But rising the next morn to clasp his fame,
He finds that without sleeping he could dream:
So sparks, they say, take goddesses to bed,
And find next day the devil in their stead.
In vain advertisements the town o'erspread;
They're epitaphs, and the work is dead.
Who press for fame, but small recruits will raise;
'Tis volunteers alone can give the bays.
A famous author visits a great man,
Of his immortal work displays the plan,
And says, "Sir, I'm your friend; all fears dismiss;
Your glory, and my own, shall live by this;
Your power is fixt, your fame thro' time convey'd,
And Britain Europe's queen--if I am paid."
A statesman has his answer in a trice:
"Sir, such a genius is beyond all price;
What man can pay for this?"--Away he turns;
His work is folded, and his bosom burns:
His patron he will patronize no more;
But rushes like a tempest out of door.
Lost is the patriot, and extinct his name!
Out comes the piece, another, and the same;
For A, his magic pen evokes an O,
And turns the tide of Europe on the foe:
He rams his quill with scandal, and with scoff;
But 'tis so very foul, it wont go off:
Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar;
But when once publish'd, they are heard no more.
Thus distant bugbears fright, but, nearer draw,
The block's a block, and turns to mirth your awe.
Can those oblige, whose heads and hearts are such?
No; every party's tainted by their touch.
Infected persons fly each public place;
And none, or enemies alone, embrace:
To the foul fiend their every passion's sold:
They love, and hate, extempore, for gold:
What image of their fury can we form?
Dulness and rage, a puddle in a storm.
Rest they in peace? If you are pleas'd to buy,
To swell your sails, like Lapland winds, they fly:
Write they with rage? The tempest quickly flags;
A state Ulysses tames 'em with his bags;
Let him be what he will, Turk, Pagan, Jew:
For Christian ministers of state are few.
Behind the curtain lurks the fountain head,
That pours his politics through pipes of lead,
Which far and near ejaculate, and spout
O'er tea and coffee, poison to the rout:
But when they have bespatter'd all they may,
The statesman throws his filthy squirts away!
With golden forceps, these, another takes,
And state elixirs of the vipers makes.
The richest statesman wants wherewith to pay
A servile sycophant, if