Tho they Itch to govern all,
  Are silly, woful awkward Politicians,
  They make lame mischiefs, tho they meant it well.

  [Footnote:  Collier, p.104.]

So much the better_, says he, for tis a sign they are not beaten to the trade—­Oh, that’s a mistake, Doctor, they may be beaten to the Trade, and yet be bunglers—­And proceeding: 

  Their Interest is not finely drawn, and hid,
  But Seams are coursely bungled up, and seen.

  [Footnote:  Ibid.]

These Lines, says he, are an Illustration taken from a Taylor. They are so, but what Justice is it in him to lessen ’em, whose own flights are ten times more ridiculous:  For example, talking just before of tumbling the Elements together, he says, and since we have shewn our skill of Vaulting on the High Ropes, a little Tumbling on the Stage may not do amiss for variety [Footnote:  Collier, p. 158.].  And now I will refer my self to the severest Critick of his party, whether an Illustration taken from a Taylor is not better than one taken from a Vagabond Rope-dancer, or Tumbler, forty times over; but his sense and way of Writing he thinks will infallibly overcome censure; not with me I assure him, to confirm it I must remark him once more, and then my digression shall end.  He tells ye Cleora, in the Tragedy of Cleomenes, is not very charming, her part is to tell you, her Child suck’d to no purpose.

  It pull’d and pull’d but now, but nothing came;
  At last it drew so hard that the Blood follow’d,
  And that red Milk I found upon its Lips,
  Which made me swoon for fear.

  [Footnote:  Cleomenes.]

There, says he, is a description of sucking for ye:  And then like another Devil of a Joker runs on, truly one would think the Muse on’t were scarcely wean’d—­Very likely; and here I warrant he thinks his Witty Criticism, as safely hous’d now as a Thief in a Mill, as the old Saw has it, did not his plaguee want of Memory now and then contrive to disgrace him; or if you turn to the thirty fourth page of his Lampoon, as Mr Vanbrooke calls it, after he has been comparing a fine young Lady to a Setting-bitch-teacher.

Lower yet—­down, down_, and after he has been bringing forth a Litter of Mr. Congreeves Epithetes, as he calls them, soothing softness, sinking Ease, wafting Air, thrilling Fears, and incessant scalding Rain [Footnote:  Collier, p. 34.], all Crude, just as he did mine before, without any connexion of sense to ’em:  He tells ye more plain in troth than wittily, that they make the Poem look like a Bitch overstock’d with Puppies, and suck the sense almost to Skin and Bone. [Footnote:  Ibid, —.] For a Child to suck the Mother till the Blood follows, I think is not unreasonable, but for a Litter of Epithetes to suck the sense of a Poem to the Skin and Bone, is such Fustian stuff that nothing