The Annual miscellany, for the year 1694 being the fourth part of Miscellany poems : containing great variety of new translations and original copies / by the most eminent hands.

AN Epistle to Mr. B—

By Mr. Fr. Knapp, of Magdalen Colledge in Oxford.

Dear Friend,

I Hear that you, of late, are grown One of those squeamish Criticks of the Town, That think they have a License to abuse Each honest Author, that pretends to Muse. But be advis'd; why should you spend your time In Heath'nish Satyr, 'cause a Fool will Rhime? Poor harmless W—ly! let him write again, Be pitied in his old Heroic Strain;

Let him in Reams proclaim himself a Dunce, And break a dozen Stationers at once. What is't to you? Why shou'd you take't amiss If Grubstreet's stock'd with Tenants, if the Press Is hugely ply'd, and labours to produce Some mighty Folio, for the Chandler's use? Let Grubstreet scribble on, nor need you care Tho' ev'ry Garret held a Poet there.

You know, that are acquainted with the Town, How the poor Tribe are worry'd up and down: How pensively the hungry Authors sit, And, in their upper Regions, strain for Wit. Such a poor tatter'd Small-Beer Herd they're grown, That scarce an Author from his Hawker's known: No jolly Carbuncle thro' all the Race Appears, to justifie a Poet's Face.

This a sufficient Pennance seems to me For H—den's Droll, or S—tle's Tragedy. Is't not enough to starve for Writing ill, That they ne're Dine, but when they Smoak a Meal; That their Works only serve to wipe, or twine A Candle, or some feeble Bandbox line? Consider, and let Charity prevail, What Christian Critick can have heart to Rail At such poor Rogues as these? Besides you know A true stanch Poet can't Reform, what tho' His Works have furnish'd a Lampoon or two? They that have once in Print proclaim'd their Name, Are senseless all of Justice, as of Shame, And none but Stationers shou'd Rail at Them. Had e're the Lewdest of 'em all the Grace Or Conscience, to Repent of making Verse?

For other Sins they feel Remorse sometimes, But sure no Poet e're had Qualms for Rhimes; Alas! no wholesom Counsel can be us'd By a poor harden'd Wretch, when once Bemus'd: Then don't inhumanly your Pains mis-spend On Reprobates, that you can never mend.

Had we a Parliament dispos'd to lay A Tax on Metre, or invent some way, In Grand Committee call'd, to regulate This among other Grievances of State; Then you might hope to hear an Act would pass To limit all this Hackney jingling Race, And order some Commissioners to find Which way their Genius chiefly is inclin'd, See how it stands affected to a Muse, And as their Talents lye their Business chuse.

When a poor Thief to Tyburn's drawn, to be There made a Pendulum for Gallow Tree, Let D—y then his woful Exit sing, And with, Good People all give ear, begin. In gentle Ditty tenderly relate The inconvenience of his sudden Fate. Nor must judicious R—r be forgot, Let him for Madrigals compose a Plot. Let Jonny C—n in mild Acrosticks deal, His wondrous Skill in Anagram reveal; Let him in pretty Verse describe his Flame, And edge his Sonnet with his Mistress Name; Stop Thief the Warbling Musick shall prolong, Stop Thief shall be the Burden of the Song. And R—r too (for he above the rest Is richly with a double Talent blest,) Let him, for deep Reflexions long renown'd, Be lawful Critick thro' all Grubstreet own'd,

To be the Judge of each Suburbian Lay, If their Acrosticks all the Rules obey, Compos'd according to the Ancient way; ••f Felon does with as much decence swing In Metre, as he did before in String.

I grant you such a Course as this might do, To make 'em humbly Treat of what they know, Not vent'ring further than their Brains will go. But what should I do then, for ever spoil'd Of this Diversion which frail Authors yield? I should no more on D—n's Counter meet Bards that are deeply skill'd in Rhime and Feet; For I am Charm'd with easie Nonsence more, Than all the Wit that Men of Sense adore: With fear I view Great Dryden's hallow'd Page, With fear I view it, and I read with Rage.

I'm all with Fear, with Grief, with Love possest, Tears in my Eyes, and Anguish in my Breast; While I with Mourning Antony repine▪ And all the Hero's Miseries are mine. If I read Edgar, then my Soul's at peace, Lull'd in a lazy state of thoughtless ease. No Passion's ruffled by the peaceful Lay▪ No Stream, no Depth, to hurry me away; R—r in both Professions harmless proves; Nor Wounds when Critick, nor when Poet moves:

But you condemn such lifeless Poetry, And wildly talk of nothing else to me But Spirit, Flame, Rapture, and Extasie; Strange Mystic things, I understand no more Than Laity Pax Tecum did of Yore. Therefore pray pardon, if I rail at Sense▪ And plead for Blockheads in my own defence;

For whom I have a thousand things to say, Which you must wait for till another day. Forgive me if I'm too abrupt, you know I never was Methodical like you; I have no Rule to make an end but one, For when my Paper's out, my Letter's done. So once Lay-Vicars, in the Days of Noll, When saintly Peters did in Pulpits droll; By Hour-Glass set their Sermons, and the Flock Might safely snore in spight of Zealous Knock; Till the last kind releasing Sand was run, But when the Glass was out, the Cant was done.