TO SYLVIUS

Can love of fame the gentle muse inspire Where he that hoards the most has all the praise; Where avarice, and her tribe, each bosom fire, All heap the enormous store for rainy days; Proving by such perpetual round of toil That man was born to grovel on the soil?

Expect not, in these times of rude renown That verse, like your's, will have the chance to please: No taste for plaintive elegy is known, Nor lyric ode—none care for things like these— Gold, only gold, this niggard age delights, That honours none but money-catching wights.

Sink not beneath the mean abusive strain Of puny wits, dull sycophants in song, Who, post, or place, or one poor smile to gain, Besiege Mambrino's door, and round him throng Like insects creeping to the morning sun To enjoy his heat—themselves possessing none.

All must applaud your choice, to quit a stage Where knaves and fools in every scene abound; Where modest worth no patron can engage— But boisterous folly walks her noisy round; Some narrow-hearted demi-god adores, And Fortune's path with servile step explores.