Never was dashed out, at one lucky hit,
A fool, so just a copy of a wit;
So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore,
A wit it was, and called the phantom More.
All gaze with ardour: some a poet’s name,
Others a sword-knot and laced suit inflame.
But lofty Lintot in the circle rose:
This prize is mine; who tempt it are my foes;
With me began this genius, and shall end.’
He spoke: and who with Lintot shall contend? 40
Fear held them mute. Alone, untaught to fear,
Stood dauntless Curll, ‘Behold that rival here!
The race by vigour, not by vaunts is won;
So take the hindmost, hell,’ (he said) and run.
Swift as a bard the bailiff leaves behind,
He left huge Lintot and outstripped the wind.
As when a dab-chick waddles through the copse
On feet and wings, and flies, and wades, and hops:
So lab’ring on, with shoulders, hands, and head,
Wide as a wind-mill all his figure spread, 50
With arms expanded Bernard rows his state,
And left-legged Jacob seems to emulate.
Full in the middle way there stood a lake,
Which Curll’s Corinna chanced that morn to make:
(Such was her wont, at early dawn to drop
Her evening cates before his neighbour’s shop,)
Here fortuned Curll to slide; loud shout the band,
And ‘Bernard! Bernard!’ rings through all the Strand.
Obscene with filth the miscreant lies bewrayed,
Fallen in the plash his wickedness had laid: 60
Then first (if poets aught of truth declare)
The caitiff vaticide conceived a prayer.
‘Hear, Jove! whose name my bards and I adore,
As much at least as any god’s, or more;
And him and his if more devotion warms,
Down with the Bible, up with the Pope’s arms.’
A place there is, betwixt earth, air, and seas,
Where, from ambrosia, Jove retires for ease.
There in his seat two spacious vents appear,
[298–306]