Or by the Porter's Lodge, with Beggars, wait For greafie Fragments at the great Man's Gate. 'Tis better, fo; if thy Poetick Fob

Refuse to pay an Ordinary's Club;

And much more Honeft, to be hir'd, and ftand
With Auctionary Hammer in thy Hand,
Provoking to give more, and knocking thrice
For the fold Houfhold Stuff, or Picture's Prices
Expofing Play-Books, full of Fuftian Lines,
Or the dull Libraries of dead Divines.

Ev'n this is better, tho' 'tis hardly got,.
Than be a perjur'd Witness of a Plot,
To fwear he faw three Inches thro' a Door,
As Afiatick Evidences fwore;

Who hither coming, out at Heels and Knees,
For this had Penfions, Titles, and Degrees.

Henceforward, let no Poet fear to starve;
Cafar will give, if we can but deserve.
Tune all your Lyres, the Monarch's Praise invites
The lab'ring Mufe, and vaft Rewards excites :
But if from other Hands than his, you think
To find Supply, 'tis Lofs of Pen and Ink:
Let Flames on your unlucky Papers prey,
Or Moths thro' written Pages eat their way;
Your Wars, your Loves, your Praises be forgot,
And make of all an univerfal Blot.
The Mufes Ground is barren Defart all,
If no Support from Cafar's Bounty fall;
The reft is empty Praife, an Ivy Crown,
Or the lean Statue of a ftarv'd Renow.

For now the cunning Patron never pays,
But thinks he gives enough in giving Praises
Extols the Poem, and the Poet's Vein,
As Boys admire the Peacock's gaudy Train:

YA Statue erected in Honour of a Post.

Mean

Mean-while thy Manhood, fit for Toils and Wars,
Patient of Seas, and Storms, and Houshold Cares,
bbs out apace, and all thy Strength impairs.
Old Age, with filent pace, comes creeping on,
Nauseates the Praife, which in her Youth she won,
And hates the Muse, by which she was undone,
The Tricks of thy base Patron now behold,
To spare his Purse, and fave his darling Gold;
In his own Coin the ftarving Wit he treats;
Himself makes Verfes, which himself repeats;
And yields to Homer on no other fcore,
Than that he liv'd a thousand Years before.
But if to Fame alone thou dost pretend,
The Mifer will his empty Palace lend;
Set wide his Doors, adorn'd with plated Brafs,
Where Droves, as at a City Gate, may pass;
A fpacious Hall afford thee, to rehearse,
And send his Clients to applaud thy Verse;
But not one Farthing to defray the Coûts
Of Carpenters, the Pulpit, and the Pofts.
House-room that costs him nothing, he bestows:
Yet ftill we fcribble on, tho' still we lofe;
We drudge, and cultivate with Care, a Ground
Where no Return of Gain was ever found:
The Charms of Poetry our Souls bewitch;
The Curse of Writing is an endless Itch.

But he whofe noble Genius is allow'd,
Who with stretch'd Pinions foars above the Croud,
Who mighty Thought can cloath with manly Drefs,
He, whom I fancy, but can ne'er express:
Such, fuch a Wit, tho' rarely to be found,
Must be fecure from Want, if not abound.
Nice is his Make, impatient of the War,
Avoiding Bus'nefs, and abhorring Care;

He must have Groves, and lonely Fountains chufe,
And eafie Solitudes to bait his Mufe;

Unvex'd with Thought of Wants, which may betide,
Or for to-morrow's Dinner to provide.

Horace 3 ne'er wrote but with a rosie Cheek,
His Belly pamper'd, and his Sides were fleek.
A Wit should have no Care, or this alone,
To make his rifing Numbers juftly run.
Phoebus and Bacchus, thofe two jolly Gods,
Bear no ftarv'd Poets to their bleft Abodes.
'Tis not for hungry Wit, with Wants controll❜d,
The Face of Jove in Council to behold:
Or Fierce 4 Alecto, when her Brand fhe tofs'd,
Betwixt the Trojan and Rutilian Host:

If Virgil's Suit Mecanas had not sped,
And fent 6 Alexis to the Poet's Bed;

The crefted Snakes had dropt upon the Ground,
And the loud Trumpet languish'd in the Sound.
Yet we expect that 7 Lappa's Mufe fhould pleaf,
As much as did immortal 8 Sophocles;

When he his Difhes and his Cloaths has fent
To pawn, for Payment of a Quarter's Rent;
His Patron 9 Numitor will nothing lend,
Pleads Want of Money to his wretched Friend,
Yet can large Prefents to his Harlot fend;
Can purchase a tame Lion, and can treat
The kingly Slave with fev'ral Sorts of Meat:
It seems he thinks th'Expence is more, to feast
The famifh'd Poet, than the hungry Beast.

3 A famous Poet, who was in great Favour with the Emperor Auguftus Cafar, by the means of his Patron Mecenas.

4 One of the three Furies. s A Favourite to Augustus, and a great Patron of Poets.

6 Mecanas his Boy; with

whom Virgil was in Love.
7 Rubranus Lappa, a poor
Tragick Poet.

8 An excellent Poet of A thens, who wrote Greek Tragedies.

9 A rich Nobleman of Rome.

Lucan

P

Luscan 10, content with Praife, may lie at cafe
In costly Grotts, and Marble Palaces:

But to poor 11 Baffus what avails a Name;
To ftarve on Compliments, and empty Fame?
All Rome is pleas'd, when 12 Statius will rehearse,
And longing Crowds expect the promis'd Verfe:
His lofty Numbers with fo great a Gust

They hear, and swallow with fuch eager Luft:>

But, while the common Suffrage crown'd his Caufej 11

T

His Mufe had ftarv'd, had not a Piece unread, yaMC 10
And by a 13 Player bought, fupply'd her Bread.
He could difpofe of Honours, and Commands,
The Power of Rome was in an Actor's Hands,
The peaceful Gown, and military Sword: ›
The bounteous Play'r out-gave the pinching Lord, w
And wouldst thou, Poet, rife before the Sun,
And to his Honour's Lazy Levee run?!

Stick to the Stage, and leave thy fordid Peer;

'.

And yet, Heav'n knows, 'tis earn'd with Hardship there, The former Age did one Mecanas fee,

One giving Lord of happy Memory.

Then, then, 'twas worth a Writer's Pains, to pine,
Look pale, and 611 14 December taste no Wine.

Such is the Poet's Lot: What luckier Fate
Does on the Works of grave Hiftorians wait?

To A great Poet, "who was put to Death by Nero, partly out of Envy to his Poetry, partly, for being in à Plot with his Uncle Seneca and Pifo.

11 Salejus Baffus, a poor

Poet.

12 Statius, Surnam'd Papi

Time of Cafar\Domitian." (()

13 Faris, a famous Actor; and Favourite to Domitian; the Patron of Statius.

14 The Romans celebrated their great Holydays, called Saturnalia tank freely and December; when

every one

Bens, a famous Poet in the waves were, in a manner,

Mafters.

More Time they spend, in greater Toils engage;
Their Volumes fwell beyond the thousandth Page:
For thus the Laws of Hiftory command;
And much good Paper fuffers in their Hand.
What Harveft rifes from this labour'd Ground?
Where they get Pence, a 's Clerk can get a Pound.
A lazy Tribe, just of the Poet's pitch,

Who think themselves above the growing rich.
Next, fhew me the well-lung'd 16 Civilian's Gain,
Who bears in Triumph an Artill'ry Train
Of Chancery Libels; opens the firft Caufe,
Then with a Pick-lock Tongue preverts the Laws:
Talks loud enough in Confcience for his Fee,
Takes Care his Client all his Zeal may fee;
Twitch'd by the Sleeve, he mouths it more and more,
Till with white Froth his Gown is flaver'd o'er.
Ask what he gains by all this lying Prate,
A Captain's Plunder trebles his Eftate.
The Magiftrate affumes his awful Seat;
Stand forth 17 pale Ajax, and thy Speech repeat:
Affert thy Client's Freedom; bawl, and tear
So loud, thy Country-Judge at least may hear,
If not difcern; and when thy Lungs are fore,
Hang up the 18 Victor's Garland at thy Door:
Ask for what Price thy venial Tongue was fold:
A rufty Gammon of some fev'n Years old:
Tough, wither'd 19 Treuffles; ropy Wine, a Dish
Of fhotten Herring, or stale stinking Fish.
For four times talking, if one piece thou take,
That must be cantled, and the Judge go fnack.

Is Or rather a publick Notary.

16 In thofe Times the Lawyers got little.

won a Cause, a Garland was hung up before his Door.

19 Trenfles, in English, called Ground-Cheft-nuts, o

17 Alluding to that of o Pignuts: But, perhaps, the

id; Confedere Duces, &c.

18 When an Orator had

Author means
Scallions.