Who know the Muse's worth, and therefore court,
Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support;
Who serve unask'd, the least pretence to wit,

My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.
A-le true wit is studious to restore,

And D-t smiles, if Phœbus smil'd before;
P-ke in years the long lov'd arts admires,
And Henrietta like a Muse inspires.

But ah! not inspiration can obtain

That fame which poets languish for in vain.
How mad their aim who thirst for glory, strive
To grasp what no man can possess alive?
Fame's a reversion in which men take place
(O late reversion!) at their own decease.
This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,
He starves his authors, that their works may sell.
That fame is wealth fantastic poets cry;

That wealth is fame, another can reply,
Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags,
And swell in just proportion to their bags.
Nor only the low-born, deform'd, and old,
Think glory nothing but the beams of gold;
The first young lord which in the Mall you meet,
Shall match the veriest hunks in Lombard street,
From rescu'd candles' ends who rais'd a sum,
And starves to join a penny to a plumb.

A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknown
To former times, a scandal all our own,

Of ardent lovers the true modern band
Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land.
For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies;
Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.
Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down,
No rival can prevail,—but half-a-crown.

He glories to late times to be convey'd Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made: Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd, When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd: He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain; Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain.

"Who'd be a slave?" the gallant col❜nel cries, While love of glory sparkles from his eyes: To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right,-Just is his title, for he will not fight. All soldiers valour, all divines have grace, As maids of honour beauty,-by their place : But when, indulging on the last campaign, His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain, He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word, A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,

A soldier should be modest as a maid.

Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy ;

Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy: 'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree, But if you pay yourself, the world is free.

Were there no tongue to speak them but his own, Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known; Augustus' deeds, if that ambiguous name Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim, Such is the prince's worth of whom I speak, The Roman would not blush at the mistake.

LOVE OF FAME, &c.

SATIRE V.

ON WOMEN.

O fairest of creation! last and best

Of all God's works! creature in whom excell'd
Whatever can to sight or thought be form'd
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!

How art thou lost!

Milton.

NOR reigns ambition in bold man alone; Soft female hearts the rude invader own:

But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things
Than routing armies and dethroning kings.
Attend, and you discern it in the fair,
Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair,
Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye,

Or in full joy elaborate a sigh.

The sex we honour, tho' their faults we blame, Nay, thank their faults for such a fruitful theme; A theme fair ! doubly kind to me,

Since satirizing those is praising thee;

Who would not bear, too modestly refin❜d,
A panegyric of a grosser kind.

Britannia's daughters, much more fair than nice, Too fond of admiration, lose their price; Worn in the public eye, give cheap delight To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight: As unreserv'd and beauteous as the sun, Thro' ev'ry sign of vanity they`run; Assemblies, parks, coarse feasts in city-halls, Lectures and trials, plays, committees, balls, Wells, bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes, And fortuneteller's caves and lions' dens; Taverns, Exchanges, Bridewells, drawingrooms, Instalments, pillories, coronations, tombs, Tumblers and funerals, puppetshows, reviews, Sales, races, rabates, (and, still stranger!) pews.

Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for fame,
And love lies vanquish'd in a nobler flame;
Warm gleams of hope she now dispenses, then,
Like April suns, dives into clouds again :
With all her lustre now her lover warms,
Then, out of ostentation, hides her charms.
"Tis next her pleasure sweetly to complain,
And to be taken with a sudden pain;
Then she starts up all ecstacy and bliss,
And is, sweet soul! just as sincere in this.
O how she rolls her charming eyes in spight!
And looks delightfully with all her might!
But, like our heroes, much more brave than wise,
She conquers for the triumph, not the prize.

Zara resembles Etna crown'd with snows,
Without she freezes, and within she glows:
Twice ere the sun descends, with zeal inspir'd,
From the vain converse of the world retir'd,
She reads the psalms and chapters for the day,
In-Cleopatra, or the last new play.
Thus gloomy Zara, with a solemn grace,
Deceives mankind, and hides behind her face.
Nor far beneath her in renown is she,
Who, thro' good-breeding, is ill company;
Whose manners will not let her larum cease;
Who thinks you are unhappy when at peace;