To a Gentleman, Who Censured the Author for Scribbling Verses

You ask me, why I spend my time In fruitless ribaldry and rhime, On Criticks, Poets, Players? The Ministers of State, you say, Would gladly take me into pay; And none so good as theirs.

I thank ye, —but I've had to do With Ministers, as well as you, And know they're wond'rous civil; They'll promise places for your pains, But care not, when they've suck'd your brains, If you were at the devil.

Did war, or rude rebellion, shake The court, and make the city quake, I then my pen might draw: Not in these piping times of peace, When wealth with taxes must increase, And freedom's fix'd by law.

I once, indeed, did such a thing, To serve my country and my king, And of my own accord, A king, who had the grace and spirit To know his friends, and loyal merit Could liberally reward.

But since (for truth may dare be just) False policy hath given disgust; While Nature's powerful charms Woo'd me, those hidden paths t'explore, Which Locke and Newton trod before And won me to her arms.

Not but, relaxing now and then, Philosophy lays down the pen; When pictures, poems, plays, E'en musick's prostituted art, Engage the eye, the ear, the heart; Amusing various ways.

Meanwhile, an hour, I'd rather sit, To look at Pritchard, from the pit, Than kiss the papal toe; Nay, rather than a monarch's hand, For Garrick there would even stand 'Till I could hardly go.

While thus amus'd, and thus employ'd, Life wears away not unenjoy'd, Tho' free from ill intention: Good providence, but give me health, I envy no man's wit or wealth, Nor pine for place or pension.

Let others write to please the rabble, In hopes some ministerial squabble May pluck the fools a feather: Believe me, I am no such fool, Like —, to be made the tool, Of knaves and fools together.