Poems, chiefly consisting of satyrs and satyrical epistles by Robert Gould.

TO JULIAN Secretary to the Muses, A Consolatory Epistle IN HIS Confinement.

DEar Friend, when those we love are in distress, Kind Verse may comfort, though it can't redress: Nor can I think such Zeal you'l discommend, Since Poesie has been so much thy Friend: On that thou'st liv'd and flourisht all thy Time, Nay more, maintain'd a Family with Rhime. And that's a mark which Dr—n ne'r cou'd hit, He lives upon his Pension, not his Wit.

Ev'n gentle George, with flux in Tongue and Purse, In shunning one snare run into a worse. Want once may be reliev'd in a Mans Life, But who can be reliev'd that has a Wife? Ot—y can hardly Guts from Iayl preserve, For though he's very fat, he's like to starve. And Sing-song Dur—y, plac't beneath abuses, Lives by his Impudence, not by the Muses. Poor C—n too has his third days mixt with Gall; He lives so ill he hardly lives at all. Sh—l and S—le, who pretend to Reason, Though paid so well for scribling Dogrel Treason, Must now expect a very barren Season; But chiefly he that made his Recantation; For Villain thrives best in his own Vocation. Nay Lee in Bedlam now sees better days, Than when applaus'd for writing Bombast Plays; He knows no care, nor feels sharp want no more; And that is what he ne'r cou'd say before. Thus, while our Bards e'en famish by their wit, Thou, who hast none at all, did'st thrive by it. Wer't possible that Wit cou'd turn a penny, Poets wou'd then grow rich as well as any: For 'tis not Wit to have a great Estate, (The blind Effects of Fortune and of Fate) For oft we see a Coxcomb, dull and vain, Brim full of Cash and empty in his Brain. Nor is it Wit that makes the Lawyer prize His dagled Gown, but Knavery in disguise, To pluck down honest men that he may rise. Nor is it Wit that makes the Tradesman great; 'Tis the compendious Art to ly and cheat.

The base-born Strumpet too may roar and rail, But 'tis not Wit she lives by, 'tis her Tail. Nor is it Wit that drills the Statesman on To wast the sweets of Life, so quickly gone, In toyling for Estates, then, like a Sot, Dy, and leave Fools to spend what he has got. Nor is it Wit for Whigs to scribble Satyrs, No more than for their Patriots to be Traytors; For Wit does never bring a Man to hanging, That goes no further than a harmless banging. How justly then dost thou our Praise deserve, That got thy Bread where all Men else wou'd starve? And what's more strange, the Miracle was wrought By him that han't the least pretence to thought; And he that had no meaning to do wrong, Can't suffer, sure, for his No-meaning long; And that's the Consolation that I bring: Thou art too dull to think a treach'rous thing, And 'tis the thoughtful Traytor that offends his King.