While you, great patron of mankind! sustain
          The balanced world, and open all the main;
          Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend,
          At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend;
          How shall the Muse, from such a monarch, steal
          An hour, and not defraud the public weal?

          Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame,
          And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name,
          After a life of generous toils endured,
          The Gaul subdued, or property secured,                   10
          Ambition humbled, mighty cities storm'd,
          Or laws establish'd, and the world reform'd;
          Closed their long glories with a sigh, to find
          The unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
          All human virtue, to its latest breath,
          Finds envy never conquer'd, but by death.
          The great Alcides, every labour past,
          Had still this monster to subdue at last.
          Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray
          Each star of meaner merit fades away!                    20
          Oppress'd we feel the beam directly beat,
          Those suns of glory please not till they set.

          To thee, the world its present homage pays,
          The harvest early, but mature the praise:
          Great friend of liberty! in kings a name
          Above all Greek, above all Roman fame:
          Whose word is truth, as sacred and revered,
          As Heaven's own oracles from altars heard.
          Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes
          None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise.           30

          Just in one instance, be it yet confess'd,
          Your people, sir, are partial in the rest:
          Foes to all living worth except your own,
          And advocates for folly dead and gone.
          Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old;
          It is the rust we value, not the gold.
          Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn'd by rote,
          And beastly Skelton143 heads of houses quote:
          One likes no language but the 'Faery Queen';
          A Scot will fight for 'Christ's Kirk o' the Green';144   40
          And each true Briton is to Ben so civil,
          He swears the Muses met him at The Devil.145
          Though justly Greece her eldest sons admires,
          Why should not we be wiser than our sires?
          In every public virtue we excel;
          We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well,
          And learnèd Athens to our art must stoop,
          Could she behold us tumbling through a hoop.

          If time improve our wit as well as wine,
          Say at what age a poet grows divine?                     50
          Shall we, or shall we not, account him so,
          Who died, perhaps, an hundred years ago?
          End all dispute; and fix the year precise
          When British bards begin t' immortalise?

          'Who lasts a century can have no flaw,
          I hold that wit a classic, good in law.'
          Suppose he wants a year, will you compound?
          And shall we deem him ancient, right and sound,
          Or damn to all eternity at once,
          At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce?                    60

          'We shall not quarrel for a year or two;
          By courtesy of England, he may do.'

          Then, by the rule that made the horse-tail bare,146          I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair,
          And melt down ancients like a heap of snow:
          While you, to measure merits, look in Stowe,
          And estimating authors by the year,
          Bestow a garland only on a bier.

          Shakspeare (whom you and every play-house bill
          Style the divine, the matchless, what you will),         70
          For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight,
          And grew immortal in his own despite.
          Ben, old and poor, as little seem'd to heed
          The life to come, in every poet's creed.
          Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet,
          His moral pleases, not his pointed wit;
          Forgot his epic, nay, Pindaric art,
          But still I love the language of his heart.

          'Yet surely, surely, these were famous men!
          What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben?               80
          In all debates where critics bear a part,
          Not one but nods and talks of Johnson's art,
          Of Shakspeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit;
          How Beaumont's judgment check'd what Fletcher writ;
          How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow;
          But, for the passions, Southern sure and Rowe.
          These, only these, support the crowded stage,
          From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age.'

          All this may be; the people's voice is odd,
          It is, and it is not, the voice of God.                  90
          To Gammer Gurton147 if it give the bays,
          And yet deny the 'Careless Husband' praise,
          Or say our fathers never broke a rule;
          Why then, I say, the public is a fool.
          But let them own, that greater faults than we
          They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree.
          Spenser himself affects the obsolete,
          And Sydney's verse halts ill on Roman feet:
          Milton's strong pinion now not Heaven can bound,
          Now serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground,        100
          In quibbles, angel and archangel join,
          And God the Father turns a school-divine.
          Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book,
          Like slashing Bentley with his desperate hook,
          Or damn all Shakspeare, like the affected fool
          At court, who hates whate'er he read at school.

          But for the wits of either Charles's days,
          The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease;
          Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more,
          (Like twinkling stars the Miscellanies o'er)            110
          One simile, that solitary shines
          In the dry desert of a thousand lines,
          Or lengthen'd thought that gleams through many a page,
          Has sanctified whole poems for an age.
          I lose my patience, and I own it too,
          When works are censured, not as bad, but new;
          While if our elders break all reason's laws,
          These fools demand not pardon, but applause.

          On Avon's bank, where flowers eternal blow,
          If I but ask, if any weed can grow?                     120
          One tragic sentence if I dare deride
          Which Betterton's grave action dignified,
          Or well-mouth'd Booth with emphasis proclaims,
          (Though but, perhaps, a muster-roll of names)
          How will our fathers rise up in a rage,
          And swear, all shame is lost in George's age!
          You'd think no fools disgraced the former reign,
          Did not some grave examples yet remain,
          Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill,
          And, having once been wrong, will be so still.          130
          He who, to seem more deep than you or I,
          Extols old bards, or Merlin's prophecy,
          Mistake him not; he envies, not admires,
          And to debase the sons, exalts the sires.
          Had ancient times conspired to disallow
          What then was new, what had been ancient now?
          Or what remain'd so worthy to be read
          By learned critics of the mighty dead?

          In days of ease, when now the weary sword
          Was sheathed, and luxury with Charles restored;         140
          In every taste of foreign courts improved,
          'All, by the king's example,148 lived and loved.'
          Then peers grew proud in horsemanship t' excel,
          Newmarket's glory rose, as Britain's fell;
          The soldier breathed the gallantries of France,
          And every flowery courtier writ romance.
          Then marble, soften'd into life, grew warm,
          And yielding metal flow'd to human form:
          Lely149 on animated canvas stole
          The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul.            150
          No wonder then, when all was love and sport,
          The willing Muses were debauch'd at court:
          On each enervate string they taught the note
          To pant, or tremble through an eunuch's throat.

          But Britain, changeful as a child at play,
          Now calls in princes, and now turns away.
          Now Whig, now Tory, what we loved we hate;
          Now all for pleasure, now for Church and State;
          Now for prerogative, and now for laws;
          Effects unhappy! from a noble cause.                    160

          Time was, a sober Englishman would knock
          His servants up, and rise by five o'clock,
          Instruct his family in every rule,
          And send his wife to church, his son to school.
          To worship like his fathers, was his care;
          To teach their frugal virtues to his heir;
          To prove, that luxury could never hold;
          And place, on good security, his gold.
          Now times are changed, and one poetic itch
          Has seized the court and city, poor and rich:            170
          Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays,
          Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays,
          To theatres, and to rehearsals throng,
          And all our grace at table is a song.
          I, who so oft renounce the Muses, lie,
          Not ——'s self e'er tells more fibs than I;
          When sick of muse, our follies we deplore,
          And promise our best friends to rhyme no more;
          We wake next morning in a raging fit,
          And call for pen and ink to show our wit.               180

          He served a 'prenticeship, who sets up shop;
          Ward tried on puppies, and the poor, his drop;
          E'en Radcliffe's doctors travel first to France,
          Nor dare to practise till they've learn'd to dance.
          Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile?
          (Should Ripley150 venture, all the world would smile)
          But those who cannot write, and those who can,
          All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.

          Yet, sir, reflect, the mischief is not great;
          These madmen never hurt the Church or State:            190
          Sometimes the folly benefits mankind;
          And rarely avarice taints the tuneful mind.
          Allow him but his plaything of a pen,
          He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men:
          Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he'll never mind;
          And knows no losses while the Muse is kind.
          To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter;
          The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre,
          Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet;
          And then—a perfect hermit in his diet.                 200

          Of little use the man you may suppose,
          Who says in verse what others say in prose;
          Yet let me show, a poet's of some weight,
          And (though no soldier) useful to the State.
          What will a child learn sooner than a song?
          What better teach a foreigner the tongue?
          What's long or short, each accent where to place,
          And speak in public with some sort of grace?
          I scarce can think him such a worthless thing,
          Unless he praise some monster of a king;                210
          Or virtue or religion turn to sport,
          To please a lewd or unbelieving court
          Unhappy Dryden!—in all Charles's days,
          Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays;
          And in our own (excuse some courtly stains)
          No whiter page than Addison remains.
          He from the taste obscene reclaims our youth,
          And sets the passions on the side of truth,
          Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art,
          And pours each human virtue in the heart,               220
          Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause,
          Her trade supported, and supplied her laws;
          And leave on Swift this grateful verse engraved,
          'The rights a court attack'd, a poet saved.'
          Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure,
          Stretch'd to relieve the idiot and the poor,
          Proud vice to brand, or injured worth adorn,
          And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn.
          Not but there are, who merit other palms;
          Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms:        230
          The boys and girls whom charity maintains,
          Implore your help in these pathetic strains:
          How could devotion touch the country pews,
          Unless the gods bestow'd a proper muse?
          Verse cheers their leisure, verse assists their work,
          Verse prays for peace, or sings down Pope and Turk.
          The silenced preacher yields to potent strain,
          And feels that grace his prayer besought in vain;
          The blessing thrills through all the labouring throng,
          And Heaven is won by violence of song.                  240

          Our rural ancestors, with little blest,
          Patient of labour when the end was rest,
          Indulged the day that housed their annual grain,
          With feasts, and offerings, and a thankful strain:
          The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share,
          Ease of their toil, and partners of their care:
          The laugh, the jest, attendants on the bowl,
          Smooth'd every brow, and open'd every soul:
          With growing years the pleasing license grew,
          And taunts alternate innocently flew.                   250
          But times corrupt, and nature, ill-inclined,
          Produced the point that left a sting behind;
          Till friend with friend, and families at strife,
          Triumphant malice raged through private life.
          Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took the alarm,
          Appeal'd to law, and justice lent her arm.
          At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound,
          The poets learn'd to please, and not to wound:
          Most warp'd to flattery's side; but some, more nice,
          Preserved the freedom, and forbore the vice.            260
          Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit,
          And heals with morals what it hurts with wit.

          We conquer'd France, but felt our captive's charms;
          Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms;
          Britain to soft refinements less a foe,
          Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow.
          Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join
          The varying verse, the full-resounding line,
          The long majestic march, and energy divine:
          Though still some traces of our rustic vein             270
          And splayfoot verse remain'd, and will remain.
          Late, very late, correctness grew our care,
          When the tired nation breathed from civil war.
          Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire,
          Show'd us that France had something to admire.
          Not but the tragic spirit was our own,
          And full in Shakspeare, fair in Otway shone:
          But Otway fail'd to polish or refine,
          And fluent Shakspeare scarce effaced a line.
          Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,                  280
          The last and greatest art, the art to blot.
          Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire
          The humbler muse of Comedy require.
          But in known images of life, I guess
          The labour greater, as the indulgence less.
          Observe how seldom even the best succeed:
          Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed?
          What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ!
          How Van151 wants grace, who never wanted wit!
          The stage how loosely does Astraea152 tread,           290
          Who fairly puts all characters to bed:
          And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
          To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause!
          But fill their purse, our poets' work is done,
          Alike to them, by pathos or by pun.

          O you! whom Vanity's light bark conveys
          On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise,
          With what a shifting gale your course you ply,
          For ever sunk too low, or borne too high!
          Who pants for glory finds but short repose,             300
          A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
          Farewell the stage! if just as thrives the play,
          The silly bard grows fat, or falls away.

          There still remains, to mortify a wit,
          The many-headed monster of the pit:
          A senseless, worthless, and unhonour'd crowd;
          Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud,
          Clattering their sticks before ten lines are spoke.
          Call for the farce, the bear, or the black-joke.
          What dear delight to Britons farce affords!             310
          Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords;
          (Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies
          From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes).
          The play stands still; damn action and discourse,
          Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse;
          Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn,
          Peers, heralds, bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn;
          The champion too; and, to complete the jest,
          Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast153          With laughter, sure, Democritus had died,               320
          Had he beheld an audience gape so wide.
          Let bear or elephant be e'er so white,
          The people, sure, the people are the sight!
          Ah, luckless poet! stretch thy lungs and roar,
          That bear or elephant shall heed thee more;
          While all its throats the gallery extends,
          And all the thunder of the pit ascends!
          Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' stormy steep,
          Howl to the roarings of the Northern deep.
          Such is the shout, the long-applauding note,            330
          At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat;
          Or when from court a birthday suit bestow'd,
          Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.
          Booth enters—hark! the universal peal!
          'But has he spoken?' Not a syllable.
          What shook the stage, and made the people stare?
          Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacquer'd chair.

          Yet lest you think I rally more than teach,
          Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach,
          Let me for once presume to instruct the times,          340
          To know the poet from the man of rhymes:
          'Tis he, who gives my breast a thousand pains,
          Can make me feel each passion that he feigns;
          Enrage, compose, with more than magic art,
          With pity, and with terror, tear my heart:
          And snatch me, o'er the earth, or through the air,
          To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.

          But not this part of the poetic state
          Alone, deserves the favour of the great:
          Think of those authors, sir, who would rely             350
          More on a reader's sense, than gazer's eye.
          Or who shall wander where the Muses sing?
          Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring?
          How shall we fill a library with wit,
          When Merlin's cave is half unfurnish'd yet?

          My liege! why writers little claim your thought,
          I guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault:
          We poets are (upon a poet's word)
          Of all mankind, the creatures most absurd:
          The season, when to come, and when to go,               360
          To sing, or cease to sing, we never know;
          And if we will recite nine hours in ten,
          You lose your patience, just like other men.
          Then, too, we hurt ourselves, when to defend
          A single verse, we quarrel with a friend;
          Repeat unask'd; lament, the wit's too fine
          For vulgar eyes, and point out every line.
          But most, when straining with too weak a wing,
          We needs will write epistles to the king;
          And from the moment we oblige the town,                 370
          Expect a place, or pension from the crown;
          Or dubb'd historians by express command,
          To enrol your triumphs o'er the seas and land,
          Be call'd to court to plan some work divine,
          As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine.

          Yet think, great sir! (so many virtues shown)
          Ah think, what poet best may make them known?
          Or choose, at least, some minister of grace,
          Fit to bestow the Laureate's weighty place.

          Charles, to late times to be transmitted fair,          380
          Assign'd his figure to Bernini's154 care;
          And great Nassau to Kneller's hand decreed
          To fix him graceful on the bounding steed;
          So well in paint and stone they judged of merit:
          But kings in wit may want discerning spirit.
          The hero William, and the martyr Charles,
          One knighted Blackmore, and one pension'd Quarles;
          Which made old Ben and surly Dennis swear,
          'No Lord's anointed, but a Russian bear.'

          Not with such majesty, such bold relief,                390
          The forms august of king, or conquering chief.
          E'er swell'd on marble, as in verse have shined
          (In polish'd verse) the manners and the mind.
          Oh! could I mount on the Maeonian wing,
          Your arms, your actions, your repose to sing!
          What seas you traversed, and what fields you fought!
          Your country's peace, how oft, how dearly bought!
          How barbarous rage subsided at your word,
          And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the sword!
          How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep,           400
          Peace stole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in sleep;
          Till earth's extremes your mediation own,
          And Asia's tyrants tremble at your throne—
          But verse, alas! your Majesty disdains;
          And I'm not used to panegyric strains:
          The zeal of fools offends at any time,
          But most of all, the zeal of fools in rhyme.
          Besides, a fate attends on all I write,
          That when I aim at praise, they say I bite.
          A vile encomium doubly ridicules:                       410
          There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
          If true, a woful likeness; and if lies,
          'Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise:'
          Well may he blush who gives it, or receives;
          And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
          (Like journals, odes, and such forgotten things
          As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of kings)
          Clothe spice, line trunks, or fluttering in a row,
          Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

          'Ludentis speciem dabit, et torquebitur.'

          —HOR.

          Dear Colonel,155 Cobham's and your country's friend!
          You love a verse, take such as I can send.
          A Frenchman comes, presents you with his boy,
          Bows and begins—'The lad, sir, is of Blois:156          Observe his shape how clean! his locks how curl'd!
          My only son;—I'd have him see the world:
          His French is pure: his voice, too, you shall hear.
          Sir, he's your slave, for twenty pound a-year.
          Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease,
          Your barber, cook, upholsterer, what you please:         10
          A perfect genius at an opera song—
          To say too much, might do my honour wrong.
          Take him with all his virtues, on my word;
          His whole ambition was to serve a lord;
          But, sir, to you, with what would I not part?
          Though, faith! I fear, 'twill break his mother's heart.
          Once (and but once) I caught him in a lie,
          And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry;
          The fault he has I fairly shall reveal,
          (Could you o'erlook but that) it is to steal.'           20

          If, after this, you took the graceless lad,
          Could you complain, my friend, he proved so bad?
          Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute,
          I think Sir Godfrey157 should decide the suit;
          Who sent the thief that stole the cash away,
          And punish'd him that put it in his way.

          Consider then, and judge me in this light;
          I told you when I went, I could not write;
          You said the same; and are you discontent
          With laws, to which you gave your own assent?            30
          Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time!
          D' ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme?

          In Anna's wars, a soldier, poor and old,
          Had dearly earn'd a little purse of gold:
          Tired with a tedious march, one luckless night,
          He slept, poor dog! and lost it to a doit.
          This put the man in such a desperate mind,
          Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd,
          Against the foe, himself, and all mankind,
          He leap'd the trenches, scaled a castle-wall,            40
          Tore down a standard, took the fort and all.
          'Prodigious well!' his great commander cried,
          Gave him much praise, and some reward beside.
          Next, pleased his excellence a town to batter;
          (Its name I know not, and it's no great matter)
          'Go on, my friend,' (he cried) 'see yonder walls!
          Advance and conquer! go where glory calls!
          More honours, more rewards attend the brave.'
          Don't you remember what reply he gave?
          'D' ye think me, noble general, such a sot?              50
          Let him take castles who has ne'er a groat.'

          Bred up at home, full early I begun
          To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son.
          Besides, my father taught me from a lad,
          The better art to know the good from bad:
          (And little sure imported to remove,
          To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learnèd grove.)
          But knottier points we knew not half so well,
          Deprived us soon of our paternal cell;
          And certain laws, by sufferers thought unjust.           60
          Denied all posts of profit or of trust:
          Hopes after hopes of pious Papists fail'd,
          While mighty William's thundering arm prevail'd.
          For right hereditary tax'd and fined,
          He stuck to poverty with peace of mind;
          And me, the Muses help'd to undergo it:
          Convict a Papist he, and I a poet.
          But (thanks to Homer) since I live and thrive.
          Indebted to no prince or peer alive,
          Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes,158           70
          If I would scribble, rather than repose.

          Years following years, steal something every day,
          At last they steal us from ourselves away;
          In one our frolics, one amusements end,
          In one a mistress drops, in one a friend:
          This subtle thief of life, this paltry time,
          What will it leave me, if it snatch my rhyme?
          If every wheel of that unwearied mill
          That turn'd ten thousand verses, now stands still?

          But, after all, what would you have me do?               80
          When out of twenty I can please not two;
          When this heroics only deigns to praise,
          Sharp satire that, and that Pindaric lays?
          One likes the pheasant's wing, and one the leg;
          The vulgar boil, the learnèd roast an egg;
          Hard task! to hit the palate of such guests,
          When Oldfield loves, what Dartineuf159 detests.

          But grant I may relapse, for want of grace,
          Again to rhyme; can London be the place?
          Who there his Muse, or self, or soul attends,            90
          In crowds, and courts, law, business, feasts, and friends?
          My counsel sends to execute a deed:
          A poet begs me I will hear him read:
          In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me there—
          At ten for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury Square—
          Before the Lords at twelve my cause comes on—
          There's a rehearsal, sir, exact at one.—
          'Oh, but a wit can study in the streets,
          And raise his mind above the mob he meets.'
          Not quite so well, however, as one ought;               100
          A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought:
          And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead,
          God knows, may hurt the very ablest head.
          Have you not seen, at Guildhall's narrow pass,
          Two aldermen dispute it with an ass?
          And peers give way, exalted as they are,
          Even to their own s-r-v—nce in a car?

          Go, lofty poet! and in such a crowd,
          Sing thy sonorous verse—but not aloud.
          Alas! to grottos and to groves we run,                  110
          To ease and silence, every Muse's son:
          Blackmore himself, for any grand effort,
          Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl's Court.160          How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar?
          How match the bards whom none e'er match'd before?

          The man, who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat,
          To books and study gives seven years complete,
          See! strew'd with learned dust, his nightcap on,
          He walks, an object new beneath the sun!
          The boys flock round him, and the people stare:         120
          So stiff, so mute! some statue, you would swear,
          Stepp'd from its pedestal to take the air!
          And here, while town, and court, and city roars,
          With mobs, and duns, and soldiers, at their doors:
          Shall I, in London, act this idle part?
          Composing songs,161 for fools to get by heart?

          The Temple late two brother sergeants saw,
          Who deem'd each other oracles of law;
          With equal talents, these congenial souls,
          One lull'd th' Exchequer, and one stunn'd the Rolls;    130
          Each had a gravity would make you split,
          And shook his head at Murray, as a wit.
          ''Twas, sir, your law'—and 'Sir, your eloquence,'
          'Yours, Cowper's manner—and yours, Talbot's sense.'

          Thus we dispose of all poetic merit,
          Yours Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit.
          Call Tibbald Shakspeare, and he'll swear the Nine,
          Dear Cibber! never match'd one ode of thine.
          Lord! how we strut through Merlin's cave, to see
          No poets there, but, Stephen,162 you, and me.           140
          Walk with respect behind, while we at ease
          Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please.
          'My dear Tibullus!' if that will not do,
          'Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you:'
          Or 'I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains,
          And you shall rise up Otway for your pains.'
          Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace
          This jealous, waspish, wrong-head, rhyming race;
          And much must flatter, if the whim should bite
          To court applause by printing what I write:             150
          But let the fit pass o'er, I'm wise enough
          To stop my ears to their confounded stuff.

          In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject,
          They treat themselves with most profound respect;
          'Tis to small purpose that you hold your tongue,
          Each, praised within, is happy all day long,
          But how severely with themselves proceed
          The men, who write such verse as we can read?
          Their own strict judges, not a word they spare
          That wants, or force, or light, or weight, or care,     160
          Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place,
          Nay though at court (perhaps) it may find grace:
          Such they'll degrade; and sometimes, in its stead,
          In downright charity revive the dead;
          Mark where a bold expressive phrase appears,
          Bright through the rubbish of some hundred years;
          Command old words, that long have slept, to wake,
          Words that wise Bacon or brave Raleigh spake;
          Or bid the new be English, ages hence,
          (For use will father what's begot by sense)             170
          Pour the full tide of eloquence along,
          Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong,
          Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue;
          Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
          But show no mercy to an empty line:
          Then polish all, with so much life and ease,
          You think 'tis nature, and a knack to please:
          But ease in writing flows from art, not chance;
          As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.

          If such the plague and pains to write by rule,          180
          Better (say I) be pleased, and play the fool;
          Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease,
          It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease.
          There lived in primo Georgii (they record)
          A worthy member, no small fool, a lord;
          Who, though the House was up, delighted sat,
          Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate:
          In all but this, a man of sober life,
          Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife;
          Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell,                190
          And much too wise to walk into a well.
          Him, the damn'd doctors and his friends immured,
          They bled, they cupp'd, they purged; in short, they cured:
          Whereat the gentleman began to stare—
          'My friends!' he cried, 'pox take you for your care!
          That from a patriot of distinguish'd note,
          Have bled and purged me to a simple vote.'

          Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate:
          Wisdom (curse on it!) will come soon or late.
          There is a time when poets will grow dull:              200
          I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school:
          To rules of poetry no more confined,
          I learn to smooth and harmonise my mind,
          Teach every thought within its bounds to roll,
          And keep the equal measure of the soul.

          Soon as I enter at my country door,
          My mind resumes the thread it dropped before;
          Thoughts, which at Hyde-park-corner I forgot,
          Meet, and rejoin me, in the pensive grot,
          There all alone, and compliments apart,                 210
          I ask these sober questions of my heart:

          If, when the more you drink, the more you crave,
          You tell the doctor; when the more you have,
          The more you want, why not with equal ease
          Confess as well your folly, as disease?
          The heart resolves this matter in a trice,
          'Men only feel the smart, but not the vice.'

          When golden angels cease to cure the evil,
          You give all royal witchcraft to the devil:
          When servile chaplains163 cry, that birth and place     220
          Indue a peer with honour, truth, and grace,
          Look in that breast, most dirty D——! be fair,
          Say, can you find out one such lodger there?
          Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach,
          You go to church to hear these flatterers preach.
          Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit,
          A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit,
          The wisest man might blush, I must agree,
          If D—— loved sixpence more than he.

          If there be truth in law, and use can give              230
          A property, that's yours on which you live.
          Delightful Abbs Court,164 if its fields afford
          Their fruits to you, confesses you its lord:
          All Worldly's hens, nay, partridge, sold to town,
          His ven'son, too, a guinea makes your own:
          He bought at thousands, what with better wit
          You purchase as you want, and bit by bit;
          Now, or long since, what difference will be found?
          You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.

          Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men,            240
          Lords of fat Ev'sham, or of Lincoln fen,
          Buy every stick of wood that lends them heat,
          Buy every pullet they afford to eat.
          Yet these are wights who fondly call their own
          Half that the devil o'erlooks from Lincoln town.
          The laws of God, as well as of the land,
          Abhor a perpetuity should stand:
          Estates have wings, and hang in fortune's power
          Loose on the point of every wavering hour,
          Ready, by force, or of your own accord,                 250
          By sale, at least by death, to change their lord.
          Man? and for ever? wretch! what wouldst thou have?
          Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave.
          All vast possessions (just the same the case
          Whether you call them villa, park, or chase)
          Alas, my Bathurst! what will they avail!
          Join Cotswood hills to Saperton's fair dale,
          Let rising granaries and temples here,
          There mingled farms and pyramids appear,
          Link towns to towns with avenues of oak,                260
          Enclose whole downs in walls,—'tis all a joke!
          Inexorable death shall level all,
          And trees, and stones, and farms, and farmer fall.

          Gold, silver, ivory, vases sculptured high,
          Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye,
          There are who have not—and, thank Heaven, there are,
          Who, if they have not, think not worth their care.

          Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find,
          Two of a face, as soon as of a mind.
          Why, of two brothers, rich and restless one             270
          Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun;
          The other slights, for women, sports, and wines,
          All Townshend's turnips,165 and all Grosvenor's mines:
          Why one like Bu——,166 with pay and scorn content,
          Bows and votes on, in court and parliament;
          One, driven by strong benevolence of soul,
          Shall fly, like Oglethorpe,167 from pole to pole:
          Is known alone to that Directing Power,
          Who forms the genius in the natal hour;
          That God of Nature, who, within us still,               280
          Inclines our action, not constrains our will;
          Various of temper, as of face or frame,
          Each individual: His great end the same.

          Yes, sir, how small soever be my heap,
          A part I will enjoy, as well as keep.
          My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace
          A man so poor would live without a place:
          But sure no statute in his favour says,
          How free, or frugal, I shall pass my days:
          I, who at some times spend, at others spare,            290
          Divided between carelessness and care.
          'Tis one thing madly to disperse my store:
          Another, not to heed to treasure more;
          Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,
          And pleased, if sordid want be far away.

          What is't to me (a passenger, God wot!)
          Whether my vessel be first-rate or not?
          The ship itself may make a better figure,
          But I that sail am neither less nor bigger.
          I neither strut with every favouring breath,            300
          Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth.
          In power, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, placed
          Behind the foremost, and before the last.

          'But why all this of avarice? I have none.'
          I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone;
          But does no other lord it at this hour,
          As wild and mad—the avarice of power?
          Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appal?
          Not the black fear of death, that saddens all?
          With terrors round, can reason hold her throne,         310
          Despise the known, nor tremble at the unknown?
          Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
          In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire?
          Pleased to look forward, pleased to look behind,
          And count each birthday with a grateful mind?
          Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?
          Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
          Has age but melted the rough parts away,
          As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay?
          Or will you think, my friend, your business done,       320
          When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?

          Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;
          You've play'd, and loved, and eat, and drank your fill:
          Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age
          Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage:
          Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease,
          Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please.