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The Bard whom pilf'red Pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian Tale for half a Crown,
Just writes to make his Barrenness appear;
And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a-year. 180
He, who still wanting tho' he lives on Theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
And he, who now to Sense, now Nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a Meaning:
And he, whose Fustian's so sublimely bad, 185
It is not Poetry, but Prose run mad:
All these, my modest Satire bid translate,
And own'd, that nine such Poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe?
How did they swear, not Addison was safe. 190
Who turns a Persian Tale for half a Crown,
Just writes to make his Barrenness appear;
And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a-year. 180
He, who still wanting tho' he lives on Theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
And he, who now to Sense, now Nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a Meaning:
And he, whose Fustian's so sublimely bad, 185
It is not Poetry, but Prose run mad:
All these, my modest Satire bid translate,
And own'd, that nine such Poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe?
How did they swear, not Addison was safe. 190
Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires
True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires,
Blest with each Talent and each Art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Shou'd such a Man, too fond to rule alone, 195
Bear, like the Turk, no Brother near the Throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for Arts that caus'd himself to rise;
True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires,
Blest with each Talent and each Art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Shou'd such a Man, too fond to rule alone, 195
Bear, like the Turk, no Brother near the Throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for Arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn
