To write――or not to write――that is the question―― Whether ’twere nobler in the mind to stifle The hungry cravings of an empty stomach, To sleep on bed of straw, in garret high, As is Parnass, or in the dark abyss Of cellar, low as Tartarus――To be The game of sporting critics――Or to die―― To sink in vile obscurity, and rot Among the senseless rabble――Aye! to drop Unknown, and unlamented!――Hateful thought! Detestable oblivion! To write――to live!――――immortal as great Jove! To be a second Shakespeare, and inroll’d Among the list of Poets, and perchance Some monarch’s fav’rite, counsellor, and friend, In more retired hours――Or the fond theme Of after ages――Soul inspiring thought! Ambition!――Witchcraft!――Sorcery divine! To write――perchance to cringe――aye, there’s the rub! For who could brook to do an action mean, Unworthy man, and basely stoop to praise Some letter’d bookworm, or pedantic fool; To sell his muse for hire, and thus belie The dictates of his conscience――Be a sycophant, And flatter titled scoundrels?――There’s the respect―― Must give us pause, and make the bard forbear: _This_ infant genius checks, but that the hope Of living after death in mem’ry’s praise Hurries him on――As erst the hot-brain’d, Yclep’d Phaeton, who, of old, they say, Deaf to advice, by hot ambition fir’d, Mounted the flaming chariot of his sire With fatal eagerness――So he, nor mov’d By kind intreaties, nor the sage advice Of prudent friends regarding; but spurr’d on By evil genius, baneful love of fame, The dangerous height of Helicon assails: Or with mad fury mounts the nettled steed Call’d Pegasus――Anon, with giddy brain, And aspect woful, the tremendous depth Of space immensurable while he views, His tott’ring limbs their wonted duty fail; Or while, disdainful of his rider’s strength, The snorting courser cuts the distanc’d winds With wing’d velocity――――Too late, alas! His rashness he repents, and headlong hurl’d Through ether’s all-unfathomable void―― (Dreadful to think)――he falls――to rise no more! H. R. E. _Chancery-Lane. The New Lady’s Magazine_, November, 1786. [Illustration] DAME TILLER discovered washing; she takes out of her tub a veil, and a pair of small socks, which she hangs on the line, sighs, and regards them sorrowfully._