But say, what recompense for all this waste
  Of honour, truth, attention, time, and taste? 180
  To shine, confess’d, her zany and her tool,
  And fall by what I rose—­low ridicule? 
  Again shall Handel raise his laurell’d brow,
  Again shall harmony with rapture glow;
  The spells dissolve, the combination breaks,
  And Punch no longer Frasi’s rival squeaks: 
  Lo!  Russell[10] falls a sacrifice to whim,
  And starts amazed, in Newgate, from his dream: 
  With trembling hands implores their promised aid,
  And sees their favour like a vision fade! 190
  Is this, ye faithless Syrens!—­this the joy
  To which your smiles the unwary wretch decoy? 
  Naked and shackled, on the pavement prone,
  His mangled flesh devouring from the bone;
  Rage in his heart, distraction in his eye,
  Behold, inhuman hags! your minion lie! 
  Behold his gay career to ruin run,
  By you seduced, abandon’d, and undone! 
  Rather in garret pent, secure from harm,
  My Muse with murders shall the town alarm; 200
  Or plunge in politics with patriot zeal,
  And snarl like Guthrie[11] for the public weal,
  Than crawl an insect in a beldame’s power,
  And dread the crush of caprice every hour!

  FRIEND.

  ’Tis well; enjoy that petulance of style,
  And, like the envious adder, lick the file: 
  What, though success will not attend on all? 
  Who bravely dares must sometimes risk a fall. 
  Behold the bounteous board of Fortune spread;
  Each weakness, vice, and folly yields thee bread, 210
  Would’st thou with prudent condescension strive
  On the long settled terms of life to thrive.

  POET.

  What! join the crew that pilfer one another,
  Betray my friend, and persecute my brother;
  Turn usurer, o’er cent. per cent. to brood,
  Or quack, to feed like fleas on human blood?

FRIEND.

Or if thy soul can brook the gilded curse,
Some changeling heiress steal—­

POET.

                                  Why not a purse? 
  Two things I dread—­my conscience and the law.

FRIEND.

How? dread a mumbling bear without a claw? 220
Nor this, nor that, is standard right or wrong,
Till minted by the mercenary tongue;
And what is conscience but a fiend of strife,
That chills the joys, and damps the scenes of life,
The wayward child of Vanity and Fear,
The peevish dam of Poverty and Care? 
Unnumber’d woes engender in the breast
That entertains the rude, ungrateful guest.

  POET.

  Hail, sacred power! my glory and my guide! 
  Fair source of mental peace, whate’er betide! 230
  Safe in thy shelter, let disaster roll
  Eternal hurricanes around my soul: 
  My soul serene amidst the storms shall reign,
  And smile to see their fury burst in vain!