Exert your talents; Nature, ever kind, 10
  Enough for happiness bestows on all;
  ’Tis Sloth or Pride that finds her gifts too small. 
  Why sleeps the Muse?—­is there no room for praise,
  When such bright constellations blaze? 
  When sage Newcastle[2], abstinently great,
  Neglects his food to cater for the state;
  And Grafton[3], towering Atlas of the throne,
  So well rewards a genius like his own: 
  Granville and Bath[4] illustrious, need I name,
  For sober dignity, and spotless fame; 20
  Or Pitt, the unshaken Abdiel yet unsung: 
  Thy candour, Chomdeley! and thy truth, O Younge!

  POET.

The advice is good; the question only, whether These names and virtues ever dwelt together?  But what of that? the more the bard shall claim, Who can create as well as cherish fame.  But one thing more,—­how loud must I repeat, To rouse the engaged attention of the great,—­Amused, perhaps, with C—­’s prolific hum[5], Or rapt amidst the transports of a drum;[6] 30 While the grim porter watches every door, Stern foe to tradesmen, poets, and the poor, The Hesperian dragon not more fierce and fell, Nor the gaunt growling janitor of Hell?  Even Atticus (so wills the voice of Fate) Enshrines in clouded majesty his state; Nor to the adoring crowd vouchsafes regard, Though priests adore, and every priest a bard.  Shall I then follow with the venal tribe, And on the threshold the base mongrel bribe? 40 Bribe him to feast my mute imploring eye With some proud lord, who smiles a gracious lie!  A lie to captivate my heedless youth, Degrade my talents, and debauch my truth; While, fool’d with hope, revolves my joyless day, And friends, and fame, and fortune, fleet away; Till, scandal, indigence, and scorn my lot, The dreary jail entombs me, where I rot!  Is there, ye varnish’d ruffians of the state!  Not one among the millions whom ye cheat, 50 Who, while he totters on the brink of woe, Dares, ere he falls, attempt the avenging blow,—­A steady blow, his languid soul to feast, And rid his country of one curse at least?

  FRIEND.

  What! turn assassin?

  POET.

                         Let the assassin bleed: 
  My fearless verse shall justify the deed. 
  ’Tis he who lures the unpractised mind astray,
  Then leaves the wretch, to misery a prey;
  Perverts the race of Virtue just begun,
  And stabs the Public in her ruin’d son. 60

  FRIEND.

  Heavens! how you rail; the man’s consumed by spite! 
  If Lockman’s fate[7] attends you when you write,
  Let prudence more propitious arts inspire;
  The lower still you crawl, you’ll climb the higher. 
  Go then, with every supple virtue stored,
  And thrive, the favour’d valet of my lord. 
  Is that denied? a boon more humble crave.