And if it rarely, very rarely hit,
  ’Tis under such a nasty rubbish laid,
  To find it out’s the cinder-woman’s trade;
  Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,
  Must toil all day in ashes and in mire. 
  So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
  The wretched text deserves no comments here;
  Where one poor thought sometime’s left all alone,
  For a whole page of dulness to atone: 
  ’Mongst forty bad, one tolerable line,
  Without expression, fancy, or design.”

[20] “Whereas John Dryden, Esq., was on Monday the 18th instant, at night, barbarously assaulted, and wounded in Rose-street, in Covent-garden, by divers men unknown; if any person shall make discovery of the said offenders to the said Mr. Dryden, or to any justice of the peace, he shall not only receive fifty pounds, which is deposited in the hands of Mr. Blanchard, goldsmith, next door to Temple-bar, for the said purpose; but if he be a principal, or an accessory, in the said fact, his Majesty is graciously pleased to promise him his pardon for the same.”—­London Gazette, from December 18th to December 22d, 1679.  Mr. Malone mentions the same advertisement in a newspaper, entitled, “Domestic Intelligence or News from City and Country.”

[21] I might also mention the sentiment of Count Conigsmarck, who allowed, that the barbarous assassination of Mr. Thynne by his bravoes was a slain on his blood, but such a one as a good action in the wars, or a lodging on a counterscarp, would easily wash out.  See his Trial, “State Trials,” vol. iv.  But Conigsmarck was a foreigner.

[22] For example, a rare broadside in ridicule of Benjamin Harris the Whig publisher, entitled, “The Saint turned Courtezan, or a new Plot discovered by a precious Zealot of an Assault and Battery designed upon the Body of a sanctified Sister,

  “Who, in her husband’s absence, with a brother
  Did often use to comfort one another,
  Till wide-mouthed Crop, who is an old Italian,
  Took his mare nappy, and surprised her stallion,
  Who, steal of entertainment from his mistress,
  Did meet a cudgelling not matched in histories.”

    “Who’s there?” quoth watchful Argus. 
      “Tis I, in longing passion,
    Give me a kiss.” 
    Quoth Ben, “Take this,
      A Dryden salutation.”

      “Help Care, Vile, Smith, and Curtes,
      Each zealous covenanter! 
      What wonder the atheist
      L’Estrange should turn papist,
      When a zealot turns a ranter.”

[23] Vol. xiii.

[24] Cibber’s Apology, 4to, p. 74.

[25] Vol. xv.

[26] Vol. v.

[27] Vol. v.

[28] This distinction our author himself points out in the Prologue.  The poet there says,

  “His hero, whom you wits his bully call,
  Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all;
  He’s somewhat lewd, but a well-meaning mind,
  Weeps much, fights little, but is wondrous kind.”—­Vol. v.