Insanis;诸圣gelidis quaecunqne lacernis是我bi, Nasones Virgiliosque vides. ~Mart. Imitation. --Thou know'st not what thou say'st; In garments that scarce fence them from the cold Our Ovids and our Virgils you behold. Part first. To you, ye Bards! whose lavish breast requires This monitory lay, the strains belong; Nor think some miser vents his sapient saw, Or some dull cit, unfeeling of the charms That tempt profusion, sings; while friendly Zeal, To guard from fatal ills the tribe he loves, Inspires the meanest of the Muse's train! Like you I loathe the grovelling progeny, Whose wily arts, by creeping time matured, Advance them high on Power's tyrannic throne, To lord it there in gorgeous uselessness, And spurn successless Worth that pines below! See the rich churl, amid the social sons Of wine and wit, regaling! hark, he joins In the free jest delighted! seems to show A meliorated heart! he laughs, he sings! Songs of gay import, madrigals of glee, And drunken anthems, set agape the board, Like Demea, in the play, benign and mild, And pouring forth benevolence of soul, Till Micio wonder; or, in Shakspeare's line, Obstreperous Silence, drowning Shallow's voice, And startling Falstaff, and his mad compeers. He owns 'tis prudence, ever and anon To smooth his careful brow, to let his purse Ope to a sixpence's diameter! He likes our ways; he owns the ways of wit Are ways of pleasance, and deserve regard. True, we are dainty good society, But what art thou? Alas! consider well, Thou bane of social pleasure, know thyself: Thy fell approach, like some invasive damp Breathed through the pores of earth from Stygian caves Destroys the lamp of mirth; the lamp which we, Its flamens, boast to guard: we know not how, But at thy sight the fading flame assumes A ghastly blue, and in a stench expires. True, thou seem'st changed; all sainted, all enskied: The trembling tears that charge thy melting eyes Say thou art honest and of gentle kind: But all is false! an intermitting sigh Condemns each hour, each moment given to smiles, And deems those only lost thou dost not lose. Even for a demi-groat this open'd soul, This boon companion, this elastic breast, Revibrates quick; and sends the tuneful tongue To lavish music on the rugged walls Of some dark dungeon. Hence, thou Caitiff! fly; Touch not my glass, nor drain my sacred bowl, Monster, ingrate! beneath one common sky Why shouldst thou breathe? beneath one common roof Thou ne'er shalt harbour, nor my little boat Receive a soul with crimes to press it down. Go to thy bags, thou Recreant! hourly go, And, gazing there, bid them be wit, be mirth, Be conversation. Not a face that smiles Admits thy presence! not a soul that glows With social purport, bid, or even or morn, Invest thee happy! but when life declines, May thy sure heirs stand tittering round thy bed, And, ushering in their favourites, burst thy locks, And fill their laps with gold, till Want and Care With joy depart, and cry, 'We ask no more.' Ah! never, never may the harmonious mind Endure the worldly! Poets, ever void Of guile, distrustless, scorn the treasured gold, And spurn the miser, spurn his deity. Balanced with friendship, in the poet's eye The rival scale of interest kicks the beam, Than lightning swifter. From his cavern'd store The sordid soul, with self-applause, remarks The kind propensity; remarks and smiles, And hies with impious haste to spread the snare. Him we deride, and in our comic scenes Contemn the niggard form Moliere has drawn: We loathe with justice; but, alas! the pain To bow the knee before this calf of gold; Implore his envious aid, and meet his frown! But 'tis not Gomez, 'tis not he whose heart Is crusted o'er with dross, whose callous mind Is senseless as his gold, the slighted Muse Intensely loathes. 'Tis sure no equal task To pardon him who lavishes his wealth On racer, foxhound, hawk, or spaniel, all But human merit; who with gold essays All, but the noblest pleasure, to remove The wants of Genius, and its smiles enjoy. But you, ye titled youths! whose nobler zeal Would burnish o'er your coronets with fame; Who listen pleased when poet tunes his lay; Permit him not, in distant solitudes, To pine, to languish out the fleeting hours Of active youth; then Virtue pants for praise. That season unadorn'd, the careless bard Quits your worn threshold, and, like honest Gay, Contemns the niggard boon ye time so ill. Your favours then, like trophies given the tomb, The enfranchised spirit soaring, not perceives, Or scorns perceived, and execrates the smile Which bade his vigorous bloom, to treacherous hopes And servile cares a prey, expire in vain! Two la