Why must we climb the Alpine mountain's sides
To find the seat where Harmony resides?
Why touch we not so soft the silver lute,
The cheerful haut-boy, and the mellow flute ?
'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the sound,
But there the Patrons of her sons are found.
Why flourish'd verse in great Augustus' reign?
He and Mecenas lov'd the Muse's strain.
But now that wight in poverty must mourn
Who was (O cruel stars!) a Poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great;
Write ranc'rous libels to reform the State;
Or if you chuse more sure and readier ways,
Spatter a Minister with fulsome praise :
Launch out with freedom, flatter him enough;
Fear not, all men are dedication-proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther still,
Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill.
He, who his pen in party quarrels draws,
Lists a hir'd bravo to support the cause;
He must indulge his Patron's hate and spleen,
And stab the fame of those he ne'er has seen.
Why then should authors mourn their desp'rate case?
Be brave, do this, and then demand a place.
Why art thou poor? exert the gifts to rise,
And banish tim'rous vertue from thy eyes.
All this seems modern preface, where we're told
That wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold:
Against th' ungrateful age these authors roar,
And fancy learning starves because they're poor.
Yet why should learning hope success at Court?
Why should our Patriots vertue's cause support?
Why to true merit should they have regard?
They know that vertue is its own reward.
Yet let not me of grievances complain,
Who (though the meanest of the Muse's train)
Can boast subscriptions to my humble lays,
And mingle profit with my little praise.
Ask Painting, why she loves Hesperian air.
Go view, she crys, my glorious labours there:
There in rich palaces I reign in state,
And on the temple's lofty domes create.
The Nobles view my works with knowing eyes,
They love the science, and the painter prize.
Why didst thou, Kent, forgo thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand?
Think'st thou for this to raise thy name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome;
There on the walls let thy just labours shine,
And Raphael live again in thy design.
Yet stay awhile; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbyass'd knows thy worth;
His judgment in thy master-strokes can trace
Titian's strong fire and Guido's softer grace;
But, oh consider, e'er thy works appear,
Canst thou unhurt the tongue of envy hear?
Censure will blame, her breath was ever spent
To blast the laurels of the Eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rise,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes ?
Doors, windows are condemn'd by passing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandos with a lib'ral hand bestow,
Censure imputes it all to pomp and show;
When, if the motive right were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.
Had Pope with groveling numbers fill'd his page, Dennis had never kindled into rage.
'Tis the sublime that hurts the Critic's ease;
Write nonsense, and he reads and sleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift and Pope unknown,
Poor slander-selling Curll would be undone.
He who would free from malice pass his days,
Must live obscure, and never merit praise.
But let this tale to valiant virtue tell
The daily perils of deserving well.
A crow was strutting o'er the stubbled plain,
Just as a lark descending clos'd his strain.
The crow bespoke him thus with solemn grace.
Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race,
What force of lungs! how clear! how sweet you sing!
And no bird soars upon a stronger wing.
The lark, who scorn'd soft flatt'ry, thus replys,
True, I sing sweet, and on strong pinion rise;
Yet let me pass my life from envy free,
For what advantage are these gifts to me?
My song confines me to the wiry cage,
My flight provokes the faulcon's fatal rage.
But as you pass, I hear the fowlers say,
To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND
AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED TREATISE IN FOLIO, CALLED THE
WHEN Poets print their works, the scribbling crew
Stick the Bard o'er with Bays, like Christmas pew;
Can meagre Poetry such fame deserve?
Can Poetry; that only writes to starve ?
And shall no laurel deck that famous head,
In which the Senate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires.
O had I Virgil's force to sing the man,
Whose learned lines can millions raise per ann.
Great L[owndes] his praise should swell the trump of
And Rapes and Wapentakes resound his name.
If the blind Poet gain'd a long renown
By singing ev'ry Grecian chief and town;
Sure Lowndes] his prose much greater fame requires, Which sweetly counts five thousand Knights and Squires,
Their seats, their citys, parishes and shires.
Thy copious Preamble so smoothly runs
Taxes no more appear like legal duns,
Lords, Knights, and Squires th' Assessor's power obey,
We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.
Ah why did C[oningsby] thy works defame!
That author's long harangue betrays his name;
After his speeches can his pen succeed?
Though forc'd to hear, we're not oblig'd to read.
Under what science shall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not Poet born and bred;
Or dost thou boast th' Historian's lasting pen,
Whose annals are the Acts of worthy men ?
No. Satyr is thy talent; and each lash
Makes the rich Miser tremble o'er his cash;
What on the Drunkard can be more severe,
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?
Ev'n Button's Wits are nought compar'd to thee, Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his Tea, While Thou through Britain's distant isle shall spread, In ev'ry Hundred and Division read.
Critics in Classicks oft interpolate,
But ev'ry word of thine is fix'd as Fate.
Some works come forth at morn, but die at night
In blazing fringes round a tallow light,
Some may perhaps to a whole week extend,
Like S[teele] (when unassisted by a friend)
But thou shalt live a year in spite of fate :
And where's your author boasts a longer date?
Poets of old had such a wondrous power,
That with their verses they could raise a tower;
But in thy Prose a greater force is found;
What poet ever raised ten thousand pound?
Cadmus, by sowing dragon's teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vast army from the poys'nous seed.
Thy labours, L[owndes], can greater wonders do,
Thou raisest armys, and canst pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen; thy annals cease;
Why need we armys when the land's in peace ?
Soldiers are perfect devils in their way,
When once they're rais'd, they're cursed hard to lay.
DEAR CLOE, how blubber'd is that pretty Face?
Thy Cheek all on Fire, and Thy Hair all uncurl'd:
Pry'thee quit this Caprice; and (as Old FALSTAF says)
Let Us e'en talk a little like Folks of This World.
How can'st Thou presume, Thou hast leave to destroy The Beauties, which VENUS but lent to Thy keeping? Those Looks were design'd to inspire Love and Joy: More ord'nary Eyes may serve People for weeping.
To be vext at a Trifle or two that I writ,
Your Judgment at once, and my Passion You wrong: You take that for Fact, which will scarce be found Wit : Od's Life! must One swear to the Truth of a Song?
What I speak, my fair CLOE, and what I write, shews The Diff'rence there is betwixt Nature and Art:
I court others in Verse; but I love Thee in Prose:
And They have my Whimsies; but Thou hast my Heart.
The God of us Verse-men (You know Child) the SUN,
How after his Journeys He sets up his Rest:
If at Morning o'er Earth 'tis his Fancy to run;
At Night he reclines on his THETIS'S Breast.
So when I am weary'd with wand'ring all Day;
To Thee my Delight in the Evening I come :
No Matter what Beauties I saw in my Way:
They were but my Visits; but Thou art my Home.
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