The _trembling Sinner_, and each Action _weighs_. A lazy, black, encumber'd _Stream_ rolls by, Whole thick _sulphureous Vapours_ load the Sky; Near where, in _Caves_ from _Heav'n's_ sweet _Light_ debar'd, 1010 _Shrieks, Groans_, and _Iron Whips_, and _Clanks of Chains_ are heard. And can't you _thrash_, or _trail_ a _Pike_ or _Pole_? Are there no _Jakes_ in Town, or _Kennels_ foul? No _honester Employment_, that you chuse With such _vile Drudgery_ t'abase the heav'n born _Muse_? The num'rous ODE in various _Paths_ delights, _Love, Friendship, Gods_, and _Heroes, Games_ and _Fights_: Her _Age_ with _Veneration_ is confess'd The _first great Mother_ she of all the rest, This [8]MOSES us'd, and DAVID'S Royal Lyre, } This he whom wond'ring _Seraphs_ did _inspire_, } 1020 Whence PINDAR stole some _Sparks of heav'nly Fire_, } Who now by COWLEY's happy Muse improv'd, Is _understood_ by some, by more _belov'd_: The _Vastness_ of his Thought, the daring _Range_, That imperceptible and pleasing _Change_, Our jealous _Neighbours_ must themselves confess The _British Genius_ tracks with most Success; But still the _Smoothness_ we of _Verse_ desire, The _Regulation_ of our _Native Fire_: This from experienc'd _Masters_ we receive, 1030 Sweet FLATMAN'S Works, and DRYDEN'S this will give. If you in _pointed_ SATYR most delight, _Worry_ not, where you only ought to _bite_: _Easie_ your _Style_, unstudy'd all and clear. _Prosaic Lines_ are _pardonable_ here. There are whose _Breath_ would blast the _brightest Fame_, } Who from _base Actions_ court an _odious Name_, } With _Beauty_ and with _Virtue_ War proclaim; } Who _bundle_ up the _Scandals_ of the _Town_, 1040 And in _lewd Couplets_ make it all their _own_: _Just Shame_ be _theirs_ who thus _debauch_ a _Muse_, To vile _Lampoons_ a _noble Art_ abuse: As _ill_ be _theirs_, and _half of_ DATS'_s Fate_, Who always dully rail against the _State_. _Kings_ are but _Men_, nor are their _Councils_ more, Those _Ills_ we can't _avert_ we must _deplore_: Not _many Poets_ were for _Statesmen_ made, It asks more _Brains_ than stocks the _Rhiming_ Trade: (At least, when they the _Ministry_ receive, 1050 To _Poets Militant_ their _Muse_ they leave.) All _sordid Flat'ry_ hate, it pleases none But _Tyrants_ grinning on their _Iron Throne_: Yet where wer'e rul'd with _wise_ impartial Sway, The _Muses_ should their _grateful Homage_ pay: 'Tis _base_ alike a _Tyrant's_ Name to raise, And grudg a _Parent Prince_ our _tributary Praise_. No wonder those who by _Proscriptions_ gain } In _Marian_ Days, or _Sylla's_ bloody Reign, } Of the divine _Augustus_ should complain; } 1060 Who stoops to wear a _Crown's uneasie Weight_, As _Atlas_ under Heav'n, to prop the _State_: