And quite mistake preferment’s road. 
  Suppose my lord and you alone;
Hint the least interest of your own,
His visage drops, he knits his brow,
He cannot talk of business now: 
Or, mention but a vacant post,
He’ll turn it off with “Name your toast:” 
Nor could the nicest artist paint
A countenance with more constraint. 
  For, as their appetites to quench,
Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench;
So men of wit are but a kind
Of panders to a vicious mind
Who proper objects must provide
To gratify their lust of pride,
When, wearied with intrigues of state,
They find an idle hour to prate. 
Then, shall you dare to ask a place,
You forfeit all your patron’s grace,
And disappoint the sole design,
For which he summon’d you to dine. 
  Thus Congreve spent in writing plays,
And one poor office, half his days: 
While Montague,[1] who claim’d the station
To be Maecenas of the nation,
For poets open table kept,
But ne’er consider’d where they slept: 
Himself as rich as fifty Jews,
Was easy, though they wanted shoes;
And crazy Congreve scarce could spare
A shilling to discharge his chair: 
Till prudence taught him to appeal
From Paean’s fire to party zeal;
Not owing to his happy vein
The fortunes of his later scene,
Took proper principles to thrive: 
And so might every dunce alive.[2]
  Thus Steele, who own’d what others writ,
And flourish’d by imputed wit,
From perils of a hundred jails,
Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales. 
  Thus Gay, the hare with many friends,
Twice seven long years the court attends: 
Who, under tales conveying truth,
To virtue form’d a princely youth:[3]
Who paid his courtship with the crowd,
As far as modest pride allow’d;
Rejects a servile usher’s place,
And leaves St. James’s in disgrace.[4]
  Thus Addison, by lords carest,
Was left in foreign lands distrest;
Forgot at home, became for hire
A travelling tutor to a squire: 
But wisely left the Muses’ hill,
To business shaped the poet’s quill,
Let all his barren laurels fade,
Took up himself the courtier’s trade,
And, grown a minister of state,
Saw poets at his levee wait.[5]
  Hail, happy Pope! whose generous mind
Detesting all the statesman kind,
Contemning courts, at courts unseen,
Refused the visits of a queen. 
A soul with every virtue fraught,
By sages, priests, or poets taught;
Whose filial piety excels
Whatever Grecian story tells;[6]
A genius for all stations fit,
Whose meanest talent is his wit: 
His heart too great, though fortune little,
To lick a rascal statesman’s spittle: 
Appealing to the nation’s taste,
Above the reach of want is placed: 
By Homer dead was taught to thrive,
Which Homer never could alive;
And sits aloft on Pindus’ head,
Despising slaves that cringe for bread.