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By Favour folks must make their way,
Favour, which lafts, perhaps, a day,
And when you've twirld yourself about
To wriggle in, you're wriggled out.
'Tis from the sunshine of her eyes
Each courtly insect lives or dies;
'Tis the dispenses all the graces
Of profits, pensions, honours, places;
And in her light capricious fits
Makes wits of fools, and fools of wits,
Gives vices, folly, dullness birth,
Nay stamps the currency on worth ;
'Tis sbe that lends the muse a spur,
And even Killing goes by Her.

Far in the sea a temple stands
Built by dame ERROR's hafty hands,
Where in her dome of lucid shells
The visionary goddess dwells.
Here o'er her subject fons of earth
Regardless or of place, or worth,
She rules triumphant; and supplies
The gaping world with hopes and lies.
Her throne, which weak and tott'ring seems,
Is built upon the wings of dreams;


The fickle winds her altars bear
Which quiver to the shifting air ;
Hither hath Reason feldom brought
The child of Virtue or of THOUGHT,
And Justice with her equal face,
Finds this, alas! no throne of Grace.

The porters at the temple's gate,
And as the fond adorers press
Pronounce fantastic happiness;
While Favour with a Syren's smile,
Which might Ulysses self beguile,
Presents the sparkling bright libation,
The nectar of intoxication;
And summoning her ev'ry grace
Of winning charms, and chearful face,
Smiles away Reason from his throne,
And makes his votaries her own :
Instant resounds the voice of fame,
Caught with the whistlings of their name,
The fools grow frantic, in their pride
Contemning all the world beside :
Pleas'd with the gewgaw toys of pow'r,
The noisy pageant of an hour,


Struts forth the statesman, haughty vain,
Amidst a supple fervile train,
With shrug, grimace, nod, wink, and stare,
So proud, he almost treads in air ;
While levee-fools, who sue for place,
Crouch for employment from his Grace,
And e’en good Bishops, taught to trim,
Forsake their God to bow to him.

The Poet in that happy hour,
Imagination in his pow'r,
Walks all abroad, and unconfin'd,
Enjoys the liberty of mind:
Dupe to the smoke of Aimsy praise,
He vomits forth sonorous lays ;
And, in his fine poetic rage,
Planning, poor soul, a deathleis page,
Indulges pride's fantastic whim,
And all the WORLD must wake to HIM,

A while from fear, from envy free,
He fleeps on a pacific fea;
Lethargic ERROR for a while
Deceives him with her fpecious smile,
And Aatt'ring dreams delufive shed
Gay gilded visions round his head.


When, swift as thought, the goddess lewd
Shifts the light gale; and tempests rude,
Such as the northern skies deform,
When fell DESTRUCTION guides the storm,
Transport him to some dreary ille
Where FavouR never deign'd to smile.
Where waking, helpless, all alone,
'Midst craggy steeps and rocks unknown ;
Sad scenes of woe his pride confound,
And DesoLATION stalks around.
Where the Jull months no pleasures bring,
And years roll round without a spring;
Where He all hopeless, loft, undone,
Sees chearless days that know no sun;
Where jibing Scorn her throne maintains
Midft mildews, blights, and blasts, and rains.

Let others, with fubmiffive knee,
Capricious goddess ! bow to Thee;
Let them with fixt inceffant aim
Court fickle favour, faithless fame;
Let vanity's fastidious flave
Lose the kind moments nature gave,
In invocations to the shrine
Of Phæbus and the fabled Nine,


An author, to his latest days,
From hunger, or from thirst of praise,
Let him thro' every subject roam
To bring the useful morsel home;
Write upon LIBERTY opprest,
On happiness, when most diftreft,
Turn bookseller's obsequious tool,
A monkey's cat, a mere fool's fool;
Let him, un hallow'd wretch ! profane
The muse's dignity for gain,
Yield to the dunce his sense contemns,
Cringe to the knave his heart condemns,
And, at a blockhead's bidding, force
Reluctant genius from his course;
Write ode, epistle, essay, libel,
Make notes, or steal them, for the bible ;
Or let him, more judicial, sit
The dull Lord Chief, on culprit wit,
With rancor read, with paffion blame,
Talk high, yet fear to put his name,
And from the dark, but useful shade,
(Fit place for murd'rous ambuscade,)
Weak monthly shafts at merit hurl,
The GILDON of some modern CURL.


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