no Sabbath day to me:  Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.  Is there a parson, much demused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father’s soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross?  Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls?  All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.  Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damned works the cause; Poor Comus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.  Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?  Or which must-end me, a fool’s wrath or love?  A dire dilemma! either way I’m sped:  If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.  Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!  Who can’t be silent, and who will not lie.  To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.  I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, ‘Keep your piece nine years.’  ‘Nine years!’ cries he, who high in Drury Lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Obliged by hunger, and request of friends:  ’The piece, you think, it incorrect? why, take it, I’m all submission, what you’d have it, make it.’  Three things another’s modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.  Pitholeon sends to me:  ’You know his Grace, I want a patron; ask him for a place.’  ’Pitholeon libelled me’—­’But here’s a letter Informs you, sir, ’twas when he knew no better.  Dare you refuse him?  Curll invites to dine, He’ll write a journal, or he’ll turn divine.’  Bless me! a packet.—­’’Tis a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse.’  If I dislike it, ‘Furies, death, and rage!’ If I approve, ‘Commend it to the stage.’  There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends.  Fired that the house reject him, ’’Sdeath I’ll print it, And shame the fools—­Your interest, sir, with Lintot!’ ‘Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:’  ‘Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.’  All my demurs but double his attacks; At last he whispers, ‘Do; and we go snacks.’  Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door; ‘Sir, let me see your works and you no more.’

* * * * *

  There are, who to my person pay their court: 
  I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short,
  Ammon’s great son one shoulder had too high,
  Such Ovid’s nose, and ’Sir! you have an eye’—­
  Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
  All that disgraced my betters, met in me. 
  Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
  ‘Just so immortal Maro held his head:’