Each pop-gun levell’d at his head: 
The lead yon critic’s quill contains,
Is destined to beat out his brains: 
As if he heard loud thunders roll,
Cries, Lord have mercy on his soul! 
Concluding that another shot
Will strike him dead upon the spot. 
But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping,
He cannot see one creature dropping;
That, missing fire, or missing aim,
His life is safe, I mean his fame;
The danger past, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critic in the face. 
  Though splendour gives the fairest mark
To poison’d arrows in the dark,
Yet, in yourself when smooth and round,
They glance aside without a wound. 
  ’Tis said, the gods tried all their art,
How pain they might from pleasure part: 
But little could their strength avail;
Both still are fasten’d by the tail;
Thus fame and censure with a tether
By fate are always link’d together. 
  Why will you aim to be preferr’d
In wit before the common herd;
And yet grow mortified and vex’d,
To pay the penalty annex’d? 
  ’Tis eminence makes envy rise;
As fairest fruits attract the flies. 
Should stupid libels grieve your mind,
You soon a remedy may find;
Lie down obscure like other folks
Below the lash of snarlers’ jokes. 
Their faction is five hundred odds,
For every coxcomb lends them rods,
And sneers as learnedly as they,
Like females o’er their morning tea. 
  You say the Muse will not contain
And write you must, or break a vein. 
Then, if you find the terms too hard,
No longer my advice regard: 
But raise your fancy on the wing;
The Irish senate’s praises sing;
How jealous of the nation’s freedom,
And for corruptions how they weed ’em;
How each the public good pursues,
How far their hearts from private views;
Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys,
Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;[1]
Thus grown a member of the club,
No longer dread the rage of Grub. 
  How oft am I for rhyme to seek! 
To dress a thought I toil a week: 
And then how thankful to the town,
If all my pains will earn a crown! 
While every critic can devour
My work and me in half an hour. 
Would men of genius cease to write,
The rogues must die for want and spite;
Must die for want of food and raiment,
If scandal did not find them payment. 
How cheerfully the hawkers cry
A satire, and the gentry buy! 
While my hard-labour’d poem pines
Unsold upon the printer’s lines. 
  A genius in the reverend gown
Must ever keep its owner down;
’Tis an unnatural conjunction,
And spoils the credit of the function. 
Round all your brethren cast your eyes,
Point out the surest men to rise;
That club of candidates in black,
The least deserving of the pack,
Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud,
With grace and learning unendow’d,
Can turn their hands to every job,