University of Virginia Library

P.
The Times, my Muse? good Heavens! you can but joke;
Think what we dare, and who we may provoke.
Lo! where, far keener than the frigid North,
The harpy spirit of Chicane's gone forth;
Leagu'd with such swarms of libel-hunting rooks,
Erskine would scarce indemnify our looks;
Then, if we must proclaim the time's good deeds,
Like Midas' rib, let's tell them to the reeds.
So, when the zephyrs o'er the marsh shall play,
Th' instructed reeds shall form a tell-tale lay;
Th' admiring world the wondrous story hear,
And we the talons of no catchpole fear.

M.
Cautions and catchpoles I alike despise;
Who brood o'er scandal may concealment prize;
Truth forms my theme; and, spite of all our blunders,
Truth is no libel in this age of wonders.

P.
But when, while Candour toils with Want incog.
Int'rest's comptroller of the decalogue,
Who so contrives it, by a talent plastick,
It fits all consciences with power elastick;
When painted Modesty disdains her veil,
And even prudent Decency turns tail;
When, scar'd by Fashion, Reason stands aloof,
And shameless Impudence out-stares Reproof;
Or, first deploring Chastity's decline,
Gravely invites him an intrigue to join!
Muse, when our labours to the world we lend,
What soul will read; or, reading, will amend?
And think what doughty prodigies of rhymes
Have vainly satiriz'd their venal times:
The worst to me were Florentine to tinder—
From ancient Pasquin to our Peter Pindar.
Let us then ponder, ere we lash our neighbours,
And wisely profit from their fruitless labours.

M.
What, if Paul preach'd to unbelieving Jews;
Or Moore should now to Roger and the pews;
Shall Yorick's curate Sunday's sermon wave,
Or Yorick's clerk forego the usual stave?

P.
These are by church confirm'd to sing or teach;
And Yorick's stipend prompts the works of each;
Mine no diploma, mine no hop'd rewards.—

M.
The Muse ordains, and profits not for Bards;
Else would they fatten, and ('twere needless) grow,
Which Heaven forbid! more proudly vain than now.
Like modern gentry, half on dunghills born,
Who look the essence of audacious scorn;
Deem all of virtue if with want obscene,
And Nature's carpet for their feet too mean;
Snuff up God's air, as loathing to endure
Breathing one atmosphere with aught that's poor.
But, truce to parley, which disputes my sway,
Be yours alone to listen, and obey.

P.
Nay, prove whene'er thy faithful slave denied,
Prompt at thy call, his well-worn hack to stride;
And boggle on thro' quagmire, brake, or den,
Unconscious how he should get back, or when?
Or, in plain mother-tongue, at thy behest,
Night after night, unmindful of my rest,
Have I not fagg'd at some uncouth conceit,
While number'd fingers serv'd the verse to mete;
Rack'd my dull brain for ill-according rhyme,
And sense and grammar sacrific'd to chime,
Toil'd with lame simile, description poor,
Unsettled inference, and point obscure;
Stole thoughts from others, pass'd 'em for my own,
But so deform'd, they never yet were known;
As gypsies clothe the innocents they steal
In rags and filth, and so the theft conceal?
Have I not—

M.
Hold! your duty done, at most,
That duty forc'd too, whence the claim to boast?
So may the chariot glory as it flies,
So the fleet arrow as it wings the skies.
But fools, vain, blind, and self-sufficient, view
Matter for praise in every thing they do.
Thus pious beldames sacred records search,
And find enjoin'd them Charity and Church:
At church they sleep—a casual sixpence spare;
Then lift their eyes, and cry—“How good we are!”
Hence, then, with trifling; and prepare thee, slave,
All that my warrant shall impose to brave;
Trace Vice and Folly to the fountain-head;
No devious track to find it shalt thou tread:
Bye-ways no longer lead to their abode;
Plain is the path, and beaten is the road;
Erected posts at every opening stand,
And letter'd notice aids the pointing hand.
Blind, if thou err'st; but, going once astray,
Each vacant booby will redeem the way.
Then, strong for Virtue, to the task with speed,
Truth by thy side, tho' restless Zeal precede;
For who confounds the wilful and the weak
Betrays the tool of Ignorance or Pique.
And know, the Bard, who Vice and Folly spares,
Because stuck round with coronets and stars,
Spurn'd by the Muse—a stigma on her fame—
From stars and coronets reward may claim.
Blest meed! just suffer'd at the proud man's board
To nurse the pamper'd humours of his lord;
To be, in short, the veriest reptile born,
At once his feeder's catamite and scorn.

P.
Muse, the supreme temptation I defy;
My poor ambition soars not half so high:
I'd be, tho' mean, as Virtue's champion known;
I'll spare no mortal's vices—but my own.
Arm'd for the charge, behold me then advance,
Bold, as when sage La Mancha seiz'd the lance;
And, in the calenture of tilting zeal,
At herds, and wind-mills, couch'd the rusty steel:
And, like the deadly, 'witching, weird crew—
Quake, ye profane! I'll—“do—I'll do—I'll do!”
And first, to charm us with her potent spells,
Invoke the Goddess of the Cap and Bells.