by your Stile,

With critic Scales weighs out the partial Wit,

What I, or You, or He, or no one writ;

Denying thee thy just and proper Worth,

But to give Falshood's spurious Issue Birth;

And all self-will'd with lawless Hand to raise

Malicious Slander on the Base of Praise.

DISGRACE eternal wait the Wretch's Name

Who lives on Credit of a borrow'd Fame;

Who wears the Trappings of another's Wit,

Or fathers Bantlings which he cou'd not get.

But shrewd Suspicion with her squinting Eye

To Truth declar'd, prefers a whisper'd Lye.

With greedy Mind the proffer'd Tale believes,

Relates her Wishes, and with Joy deceives.

THE World, a pompous Name, by Custom due

To the small Circle of a talking few,

With heart-felt Glee th'injurious Tale repeats,

And sends the Whisper buzzing through the Streets.

The Prude demure with sober saint-like Air,

Pities her Neighbour for she's wondrous fair.

And, when Temptations lie before our Feet,

Beauty is frail, and Females indiscreet.

She hopes the Nymph will every Danger shun,

Yet prays devoutly—that the Deed were done.

Mean Time sits watching for the daily Lie,

As Spiders lurk to catch a simple Fly.

YET is not Scandal to one Sex confin'd,

Though Men would fix it on the weaker Kind.

Yes, this great Lord, Creation's Master Man,

Will vent his Malice where the Blockhead can,

Imputing Crimes, of which e'en Thought is free,

For Instance now, your ROSCIAD all to me.

IF partial Friendship in thy sterling Lays

Grows all too wanton in another's Praise,

Critics who judge by Ways themselves have known,

Shall swear the Praise, the Poem is my own;

For 'tis the Method in these learned Days

For Wits to scribble first, and after praise.

Critics and Co. thus vend their wretched Stuff,

And help out Nonsense by a monthly Puff,

Exalt to Giant's Forms weak puny Elves,

And descant sweetly on their own dear selves;

For Works per Month by Learning's Midwives paid,

Demand a Puffing in the Way of Trade.

RESERV'D and cautious with no partial Aim,

My Muse e'er sought to blast another's Fame.

With willing Hand cou'd twine a Rival's Bays,

From Candour silent where she cou'd not praise.

But if vile Rancour, from (no Matter who)

Actor, or Mimic, Printer, or Review,

Lies oft o'erthrown with ceaseless Venom spread,

Still hiss out Scandal from their Hydra Head,

If the dull Malice boldly walk the Town,

Patience herself wou'd wrinkle to a Frown.

Come then with Justice draw the ready Pen,

Give me the Works, I wou'd not know the Men.

All in their Turns might make Reprisals too,

Had all the Patience but to read them through.

Come, to the utmost, probe the desperate Wound,

Nor spare the Knife where'er Infection's found.

BUT Prudence, CHURCHILL, or her Sister Fear,

Whispers Forbearance to my fright'ned Ear.

Oh! then with me forsake the thorny Road,

Lest we should flounder in some Fleet-Ditch Ode,

And sunk for ever in the lazy Flood,

Weep with the NAIADS heavy Drops of Mud.

HAIL mighty Ode! which like a Picture Frame,

Hold any Portrait, and with any Name;

Or like your Nitches planted thick and thin,

Will serve to cram the Random Hero in.

HAIL mighty Bard too—whatsoe'er thy Name,

—or DURFY, for it's all the same.

To Brother Bards shall equal Praise belong,

For Wit, for Genius, Comedy and Song.

No costive Muse is thine, which freely rakes

With ease familiar in the well known Jakes,

Happy in Skill to souse through foul and fair,

And toss the Dung out with a lordly Air.

So have I seen amidst the grinning Throng

The Sledge Procession slowly dragg'd along,

Where the mock Female Shrew and hen-peck'd Male

Scoop'd rich Contents from either copious Pail,

Call'd Bursts of Laughter from the roaring Rout,

And dash'd and splash'd the filthy Grains about.

QUIT then, my Friend, the Muses lov'd Abode,

Alas! they lead not to Preferment's Road,

Be solemn, sad, put on the priestly Frown,

Be dull, 'tis sacred, and becomes the Gown.

Leave Wit to others, do a Christian Deed,

Your Foes shall thank you, for they know their Need.

BROAD is the Path by Learning's Sons possess'd

A thousand modern Wits might walk abreast,

Did not each Poet mourn his luckless Doom

Jostled by Pedants out of Elbow Room.

I, who nor court their Love, nor fear their Hate,

Must mourn in Silence o'er the Muses Fate.

No Right of Common now on Pindus' Hill,

While all our Tenures are by Critics Will.

Where, watchful Guardians of the Lady Muse,

Dwell monstrous Giants, dreadful tall REVIEWS,

Who, as we read in fam'd Romance of Yore,

Sound but a Horn press forward to the Door.

But let some Chief, some bold advent'rous Knight,

Provoke these Champions to an equal Fight,

Strait into Air to spaceless nothing fall

The Castle, Lions, Giants, Dwarf and all.

ILL it befits with undiscerning Rage

To censure Giants in this polish'd Age.

No lack of Genius stains these happy Times,

No Want of Learning, and no Dearth of Rimes.

The see-saw Muse that flows by measur'd Laws,

In tuneful Numbers, and affected Pause,

With Sound alone, Sound's happy Virtue fraught,

Which hates the Trouble, and Expence of Thought,

Once, every Moon, throughout the circling Year

With Even Cadence charms the critic Ear.

While, dire Promoter of Poetic Sin,

A Magazine must hand the Lady in.

HOW Moderns write, how nervous, strong and well,

The ANTI-ROSCIAD'S decent Muse does tell.

Which, while she strives to cleanse each Actor hurt,

Daubs with her Praise, and rubs him into Dirt.

SURE never yet was happy Aera known

So gay, so wise, so tasteful as our own.

Our curious Histories rise at once COMPLETE,

Yet still continued, as they're paid, per Sheet.

SEE every Science which the World wou'd know,

Your Magazines shall every Month bestow,

Whose very Titles fill the Mind with Awe,

Imperial, Christian, Royal, British, Law;

Their rich Contents will every Reader fit,

Statesman, Divine, Philosopher and Wit;

Compendious Schemes! which teach all Things at once,

And make a pedant Coxcomb of a Dunce.

BUT let not Anger to such Frenzy grow,

Drawcansir like, to strike down Friend and Foe.

To real Worth be Homage duly paid,

But no Allowance to the paltry Trade.

My Friends I name not (though I boast a few,

To Me an Honour and to Letters too)

Fain would I praise, but when such Things oppose

My Praise of Course must make them—'s Foes.

IF manly JOHNSON, with satyric Rage,

Lash the dull Follies of a trifling Age,

If his strong Muse with genuine Strength aspire,

Glows not the Reader with the Poet's Fire?

HIS the true Fire, where creep the witling Fry

To warm themselves, and light their Rushlights by.

WHAT Muse like GRAY'S shall pleasing pensive flow

Attemper'd sweetly to the rustic Woe?

Or who like him shall sweep the Theban Lyre,

And, as his Master, pour forth Thoughts of Fire?

E'EN now to guard afflicted Learning's Cause,

To judge by Reason's Rules, and Nature's Laws,

Boast we true Critics in their proper Right,

While LOWTH and Learning, HURD and Taste unite.

HAIL sacred Names—Oh arm'd with honest Rage,

Save your lov'd Mistress from a Ruffian's Rage;

See how she gasps and struggles hard for Life,

Her Wounds all bleeding from the Butcher's Knife:

Critics, like Surgeons, blest with curious Art,

Shou'd mark each Passage to the human Heart,

But not unskilful, yet with lordly Air

Read Surgeon's Lectures while they scalp and tear.

To Names like these, I pay the hearty Vow,

Proud of their Worth, and not asham'd to bow.

To these inscribe my rude, but honest Lays,

And feel the Pleasures of my conscious Praise.

Not that I mean to court each letter'd Name,

And poorly glimmer from reflected Fame,

But that the Muse which owns no servile Fear,

Is proud to pay her willing Tribute here.

FINIS.

Notes

*
The Author takes this Opportunity, notwithstanding all Insinuations to the contrary, to declare, that he has no particular Aim at a Gentleman, whose Abilities he sufficiently acknowledges.
↵

AN EPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL, AUTHOR of the ROSCIAD.

Telumque imbelle sine ictu Conjecit.
VIRG.

By R. LLOYD, M. A.

LONDON: Printed for WILLIAM FLEXNEY, near Grays-Inn Gate, Holborn. MDCCLXI.

ADVERTISEMENT.

AS in Parts of the following Poem there is an Allusion to a late delicate Production, it may not be improper to let the Reader into some Secrets concerning its Origin, that He may know the Progress of Wit, and how dangerous it is for young Adventurers to attack Veterans in the Service, and teach them to pay a due Deference to all distinguish'd Writers. An Author possessed of those happy Qualities which appear so notoriously in that Publication, viz. MODESTY, DECENCY, and GOOD NATURE, has an indisputable Right to be believed upon his own Assertion; and therefore it would be illiberal to doubt, but that he is, as he ought to be, DISTINGUISHED. This Ode then was perform'd by the Maker, as a Coffin to hold the dead Bodies of those unfortunate Heroes slain by his redoubtable Pen. A Gentleman it seems unhappily differ'd in Opinion with our Champion, and express'd his Sentiments in a Paper call'd the Craftsman. Out-sallies the vindictive Knight (I should say Squire) to use his own Language, does him, slaps him into the Coffin, where he laid quietly for some Months, till a second Paroxysm of Indignation, produced a second Murder, and the former Body was obliged to give Place to the latter. The Coffin is nailed down, the Plate alter'd, and the brazen Inscription informs us C. CHURCHILL died the 12th of June 1761.

HAPPY is the Man that is always prepared for his Enemy, and has "his NAIADS by him ready made." It must be allowed that this Gentleman has made huge Strides towards Parnassus, and hath strangely walk'd over all our Heads. I wish him Joy of having exalted himself to the Pinnacle of this aery Mountain, but beg Leave to remind him, that People sometimes

tolluntur in altum

Ut lapsu graviore cadant.

Information about this book

Title statement

An epistle to C. Churchill, author of The rosciad. By R. Lloyd, M.A

Lloyd, Robert, 1733-1764.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3551

ID [isbn10]

1106005503

ID [isbn13]

9781106005502

ID [TCP]

K019941.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3311681758

ID [ECLL]

0310900400

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— An epistle to C. Churchill, author of The rosciad. By R. Lloyd, M.A, Lloyd, Robert, 1733-1764.. [2],iv,14p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for William Flexney,. 1761.. [With a half-title.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT221.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2p5.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

This electronic text file was keyed from page images and partially proofread for accuracy. Character capture and encoding have been done following the guidelines of the ECCO Text Creation Partnership, which correspond roughly to the recommendations found in Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Digital page images are linked to the text file.