But what's the tribe most likely to comply? The men of ink, or ancient authors lie; The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold: All men they flatter, but themselves the most, With deathless fame, their everlasting boast: For fame no cully makes so much her jest, As her old constant spark, the bard profest. "Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight, Pelham's magnificent; but I can write,

And what to my great soul like glory dear?"
Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,
That fame 's unwholesome taken without meat,
And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:
Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ,
And wishes all his wants were in his wit.

Ay! what avails it, when his dinner 's lost,
That his triumphant name adorns a post?
Or that his shining page (provoking fate!)
Defends sirloins, which sons of dulness eat?

What foe to verse without compassion hears,
What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,
When the poor muse, for less than half a crown,
A prostitute on every bulk in town,
With other whores undone, tho' not in print,
Clubs credit for Geneva in the mint?

Ye bards why will you sing, tho' uninspir'd?
Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd?
Defunct by Phoebus' laws, beyond redress,
Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?

Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,
Like hair, will sprout, altho' the poet's dead.
All other trades demand, verse makers beg;
A dedication is a wooden leg;

A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,
Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.
Tho' such myself, vile bards I discommend;
Nay more, tho' gentle Damon is my
friend.
"Is 't then a crime to write ? "— If talent rare
Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear :
For some, tho' few, there are large-minded men,
Who watch unseen the labours of the pen ;
Who know the muse's worth, and therefore court,
Their deeds her theme, their beauty her support;
Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit ;
My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.
Argyll true wit is studious to restore;

And Dorset smiles, if Phoebus smil'd before ;
Pembroke in years the long-lov❜ḍ arts admires,
And Henrietta like a muse inspires.

But, ah! not inspiration can obtain

That fame, which poets languish for in vain.
How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, strive
To grasp, what no man can possess alive!
Fame's a reversion in which men take place
(O late reversion!) at their own decease.
This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,
He starves his authors, that their works may sell.
That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;

That wealth is fame, another clan reply;

Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags;
And swell in just proportion to their bags.
Nor only the low-born, deform'd and old,
Think glory nothing but the beams of gold;
The first young lord, which in the mall you meet,
Shall match the veriest huncks in Lombard-street,
From rescu'd candles' ends, who rais'd a sum,
And starves to join a penny to a plumb.
A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknown
To former times, a scandal all our own.

Of ardent lovers, the true modern band
Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land.
For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies :
Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.
Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down ;
No rival can prevail, — but half a crown.

He glories to late times to be convey'd, Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made : Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd, When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd: He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain: Nay, a dull sheriff, for his golden chain.

"Who'd be a slave?" the gallant colonel cries, While love of glory sparkles from his eyes: To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right, Just is his title, for he will not fight:

All soldiers valour, all divines have grace,
As maids of honour beauty, by their place :
But, when indulging on the last campaign,
His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain;

He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word,
A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.
Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,
A soldier should be modest as a maid:
Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy ;
Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy:
'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree;
But if you pay yourself, the world is free.

Were there no tongue to speak them but his own,
Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known.
Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous name
Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim,
Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak,
The Roman would not blush at the mistake.

SATIRE V. ON WOMEN.

O fairest of creation! last and best

Of all God's works! Creature in whom excell'd
Whatever can to sight, or thought, be form'd!
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
How art thou lost!

MILTON.

NOR reigns ambition in bold man alone;
Soft female hearts the rude invader own:
But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things,
Than routing armies, and dethroning kings:
Attend, and you discern it in the fair
Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair;

Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye;

Or, in full joy, elaborate a sigh.

The sex we honour, tho' their faults we blame; Nay, thank their faults for such a fruitful theme: doubly kind to me,

A theme, fair

Since satirizing those is praising thee ;

Who wouldst not bear, too modestly refin'd,
A panegyric of a grosser kind.

Britannia's daughters, much more fair than nice,
Too fond of admiration, lose their price;
Worn in the public eye, give cheap delight
To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight:
As unreserv'd, and beauteous, as the sun,
Through every sign of vanity they run;
Assemblies, parks, coarse feasts in city-halls,
Lectures, and trials, plays, committees, balls,
Wells, bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes,
And fortune-tellers' caves, and lions' dens,
Taverns, exchanges, bride wells, drawing-rooms,
Installments, pillories, coronations, tombs,
Tumblers, and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews,
Sales, races, rabbits, (and still stranger!) pews.
Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for fame;
And love lies vanquish'd in a nobler flame;
Warm gleams of hope she, now, dispenses; then,
Like April suns, dives into clouds again :
With all her lustre, now, her lover warms ;
Then, out of ostentation, hides her charms :
'Tis, next, her pleasure sweetly to complain,
And to be taken with a sudden pain;