Their filial piety forgot,
Deny their country, like a Scot;
Though by their idiom and grimace,
They soon betray their native place: 
Yet thou hast greater cause to be
Ashamed of them, than they of thee,
Degenerate from their ancient brood
Since first the court allow’d them food. 
  Remains a difficulty still,
To purchase fame by writing ill. 
From Flecknoe[21] down to Howard’s[22] time,
How few have reach’d the low sublime! 
For when our high-born Howard died,
Blackmore[23] alone his place supplied: 
And lest a chasm should intervene,
When death had finish’d Blackmore’s reign,
The leaden crown devolved to thee,
Great poet[24] of the “Hollow Tree.” 
But ah! how unsecure thy throne! 
A thousand bards thy right disown: 
They plot to turn, in factious zeal,
Duncenia to a common weal;
And with rebellious arms pretend
An equal privilege to descend. 
  In bulk there are not more degrees
From elephants to mites in cheese,
Than what a curious eye may trace
In creatures of the rhyming race. 
From bad to worse, and worse they fall;
But who can reach the worst of all? 
For though, in nature, depth and height
Are equally held infinite: 
In poetry, the height we know;
’Tis only infinite below. 
For instance:  when you rashly think,
No rhymer can like Welsted sink,
His merits balanced, you shall find
The Laureate leaves him far behind. 
Concanen,[25] more aspiring bard,
Soars downward deeper by a yard. 
Smart Jemmy Moore[26] with vigour drops;
The rest pursue as thick as hops: 
With heads to point the gulf they enter,
Link’d perpendicular to the centre;
And as their heels elated rise,
Their heads attempt the nether skies. 
  O, what indignity and shame,
To prostitute the Muses’ name! 
By flattering kings, whom Heaven design’d
The plagues and scourges of mankind;
Bred up in ignorance and sloth,
And every vice that nurses both. 
  Perhaps you say, Augustus shines,
Immortal made in Virgil’s lines,
And Horace brought the tuneful quire,
To sing his virtues on the lyre;
Without reproach for flattery, true,
Because their praises were his due. 
For in those ages kings, we find,
Were animals of human kind. 
But now, go search all Europe round
Among the savage monsters ——­
With vice polluting every throne,
(I mean all thrones except our own;)
In vain you make the strictest view
To find a ——­ in all the crew,
With whom a footman out of place
Would not conceive a high disgrace,
A burning shame, a crying sin,
To take his morning’s cup of gin. 
  Thus all are destined to obey
Some beast of burthen or of prey. 
  ’Tis sung, Prometheus,[27] forming man,
Through all the brutal species ran,
Each proper quality to find
Adapted to a human mind;
A mingled mass of good and bad,