Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, Employ your Muse on kings alive; With prudence gathering up a cluster Of all the virtues you can muster, Which, form'd into a garland sweet, Lay humbly at your monarch's feet; Who, as the odours reach his throne, Will smile, and think them all his own; For law and gospel both determine All virtues lodge in royal ermine: (I mean the oracles of both, Who shall depose it upon oath.) Your garland in the following reign, Change but the names, will do again. But, if you think this trade too base, (Which seldom is the dunce's case) Put on the critic's brow, and sit At Will's the puny judge of wit. A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, With caution us'd, may serve a while. Proceed no further in your part, Before you learn the terms of art; For you can never be too far gone In all our modern critics' jargon : Then talk with more authentic face Of unities, in time and place; Get scraps of Horace from your friends, And have them at your fingers' ends; Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, And at all hazards boldly quote; Judicious Rymer oft' review, Then, lest with Greek he over-run ye, At Will's you hear a poem read, He gives directions to the town, Like courtiers, when they send a note, For poets (you can never want 'em) Rules, like an alderman, his ward; Through all the lane, from end to end; Two bordering wits contend for glory; And this for epics claims the bays, Some fam'd for numbers soft and smooth, By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; And some as justly fame extols For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. The court with annual birth-day strains ; Where Young must torture his invention To flatter knaves, or lose his pension. But these are not a thousandth part Of jobbers in the poet's art, Attending each his proper station, And all in due subordination, Through every alley to be found, In garrets high, or under ground; And when they join their pericranies, Out skips a book of miscellanies. Hobbes clearly proves that every creature Lives in a state of war by nature. The greater for the smallest watch, But meddle seldom with their match. A whale of moderate size will draw A shoal of herrings down his maw; A fox with geese his belly crams; A wolf destroys a thousand lambs: But search among the rhyming race, The brave are worried by the base. If on Parnassus' top you sit, You rarely bite, are always bit. Each poet of inferior size On you shall rail and criticise, And strive to tear you limb from limb; While others do as much for him. The vermin only tease and pinch Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; And these have smaller still to bite 'em, Thus every poet in his kind Is bit by him that comes behind: Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; O Grub-street! how do I bemoan thee, Whose graceless children scorn to own thee! Their filial piety forgot, Deny their country, like a Scot; To purchase fame by writing ill. |