The visions of the soul, before it comes into the body in several dialogues / written by a member of the Anthenian Society.

DIALOGUE I.

Between the Spirits of a Poet, and a Drunkard.

D.

WEll met, Brother: Which way is your Flight design'd?

P.

I have just left the Bosom of Causes, to take a Prospect of the lower World, to see if there be any Preparation for my Re∣ception there: And yet I'm much troubl'd at the Apprehension of being clogg'd with that uneasie, restless Lump of Humanity, and the attending Consequences make me very im∣patient.

D.

Why so? What Conjectures have ye?

P.

'Tis the want of reasonable Conjectures; for by all the Observations I can make of my Temper, I cannot resolve my self whether I'm a Male, or a Female Spirit. But why do I thus busie my self about Sexes? Certainly 'tis ominous, and argues my Imbodying near at hand: But if after Six Thousand Years Expecta∣tion I shou'd be ty'd to a Poet, I shall reckon it a Fore-stalling my Damnation, and had e'en as good commence Devil, without any more adoe, and take up with one Hell.— See you not that Wretch in yonder Grove, with his Hat over his Eyes, scratching his Head, tearing his Nails, and sending his poor Hackney-Soul about, like a Spaniel Dog, to fetch and carry Similitudes, Rhimes, Compo∣sition,

&c. I remember, about Thirty Years since, when he was our Companion, he wou'd sometimes break off in the midst of a Dis∣course, without bidding God b'w'ye, and away to the Brooks, Groves and Fountains; which made me suspect the nearness of a Poetick Preferment.—But, hark!—The Hu∣mour of our late Companion in his new Lodging!

When formless and inanimate I lay, Sleeping in Chaos with my Fellow-Clay, Or e'er those te••ming Particles had met, To make this wretched Composition so compleat, Without my Knowledge or Concurrence, thou Bidst me awake and live.—

Well, and what then?—Why the Sense is out before the Rhime: Now 'twou'd be charitable to assume an Airy Organ, and help him out, viz.—I know not how.

Poor Wretch! He knows not what to do, unless he un••oes all, and begins again, which he'd as lieve be hang'd as attempt, having ta∣ken so much pains about it already. Oh, for Sysiphus's restless Stone, or Belides's leaking Tun! They are minute and pettite Tasks to his. Not Ixion's Wheel has half the Torture of an over-hasty Period.—But this is not all: When he has undergone the bitter Throws and Pains of Rhimeship, then the Darling Off-spring of his Brain turns prosti∣tute to the Abuses of all the World: The Praises of wise Men are so few, that their Voice is lost in so large a Theatre; and the nume∣rous

Applauses of Fools are too loud a Scan∣dal. —And after all this, Is't not pity the poor Rogue shou'd take such pains to be dam∣ned? For there's not one Poet in Five Thou∣sand that escapes. It had gone hard with Ouldham himself, if it had not been for the Penance of his own Satyrs. Say, Fellow-Im∣materiality: What shall I do? I can never look down upon a Couple of Lovers, but I'm afraid their Toying will end in making an Heliconian Prison for me; especially if the In∣namorato is for Balls, Masquerading, and Love-Sonnets.

D.

Alas, Brother! I'm all Resentment and Pity. Little do Mortals think what Plague we are at, about the Lodging and Entertain∣ment we expect at their Hands:—But for my part, your Apprehensions of Incorpo∣ration are all Charms, and Sweetness, to the dismal Reception I look for.

P.

—VVhy, what's the matter with you?

D.

—I can never loave our happier Re∣gions, to visit the lower Elements, but, before I am aware, I find my self amongst Sea Fowl, hovering over Rivers, Ponds and Marshes, admiring the Scaly Sholes, and envying the Pastime of those ever thirsty Revellers. Now, VVhat can this mean, but that I'm ordain'd to actuate a Drunkard? And if so, Hell is a Toy to such a Confinement: This Moment wou'd I plunge into the boundless Depths, to be secur'd from such a Companion. But why that rash Thought? Is not Hell also crowded with 'em? And are not its Horrours doubled by their Confession? Yet, if Hell cou'd be

Hell without 'em, 'twou'd be a happy Place, and nothing in't of the Beast, Antick or Non∣sense, but a rational Complaint of Despair. VVonder not, dear Brother, at my deeper Reflections, till you've consider'd yonder Fi∣gure at the Old D—l Tavern. VVhat think you of their Motions, Converse and Passions? Suppose all their Discourse were taken in Short-hand, and the weakest Person amongst 'em shou'd have a View of the whole when he's in a Mood of Thinking: VVould not he blush at such Follies, at such an unaccounta∣ble Expence of Time; especially if he thought an Hour so spent was of equal length with any other Hour in the Line of Life, and must be equally accounted for? Alas! VVho wou'd suppose that Souls, cloyster'd up in these sen∣sualizd, unthinking Statues, were ever our Companions! Come, let's retire towards our peaceful Regions, and not be VVitnesses of what a Mid-night Scene produces. A Poet's Structure! afraid of a Poetick Mansion! 'Tis a Paradise, to what I dread. Nor is there any Spirit in all our Order, that can be afraid of such a Body, but I must meet with it in this Epitome of all Plagues. A Drunkard can be Poet, Beggar, Cully, Buffoon, or any thing: So that I am like to meet with the most abject Slavery in Nature.