As if their grandeur by contagion wrought,
And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:
But after seven years dance from place to place
The Dane is more familiar with his Grace.
Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer,
Or living pendent dangling at his ear,
For ever whisp'ring secrets which were blown
For months before, by trumpets, thro' the Town!
Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,
Still to reflect the temper of his face?
Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve,
When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave?
Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please
To loll or thump it for his better ease?
Or a vile butt, for noon or night bespoke,
When the peer rashly swears he 'll club his joke?
Who'd shake with laughter, tho' he could not find
His lordship's jest, or if his nose broke wind?
For blessings to the gods profoundly bow,
That can cry chimney-sweep, or drive a plough?
With terms like these how mean the tribe that close?
Scarce meaner they who terms like these impose.
But what's the tribe most likely to comply?
The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;
The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold
Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold;
A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyle.
All men they flatter, but themselves the most,
With deathless fame their everlasting boast:
For Fame no cully makes so much their jest,
As her old constant spark, the bard profest.
"B---le shines in council, M-----t in the fight,
“ P---]---m's magnificent, but I can write,
And what to my great soul like glory dear?"
Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,
That fame's unwholesome taken without meat,
And life is best sustain'd by what is ate:
Grown lean and wise, he curses what he writ,
And wishes all his wants were in his wit.
Ah! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,
That his triumphant name adorns a post?
Or that his shining page (provoking Fate)
Defends sirloins, which sons of Dulness eat?
What foe to verse without compassion hears,
What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,
When the poor Muse, for less than half-a-crown,
A prostitute on ev'ry bulk in Town,
With other whores undone, tho' not in print,
Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint?
Ye Bards why will you sing, tho' uninspir'd?
Ye Bards! why will you starve to be admir'd?
Defunct by Phoebus' laws, beyond redress,
Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?
Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,
Like hair, will sprout altho' the poet's dead. 190
All other trades demand, verse-makers beg. A dedication is a wooden leg;
A barren labeo, the true mumper's fashion,
Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.
Tho' such myself, vile bards I discommend;
Nay more, tho' gentle Damon is my friend.
"Is't then a crime to write ?"---If talent rare
Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:
For some, tho' few, there are large-minded men,
Who watch unseen the labours of the pen:
Who know the Muse's worth, and therefore court,
Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support;
Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit,
My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.
A---le true wit is studious to restore,
And D---t smiles, if Phoebus smil'd before;
P---ke in years the long-lov'd arts admires,
And Henrietta like a Muse inspires.
But, ah! not inspiration can obtain
That fame which poets languish for in vain.
How mad their aim who thirst for glory, strive
To grasp what no man can possess alive?
Fame's a reversion in which men take place
(O late reversion!) at their own decease.
This truth sagacious Linot knows so well,
He starves his authors, that their works may sell.
That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;
That wealth is fame, another can reply,
Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags,
And swell in just proportion to their bags.
Nor only the low-born, deform'd, and old,
Think glory nothing but the beams of gold;
The first young lord which in the Mall you meet
Shall match the veriest hunks in Lombard-street,
From rescu'd candles' ends who rais'd a sum,
And starves to join a penny to a plum.
A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknown
To former times, a scandal all our own.
Of ardent lovers the true modern band
Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land.
For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies;
Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes..
Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down,
No rival can prevail,---but half-a-crown.
He glories to late times to be convey'd,
Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made:
Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd,
When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd:
He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain;
Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain.
"Who'd be a slave ?" the gallant col'nel cries,
While love of glory sparkles from his eyes:
To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right,--
Just is his title.---for he will not fight.
All soldiers valour, all divines have grace,
As maids of honour beauty,---by their place:
But when, indulging on the last campaign,
His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain,
He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word,
A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.
Of boasting more than of a bon.b afraid,
A soldier should be modest as a maid.
Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy;
Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy:
'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree,
But if you pay yourself the world is free.
Were there no tongue to speak them but his own, Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known; Augustus' deeds, if that ambiguous name Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim, Such is the prince's worth of whom I speak, The Roman would not blush at the mistake.
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