Fable XXIX. the Poet and Pen

Well sung the BARD, that some "in spite Of Nature, and their stars, will write;" Proofs rise on proofs that ev'ry age Mounts DUNCES upon Learning's stage; Who write, and write, and write away, For empty fame, or solid pay; On Deaths, Births, Marriages compose, Whole reams of flimsy—Verse or Prose With self-applause admire their wit, Whene'er the public taste they hit— Such pinching want too oft endure— What then? MAEONIDES was poor— Hence comfort springs—for what was HE, Each BLOCKHEAD cries, pray, more than ME?

In Grub-street, rais'd three stories high, His garret previous to the sky; One day a luckless son of rhime, To sooth his grief, and kill his time, Thus spoke the anguish of his heart, Shall I still play the passive part; When Envy's utmost wrath is hurl'd Against me by a thankless world? When all my genius, all my pains, Amount to such penurious gains; Instead of the Falernian flask, I drain the dregs of small beer cask; And almost a Chamelion grown, I'm taught to live on air alone; The rats and mice may when they please My cupboard haunt, nor hurt my cheese; My russet coat, which once was black, Hangs piecemeal o'er my shiv'ring baek; And nightly on too short a bed, Like Codrus , I recline my head; All this to thee—worst plague of men, I owe, thou most accursed PEN!

Oh that my fingers long ere now, Instead of THEE, had grasp'd the PLOW! Or plac'd in a contented stall, Had learn'd to push the jocund awl; Intrinsic merit then like mine Had not as pearl been cast to Swine.

His PEN, which heard, made this reply, Truth, Scribbler, may thy charge deny; Convicted folly seeks excuse, The best of things admit abuse; And often so against our wills, Appears the injur'd race of Quills.

Of men and their caprice the slaves, We serve the turn of Fools and Knaves; Fools always think that they command Our movements with a master's hand; And Knaves affecting Virtue's cause, Assail through us her wisest laws.

The Author who would merit fame, Whose wishes grasp a lasting name, Distinguish'd in his works should be By genius, sense, and honesty; Without the last, the former two Are glitt'ring serpents fair to view; Which flatter with a spangled skin, While deadliest poison lurks within.

Did I, or any other quill, Endeavour to mislead thy will; Had I the power to turn aside Thy confidence, and forward pride?

'Tis true, thou hast not wanted care To make thy labours popular; And never miss'd occasion fit, To shew thy politicks and wit; To praise, or censure, ever prone, Where profit mark'd a cause thy own; Thou hast not fail'd to join the cry, And bawl out—Wilkes and Liberty! Yet rated as a babbling hound, Contempt thy vain endeavours crown'd; You think, you write, you print in vain, And torture me with fruitless pain: 'Tis not each wight who chinks a rhime, That shines the CHURCHILL of his time; Tho' he—but hush, the hand of Death Shuts Censure's lips, and stops her breath.

Could'st thou with noble heart and mind, Like LYTTELTON, inform mankind; From whom with ease and vigour flows, The elegance of verse and prose.

Could'st thou on Fancy's rapid wing, In strains like nervous MASON sing; Like him range Nature's ample field, And such enchanting prospects yield.

Could'st thou with elegiac GRAY, In slowly, sad funereal lay, Such passion-quelling truths impart, As charm at once, and mend the heart.

Or could'st thou on the comic stage, Like sprightly COLMAN shew the age, The rustic, fop, and jealous fool, With justice turn'd to ridicule; Then Genius taking proper bent, Had made thy pen an ornament.

Shall DUNCES blot with Gothic rage, A Virgil's or a Milton's page— In mad revenge, for want of toste, Lay the fair field of Science waste? Suppress thy self-sufficient spirit, Allow that others may have Merit; Your genius suit, whate'er it be, You'll never blame the World, nor ME.