no fears
  Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears: 
  Calm temperance, whose blessings those partake
  Who hunger, and who thirst for scribbling sake: 
  Prudence, whose glass presents the approaching jail: 
  Poetic justice, with her lifted scale,
  Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs,
  And solid pudding against empty praise. 
    Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep,
  Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep,
  Till genial Jacob,[189] or a warm third day,
  Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play: 
  How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie,
  How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry,
  Maggots half-formed in rhyme exactly meet,
  And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. 
  Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes,
  And ductile dulness new meanders takes
  There motley images her fancy strike,
  Figures ill paired, and similes unlike. 
  She sees a mob of metaphors advance,
  Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance;
  How tragedy and comedy embrace;
  How farce and epic get a jumbled race;
  How Time himself[190] stands still at her command,
  Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land. 
  Here gay description Egypt glads with showers,
  Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers;
  Glittering with ice here hoary hills are seen,
  There painted valleys of eternal green;
  In cold December fragrant chaplets blow,
  And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow. 
    All these and more the cloud-compelling queen
  Beholds through fogs, that magnify the scene. 
  She, tinselled o’er in robes of varying hues,
  With self-applause her wild creation views;
  Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,
  And with her own fools-colours gilds them all. 
    ’Twas on the day when Thorold rich and grave,[191]
  Like Cimon, triumphed both on land and wave: 
  (Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces,
  Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces)
  Now night descending, the proud scene was o’er,
  But lived in Settle’s numbers one day more.[192]
  Now mayors and shrieves all hushed and satiate lay,
  Yet ate, in dreams, the custard of the day;
  While pensive poets painful vigils keep,
  Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep. 
  Much to the mindful queen the feast recalls
  What city swans once sung within the walls;
  Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise,
  And sure succession down from Heywood’s[193] days. 
  She saw, with joy, the line immortal run,
  Each sire impressed, and glaring in his son: 
  So watchful Bruin forms, with plastic care,
  Each growing lump, and brings it to a bear. 
  She saw old Prynne in restless Daniel[194] shine,
  And Eusden eke out[195] Blackmore’s endless line;
  She saw slow Philips creep like Tate’s poor page,