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But now are damn'd to wrapping Drugs and Wares,
And curs'd by all their broken Stationers:
And so may'st thou perchance pass up and down,
And please a while th'admiring Court and Town,
Who after shalt in Duck-lane Shops be thrown,
To mould with Silvester and Shirley there,
And truck for Pots of Ale next Stourbridge-Fair.
Then who'll not laugh to see th'immortal Name
To vile Mundungus made a Martyr flame?
And all thy deathless Monuments of Wit,
Wipe Porters Tails, or mount in Paper-Kite?
But, grant, thy Poetry should find success,
And (which is rare) the squeamish Criticks please;
Admit, it read, and prais'd, and courted be
By this nice Age, and all Posterity;
If thou expectest ought but empty Fame;
Condemn thy Hopes, and Labours to the flame:
The Rich have now learn'd only to admire,
He, who to greater Favours does aspire,
Is mercenary thought, and writes to hire:
Would'st thou to raise thine, and thy Countries Fame,
Chuse some old English Hero for thy Theme,
Bold Arthur, or great Edward's greater Son,
Or our fifth Harry, matchless in Renown;
Make Agincourt, and Cressy Fields outvie
The fam'd Lavinian Shores, and Walls of Troy;
What Scipio, what Mæcenas would'st thou find,
What Sidney now to thy great Project kind?
' Bless me! how great his Genius! how each Line
' Is big with Sense! how glorious a Design
' Does thro' the whole and each proportion shine!
' How lofty all his Thoughts, and how inspir'd!
' Pity, such wond'rous Thoughts are not preferred:
Cries a gay wealthy Sot, who would not bail
For bare five Pounds the Author out of Jail,
Should he starve there, and rot; who if a Brief
Came out the needy Poets to relieve,
