For little arts that suit the vulgar kind. 
That barbers’ boys, who would to trade advance,
Wish us to call them smart Friseurs from France: 
That he who builds a chop-house, on his door
Paints “The true old original Blue Boar!"-
   These are the arts by which a thousand live,
Where Truth may smile, and Justice may forgive:-
But when, amidst this rabble rout, we find
A puffing poet to his honour blind;
Who slily drops quotations all about
Packet or post, and points their merit out;
Who advertises what reviewers say,
With sham editions every second day;
Who dares not trust his praises out of sight,
But hurries into fame with all his might;
Although the verse some transient praise obtains,
Contempt is all the anxious poet gains. 
   Now Puffs exhausted, Advertisements past,
Their Correspondents stand exposed at last;
These are a numerous tribe, to fame unknown,
Who for the public good forego their own;
Who volunteers in paper-war engage,
With double portion of their party’s rage: 
Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear
Wooing the printer for admission here;
Whose generous souls can condescend to pray
For leave to throw their precious time away. 
   Oh! cruel WOODFALL! when a patriot draws
His gray-goose quill in his dear country’s cause,
To vex and maul a ministerial race,
Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place? 
Alas! thou know’st not with what anxious heart
He longs his best-loved labours to impart;
How he has sent them to thy brethren round,
And still the same unkind reception found: 
At length indignant will he damn the state,
Turn to his trade, and leave us to our fate. 
   These Roman souls, like Rome’s great sons, are known
To live in cells on labours of their own. 
Thus Milo, could we see the noble chief,
Feeds, for his country’s good, on legs of beef: 
Camillus copies deeds for sordid pay,
Yet fights the public battles twice a-day: 
E’en now the godlike Brutus views his score
Scroll’d on the bar-board, swinging with the door: 
Where, tippling punch, grave Cato’s self you’ll see,
And Amor Patriae vending smuggled tea. 
   Last in these ranks, and least, their art’s disgrace,
Neglected stand the Muses’ meanest race;
Scribblers who court contempt, whose verse the eye
Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by: 
This Poet’s Corner is the place they choose,
A fatal nursery for an infant Muse;
Unlike that Corner where true Poets lie,
These cannot live, and they shall never die;
Hapless the lad whose mind such dreams invade,
And win to verse the talents due to trade. 
   Curb then, O youth! these raptures as they rise,
Keep down the evil spirit and be wise;
Follow your calling, think the Muses foes,
Nor lean upon the pestle and compose. 
   I know your day-dreams, and I know the snare
Hid in your flow’ry path, and cry “Beware!”