And when I die, be sure you let me know
  Great Homer died three thousand years ago. 
  Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
  Dipped me in ink, my parents’, or my own? 
  As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
  I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. 
  I left no calling for this idle trade,
  No duty broke, no father disobeyed. 
  The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife,
  To help me through this long disease, my life,
  To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
  And teach the being you preserved, to bear. 
  But why then publish?  Granville the polite,
  And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
  Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise,
  And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays;
  The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read;
  Even mitred Rochester would nod the head,
  And St. John’s self (great Dryden’s friends before)
  With open arms received one poet more. 
  Happy my studies, when by these approved! 
  Happier their author, when by these beloved! 
  From these the world will judge of men and books,
  Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes. 
  Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
  While pure description held the place of sense? 
  Like gentle Fanny’s was my flowery theme,
  A painted mistress, or a purling stream. 
  Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;—­
  I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. 
  Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
  I never answered—­I was not in debt. 
  If want provoked, or madness made them print,
  I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. 
  Did some more sober critic come aboard;
  If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod. 
  Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
  And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. 
  Commas and points they set exactly right,
  And ’twere a sin to rob them of their mite;
  Yet ne’er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds,
  From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds. 
  Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
  Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
  Even such small critics some regard may claim,
  Preserved in Milton’s or in Shakespeare’s name. 
  Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
  Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 
  The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
  But wonder how the devil they got there. 
  Were others angry:  I excused them too;
  Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. 
  A man’s true merit ’tis not hard to find;
  But each man’s secret standard in his mind,—­
  That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,—­
  This, who can gratify? for who can guess? 
  The bard whom pilfered Pastorals renown,
  Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown,
  Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
  And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight