These Roman Souls, like Rome’s great Sons, are known
To live in Cells on Labours of their own.
Thus Milo, could we see the noble Chief,
Feeds, for his Country’s good, on Legs of Beef:
Camillus copies Deeds for sordid Pay,
Yet fights the public Battles twice a day:
Ev’n now the godlike Brutus views his Score
Scroll’d on the Bar-board, swinging with the Door;
Where, tippling Punch, grave Cato’s self you’ll see,
And Amor Patriæ vending smuggled Tea.
Last in these Ranks and least, their Art’s Disgrace,
Neglected stand the Muses’ meanest Race;
Scribblers who court Contempt, whose Verse the Eye
Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by:
This Poet’s Corner is the place they choose,
A fatal Nursery for an infant Muse;
Unlike that Corner where true Poets lie,
These cannot live and they shall never die;
Hapless the Lad whose Mind such Dreams invade,
And win to Verse the Talents due to Trade.
Curb then, O Youth! these Raptures as they rise,
Keep down the Evil Spirit and be wise;
Follow your Calling, think the Muses foes,
Nor lean upon the Pestle, and compose.
I know your Day-dreams, and I know the Snare
Hid in your flow’ry path, and cry “Beware.”
Thoughtless of Ill, and to the future blind,
A sudden Couplet rushes in your Mind;
Here you may nameless print your idle Rhymes,
And read your first-born Work a thousand times;
Th’ Infection spreads, your Couplet grows apace,
Stanzas to Delia’s Dog or Celia’s Face;
You take a Name; Philander’s Odes are seen,
Printed, and prais’d, in every Magazine;
Diarian Sages greet their brother Sage,
And your dark Pages please th’ enlighten’d Age.—
Alas! what Years you thus consume in vain,
Rul’d by this wretched Bias of the Brain!
Go! to your Desks and Counters all return;
Your Sonnets scatter, your Acrostics burn;
Trade, and be rich; or should your careful Sires
Bequeath you Wealth! indulge the nobler Fires;
Should Love of Fame your youthful Heart betray,}
Pursue fair Fame, but in a glorious Way, }
Nor in the idle Scenes of Fancy’s Painting stray. }
Of all the good that mortal Men pursue,
The Muse has least to give and gives to few;
Like some coquettish Fair, she leads us on,
With Smiles and Hopes, till Youth and Peace are gone;
Then, wed for Life, the restless wrangling Pair,
Forget how constant one and one how fair:
Meanwhile Ambition, like a blooming Bride,
Brings Power and Wealth to grace her Lover’s Side;
And tho’ she smiles not with such flattering Charms,
The Brave will sooner win her to their Arms.
Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the Bands,
Go spread your Country’s Fame in hostile Lands;
Her Court, her Senate, or her Arms adorn,
And let her Foes lament that you were born:
Or weigh her Laws, their ancient Rights defend,
Tho’ Hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason’s Friend;
Arm’d with strong Powers, in their Defence engage,
And rise the Thurlow of the future Age.
