If ev'ry wheel of that unweary'd mill, That turn'd ten thousand verses, now stands still? But, after all, what would you have me do, 80 When out of twenty I can please not two? When this, Heroics only deigns to praise, Sharp Satire that, and that Pindaric lays ? One likes the pheasant's wing, and one the leg; The vulgar boil, the learned roast an egg: Hard task to hit the palate of such guests, When Oldfield loves what Dartincuf detests! 85 But grant I may relapse, for want of grace, Again to rhyme, can London be the place? Who there his Muse, or self, or soul, attends, 90 In crowds, and courts, law, bus'ness, feasts, and friends? My counsel sends to execute a deed; A poet begs me I will hear him read. In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me there-- • Oh! but a wit can study in the streets, And raise his mind above the mob he meets.' Not quite so well, however, as one ought; 100 A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought; And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead, God knows, may hurt the very ablest head. Have you not seen, at Guildhall's narrow pass, Two aldermen dispute it with an ass? 105 And peers give way, exalted as they are, Go, lofty poet! and in such a crowd 110 Would drink and dose at Tooting or Earl's-court. How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar? How match the bards whom none e'er match'd before? 115 The man who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat, To books and study gives sev'n years complete, See! strow'd with learned dust, his nightcap on, He walks an object new beneath the sun! 119 The boys flock round him, and the people stare: So stiff, so mute! some statue you would swear Stept from his pedestal to take the air! And here, while Town, and Court, and City, roars, The Temple late two brother Serjeants saw, One lull'd th' Exchequer, and one stunn'd the Rolls; Each had a gravity would make you split, 130 ''Twas, sir, your law'—and," sir, your clo"quence," "Your's Cowper's manner-and your's Talbot's sense. Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, 135 Your's Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit. Call Tibbald Shakespeare, and he'll swear the Nine, Dear Cibber! never match'd one ode of thine. Lord! how we strut through Merlin's cave, to see No poets there but Stephen, you, and me. 140 Walk with respect behind, while we at ease Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we please. · My dear Tibullus!' if that will not do, Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you ; 'Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains, 145 In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject: 156 They treat themselves with most profound respect. Their own strict judges, not a word they spare That wants of force, or light, or weight, or care; Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place, 161 Nay, though at court (perhaps) it may find grace: Such they'll degrade; and, sometimes in its stead, In downright charity revive the dead; Mark where a bold expressive phrase appears, 165 Bright through the rubbish of some hundred years; Command old words, that long have slept, to wake, Words that wise Bacon, or brave Rawleigh, spake; Or bid the new be English ages hence, 175 (For Use will father what's begot by Sense) 170 185 In all, but this, a man of sober life, Him the damn'd doctors, and his friends, immur'd, They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in short, they cur'd: Whereat the gentleman began to stare My friends! (he cry'd) p-x take you for your care! That from a patriot of distinguish'd note 195 Have bled and purg'd me to a simple vote.' Wisdom (curse on it!) will come soon, or late. I'll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind, 205 Soon as I enter at my country door My mind resumes the thread it dropp'd before; Thoughts, which at Hyde-park Corner I forgot, Meet, and rejoin me, in the pensive grot: There all alone, and compliments apart, I ask these sober questions of my heart : 210 If, when the more you drink the more you crave, You tell the doctor; when the more you have |