Should I let satire loose on English ground,
There fools of various character abound;
But here my verse is to one race confined,
All Frenchmen are of petit-maître kind.
YES, I'll maintain what you have often said,
That 'tis encouragement makes science spread;
True gen'rous spirits prosp'rous vice detest,
And love to cherish virtue when distrest:
But ere our mighty lords this scheme pursue,
Our mighty lords must think and act like you.
Why must we climb the Alpine mountains' sides To find the seat where Harmony resides? Why touch we not so soft the silver lute, The cheerful hautboy, and the mellow flute? 'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the sound, But there the patrons of her sons are found.
Why flourish'd verse in great Augustus' reign?
He and Mecænas loved the Muse's strain.
But now that wight and poverty must mourn
Who was (O cruel stars!) a poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great;
Write ranc'rous libels to reform the State;
Or if you choose more sure and readier ways,
Spatter a minister with fulsome praise :
Launch out with freedom, flatter him enough;
Fear not, all men are dedication-proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther still,
Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill.
He who his pen in party quarrels draws,
Lists an hired bravo to support the cause;
He must indulge his patron's hate and spleen,
And stab the fame of those he ne'er has seen.
Why then should authors mourn their desp'rate case ?
Be brave, do this, and then demand a place.
Why art thou poor? exert the gifts to rise,
And vanish tim'rous virtue from thy eyes.
All this seems modern preface, where we're told That wit is praised, but hungry lives and cold: Against th' ungrateful age these authors roar, And fancy learning starves because they're poor. Yet why should learning hope success at Court? Why should our patriots virtue's cause support? Why to true merit should they have regard ? They know that virtue is its own reward. Yet let not me of grievances complain, Who (though the meanest of the Muse's train) Can boast subscriptions to my humble lays, And mingle profit with my little praise.
Ask Painting, why she loves Hesperian air. Go view, she cries, my glorious labours there;
There in rich palaces I reign in state,
And on the temple's lofty domes create.
The nobles view my works with knowing eyes,
They love the science, and the painter prize.
Why didst thou, Kent, forego thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand?
Think'st thou for this to raise my name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome;
There on the walls let thy just labours shine,
And Raphael live again in thy design.
Yet stay awhile; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbiass'd knows thy worth ;
His judgment in thy master-strokes can trace
Titian's strong fire and Guido's softer grace;
But, oh consider, ere thy works appear,
Canst thou unhurt the tongue of envy hear?
Censure will blame, her breath was ever spent
To blast the laurels of the eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rise,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes?
Doors, windows, are condemn'd by passing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandos with a lib'ral hand bestow,
Censure imputes it all to pomp and show;
When, if the motive right were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.
Had Pope with grovelling numbers fill'd his page, Dennis had never kindled into rage.
'Tis the sublime that hurts the critic's ease; Write nonsense, and he reads and sleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift, and Pope unknown,
Poor slander-selling Curll would be undone.
He who would free from malice pass his days,
Must live obscure, and never merit praise.
But let this tale to valiant virtue tell
The daily perils of deserving well.
A crow was strutting o'er the stubbled plain, Just as a lark descending closed his strain.
The crow bespoke him thus with solemn grace :
Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race,
What force of lungs! how clear! how sweet you sing!
And no bird soars upon a stronger wing.
The lark, who scorn'd soft flatt'øy, thus replies :
True, I sing sweet, and on strong pinion rise;
Yet let me pass my life from envy free,
For what advantage are these gifts to me?
My song confines me to the wiry cage,
My flight provokes the falcon's fatal rage.
But as you pass, I hear the fowlers say,
To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED TREATISE IN FOLIO, CALLED THE LAND-TAX BILL.'
WHEN poets print their works, the scribbling crew Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Christmas pew:
Can meagre poetry such fame deserve?
Can poetry; that only writes to starve ;
And shall no laurel deck thy famous head,
In which the Senate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires.
O, had I Virgil's force to sing the man,
Whose learned lines can millions raise per ann. Great L his praise should swell the trump of fame,
And rapes and wapentakes resound his name.
If the blind poet gain'd a long renown
By singing ev'ry Grecian chief and town;
Sure L his prose much greater fame requires,
Which sweetly counts five thousand knights and
Their seats, their cities, parishes, and shires.
Thy copious preamble so smoothly runs,
Taxes no more appear like legal duns,
Lords, knights, and squires th' assessor's power
We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.
That author's long harangue betrays his name;
After his speeches can his pen succeed?
Though forced to hear, we 're not obliged to read. 25
Under what science shall thy works be read? All know thou wert not poet born and bred;
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