Though lived he now, he might appeal with scorn Zounds! shall a pert or bluff important wight, Than that he boasts per ann. ten thousand clear, For shame! for shame! the liberal British soul To stoop to any stale dictator's rule! I may be wrong, Of trite invention and a flimsy vein, 12 12 First painter to Lewis XIV, who, to speak in fashionable French-English, called himself Lewis the Great. Our sovereign lords the passions, Love, Rage, Despair, &c. were graciously pleased to sit to him in their turns for their portraits which he was generous enough to communicate to the public; to the great improvement, no doubt, of history-painting. It was he who they say poisoned Le Sueur; who, without half his advantages in many other respects, was so unreasonable and provoking as to display a genius with which his own could stand no comparison. It was he and his Gothic disciples, who, with sly scratches, defaced the most masterly of this Le Sueur's performances, as often as their barbarous envy could snugly reach them. Yet after all these achievements, he died in his bed! A catastrophe which could not have happened to him in a country like this; where the fine arts are as zealously and judiciously patronized as they are well understood. For I would rather never judge than wrong Who half our lords with filthy praise besmears, And sing an anthem to All Ministers: Taste the' Attic salt in every peer's poor rebus, Alas! so far from free, so far from brave, Sad Otway's scenes, great Shakspeare's we defy: Lard, madam! 'tis so unpolite to cry! For shame, my dear! do 'ye credit all this stuff?I vow-well, this is innocent enough!' At Athens long ago, the ladies-(married) Dreamt not they misbehaved, though they miscarried When a wild poet with licentious rage They were so tender and so easy moved, Who doubts that Horace must have cater'd well? Friend, I'm a shrewd observer, and will guess What books you dote on from your favourite mess. K Brown and L'Estrange will surely charm whome'er And who devours whate'er the cook can dish up, 13 See Felton's Classics. IMITATIONS OF SHAKSPEARE AND SPENSER. Advertisement from the Publisher 1. THE following Imitation of Shakspeare was one of our author's first attempts in poetry, made when he was very young. It helped to amuse the solitude of a winter passed in a wild romantic country; and, what is rather particular, was just finished when Mr. Thomson's celebrated poem upon the same subject appeared. Mr. Thomson, soon hearing of it, had the curiosity to procure a copy by the means of a common acquaintance. He showed it to his poetical friends, Mr. Mallet, Mr. Aaron Hill, and Dr. Young, who, it seems, did great honour to it: and the first-mentioned gentleman wrote to one of his friends at Edinburgh, desiring the author's leave to publish it; a request too flattering to youthful vanity to be resisted. But Mr. Mallet altered his mind; and this little piece has hitherto remained unpublished. The other Imitations of Shakspeare happen to have been saved out of the ruins of an unfinished tragedy on the story of Tereus and Philomela; attempted upon an irregular and extravagant plan, at an age much too early for such achievements. However, they are here exhibited for the sake of such guests as may like a little repast of scraps. 1 Prefixed to these Imitations in Cadell's edition of 1770. IMITATIONS OF SHAKSPEARE. Now Summer with her wanton court is gone out The stiffening regions; while, by stronger charms Than Circè e'er or fell Medea brew'd, Each brook, that wont to prattle to its banks, Lies all bestill'd and wedged betwixt its banks, Nor moves the wither'd reeds: and the rash flood That from the mountains held its headstrong course, Buried in livid sheets of vaulting ice, Seen through the shameful breaches, idly creeps |