The world is all before me—or behind; For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind;— Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock’d it up with rhyme. I have brought this world about my ears, and eke The other; that ’s to say, the clergy, who Upon my head have bid their thunders break In pious libels by no means a few. And yet I can’t help scribbling once a week, Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull. But ‘why then publish?’—There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn,—Why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read?—To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I’ve seen or ponder’d, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink—I have had at least my dream. I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I’ve battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling ’tis not easy to express, And yet ’tis not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— The one is winning, and the other losing. Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: She gathers a repertory of facts, Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, But mostly sings of human things and acts— And that ’s one cause she meets with contradiction; For too much truth, at first sight, ne’er attracts; And were her object only what ’s call’d glory, With more ease too she’d tell a different story. Love, war, a tempest—surely there’s variety; Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; A bird’s-eye view, too, of that wild, Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station. If you have nought else, here’s at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation; And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. The portion of this world which I at present Have taken up to fill the following sermon, Is one of which there’s no description recent. The reason why is easy to determine: Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, A dull and family likeness through all ages, Of no great promise for poetic pages. With much to excite, there’s little to exalt; Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; A sort of varnish over every fault; A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; Factitious passions, wit without much salt, A want of that true nature which sublimes Whate’er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any.