This in a moment claps me in a gaol;
But that informs me I shall yet be rich.
The Muse, secured by inspiration, smiles
At sight of Catchpoles, and defies a Writ.
Nobles may perish, and the King himself
Submit to fate, the very realm be ruined;
But Bards shall flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the Whig and Tory broils,
Our civil fury, and our foreign wars.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?