Yet fuch as owe the law their ears,
We find employ'd as engineers:
This view my forward zeal so shocks,
In vain they hold the money-box.
At fuch a conduct which intends
By vicious means fuch virtuous ends,
I laugh off Spleen, and keep my pence
From spoiling Indian innocence.
Yet philofophic love of ease
I fuffer not to prove disease,
But rise up in the virtuous cause
Of a free press, and equal laws.
The press restrain'd! nefandous thought!
In vain our fires have nobly fought:
While free from force the press remains,
Virtue and Freedom cheer our plains,
And Learning largesses bestows,
And keeps uncenfur'd open house.
We to the nation's publick mart
Our works ot wit, and schemes of art
And philofophic goods this way,
Like water carriage cheap convey.
This tree, which knowledge fo affords,
Inquifitors with flaming fwords.
From lay-approach with zeal defend,
Left their own paradife fhould end.
The prefs from her fecundous womb
Brought forth the arts of Greece and Rome;
Her offspring, skill'd in logic war,
Truth's banner way'd in open air ;
The monfter Superftition fled,
And hid in fhades its Gorgon head;
And lawless pow'r, the long-kept field;
By reafon quell'd, was forc'd to yield.
This nurse of arts, and freedom's fence
To chain, is treafon against fenfe;
And, Liberty, thy thoufand tongues
None filence, who defign no wrongs;
For those, that ufe the gag's reftraint;
Firft rob, before they ftop complaint.
Since difappointment galls within,
And fubjugates the foul to Spleen,
Moft schemes; as money-fnares, I hate,
And bite not at projector's bait.
Sufficient wrecks appear each day,
And yet fresh fools are caft away.
Ere well the bubbled can turn round,
Their painted veffel runs aground;
Or in deep feas it oversets
By a fierce hurricane of debts ;
Or helm-directors in one trip,
Freight firft embezzled, fink the ship.
Such was of late a corporation,
The brazen ferpent of the nation,
Which when hard accidents diftrefs'd,
poor must look at to be bleft,
And thence expect, with paper feal'd
By fraud and us'ry, to be heal'd.
I in no foul-consumption wait
Whole years at levees of the great,
And hungry hopes regale the while
On the fpare diet of a smile.
There you may see the idol ftand
With mirror in his wanton hand
Above, below, now here, now there
He throws about the funny glare :
Crowds pant, and prefs to feize the prize,
The gay delufion of their eyes.
When Fancy tries her limning skill
To draw and colour at her will,
And raife and round the figures well,
And fhew her talent to excel,
I guard my heart, left it should woo
Unreal beauties Fancy drew,
And disappointed, feel despair
At lofs of things, that never were.
When I lean politicians mark
Grazing on æther in the park ;
Who e'er on wing with open throats
Fly at debates, expreffes, votes,
Juft in the manner fwallows ufe,
Catching their airy food of news;
Whofe latrant ftomachs oft moleft
The deep-laid plans their dreams fuggeft;
Or fee fome poet penfive fit,
Fondly mistaking Spleen for Wit;
Who, tho' fhort-winded, ftill will aim
To found the epick trumph of Fame;
Who ftill on Phoebus' fmiles will doat,
Nor learn conviction from his coat;
I blefs my stars, I never knew
Whimfies, which close pursu'd, undo,
And have from old experience been
Both parent and the child of Spleen.
Thefe fubjects of Apollo's ftate,
Who from false fire derive their fate,
With airy purchases undone
Of lands, which none lend money on,
Born dull, had follow'd thriving ways,
Nor loft one hour to gather bays.
Their fancies firft delirious grew,
And fcenes ideal took for true.
Fine to the fight Parnaffus lies,
And with false profpects cheats their eyes;
The fabled gods the poets fing,
A feafon of perpetual spring,
Brooks, flow'ry fields, and groves of trees,
Affording fweets and fimiles,
Gay dreams infpir'd in myrtle bow'rs,
And wreaths of undecaying flow'rs,
Apollo's harp with airs divine,
'The facred mufick of the Nine,
Views of the temple rais'd to Fame,
And for a vacant nitch proud aim,
Ravish their fouls, and plainly fhew
What Fancy's fketching power can do.
They will attempt the mountain steep,
Where on the top, like dreants in fleep,
The Mufes revelation fhew,
That find men crack'd, or make them fo
You friend, like me, the trade of rhyme
Avoid, elabʼrate waste of time,
Nor are content to be undone,
To pafs for Phobus' crazy fon.
Poems, the hop-grounds of the brain,
Afford the most uncertain gain;
And lott❜ries never tempt the wife
With blanks so many to a prize.
I only tranfient vifits pay,
Meeting the Mufes in my way,
Scarce known to the faftidious dames,
Nor skill'd to call them by their names.
Nor can their paffports in thefe days,
Your profit warrant, or your praise.
On poems by their dictates writ,
Criticks, as fworn appraisers, fit,
And mere upholst'rers in a trice'
On gems and painting fet a price.
These tayl'ring artists for our lays
Invent cramp'd rules, and with ftrait stays.
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