To sell his muse for hire, and thus belie
The dictates of his conscience—Be a sycophant,
And flatter titled scoundrels?—There’s the respect—
Must give us pause, and make the bard forbear:
This infant genius checks, but that the hope
Of living after death in mem’ry’s praise
Hurries him on—As erst the hot-brain’d,
Yclep’d Phaeton, who, of old, they say,
Deaf to advice, by hot ambition fir’d,
Mounted the flaming chariot of his sire