But ere our mighty Lords this scheme pursue,
Our mighty Lords muft think and act like you.
Why muft we climb the Alpine mountain's fides
To find the feat where Harmony refides ?
Why touch we not so soft the filver lute,
The cheerful haut-boy, and the mellow flute?
'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the found,
But there the Patrons of her fons are found.
Why flourish'd verse in great Auguftus' reign?
He and Mecenas lov'd the Muse's strain.
But now that wight in 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 fure and ready ways,
Spatter a Minister with fulfome praise:
Lanch out with freedom, flatter him enough;
Fear not, all men are dedication proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther ftill,
Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill.
He who his pen in party quarrels draws,
Lifts an hir'd bravo to support the cause ;
He muft indulge his Patron's hate and spleen,
And ftab the fame of those he ne'er has feen.
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 rife,
And banish tim❜rous vertue from thy eyes.
All this feems modern preface, where we're told
That wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold:
Against th' ungrateful age these authors roar,
And fanfy learning ftarves because they're poor.
Yet why should learning hope fuccefs at Court?
Why should our Patriots vertue'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 meaneft of the Muses train)
Can boaft fubfcriptions to my humble lays,
And mingle profit with my little praise.
Afk Painting, why the loves Hefperian air. Go view, fhe cries, my glorious labours there; There in rich palaces I reign in ftate,
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 didit thou, Kent, forgo thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand?
Think'st thou for this to raise thy name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome ;
There on the walls let thy juft labours shine,
And Raphael live again in thy design.
Yet ftay awhile; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbiafs'd knows thy worth;
His judgment in thy master-strokes can trace
Titian's ftrong fire and Guido's fofter grace;
But, oh confider, ere thy works appear,
Canft thou unhurt the tongue of envy hear?
Cenfure will blame, her breath was ever spent
To blaft the laurels of the Eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rife,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes?
Doors, windows are condemn'd by paffing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandois with a lib'ral hand bestow,
Cenfure imputes it all to pomp
When, if the motive right were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.
Had Pope with groveling numbers fill'd his page, Dennis had never kindled into rage.
'Tis the fublime that hurts the Critic's ease;
Write nonsense and he reads and fleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift and Pope unknown,
Poor flander-felling Curll would be undone.
He who would free from malice pass his days,
Muft live obfcure, and never merit praise.
But let this tale to valiant virtue tell
The daily perils of deferving well.
A crow was ftrutting o'er the ftubbled plain,
Just as a lark defcending clos'd his ftrain.
The crow bespoke him thus with folemn grace,
Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race,
What force of lungs! how clear! how sweet you fing!
And no bird foars upon a ftronger wing.
The lark, who fcorn'd soft flatt'ry, thus replies,
True, I fing sweet, and on ftrong pinion rife ;
Yet let me pass my life from envy free,
For what advantage are thefe gifts to me?
My fong 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.
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